Wicked Words: A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries)

by Jean G. Goodhind

  ‘The funeral’s on Thursday. That’s why I came to see you. I need a lift so I need you to come. You’ll be well catered for. They’re doing a great buffet afterwards at the Poacher, that pub slap bang in the centre of the village. It’s a bit like the George at Norton St Philip, though not so old.’

  Inwardly Honey groaned. It grated to be amenable, but funerals were not on her list of favourite events.

  ‘I’m not too sure, Mother …’

  She’d been to the Poacher and liked it. However, unlike her mother, she couldn’t get her head around the social aspects of a funeral. A funeral should be sad and a time for reflection. From experience it was otherwise with her mother and her friends. Funerals had become part of their social whirl. Like a wedding, it necessitated working out what you were going to wear, how special your flowers and cards of condolence would be, and how much you were willing to spend on them. Expense fell in line with social status. It was also a great chance to swap old stories of lovers tried, lost, and sometimes lamented over, besides possible conquests for the future. Her mother and friends were getting older, but the old adage about there still being a fire in the grate when there was snow on the roof held true.

  ‘The girls will be there,’ said her mother as though sitting with a bunch of old ladies through lunch was recompense enough. Honey hoped the dishwasher would throw a tantrum then she couldn’t go. Washing dishes by hand had its advantages.

  ‘And I would very much like to be there, but I do have other things …’

  The ‘girls’ her mother was referring to were all drawing their pensions. They were great company for each other but not for her.

  ‘We intend giving old Sean a good send-off with a glass or two of sherry and a few bottles of Chardonnay, which is why I’m asking you for a lift. Mary Jane has offered to take me, but I think arriving in a pink car isn’t right. Unless she could borrow your car of course? That wouldn’t be so bad.’

  ‘No! You’re right. A pink car shouldn’t be going to a funeral. A wedding, yes, but not a funeral. I’ll take you.’

  The very thought of Mary Jane behind the wheel of a right-hand drive – the right-hand drive of her car – was a big no-no. Mary Jane had shipped her pink, left-hand drive Caddy Coupé over from the States and did use it at least once a week. She kept it in a garage she rented from the man who delivered fish to the hotel.

  ‘Sometimes it smells like a fish market but I prefer that to my car being taken by joyriders and turned into scrap,’ Mary Jane had proclaimed.

  Her mother was standing with the office door half open. At a certain angle it gave a pretty good reflection. Her mother was admiring herself, fluffing up her hair and trimming a tinge of lipstick away from the corner of her mouth with a fingernail.

  ‘You’ll enjoy it,’ she said as she jerked her lips from one side of her face to the other. ‘St Luke’s for the service then the burial in Memory Meadow.’

  ‘Am I right in thinking that’s the new place next to the church? The eco-friendly place where you get buried in a biodegradable coffin.’

  ‘It is. But I’m sure Sean will have a fairly decent coffin. He did like a little luxury in his life. I think it was Arlene’s choice; that new wife of his,’ her mother said in a hushed voice. ‘I don’t approve myself. It all sounds a little too tacky. There’s nothing like a nice piece of mahogany if you ask me.’

  ‘I hope you don’t let Lindsey hear you say that. She’ll give you a lecture on the devastation of the rainforests. A few million more people buried in hardwood caskets and there won’t be any forests left. I didn’t know Sean was so modern-minded.’

  Her mother threw her a glower. ‘That’s no big surprise. You never bothered to find out.’

  Doherty started to say, ‘Well, if that was what Sean wanted, then that was what he should have.’ Her mother didn’t give him chance to finish the sentence.

  ‘I blame Arlene. She’s the one who wants it and swears that Sean was into this environmental stuff. It’ll be cheap. She’ll have more of his money left to spend.’ She shrugged at the same time as straightening her scarf. ‘Still, she’s the widow. It makes no difference what I say. It’s her money now – when it could have been yours.’

  Honey ignored the sidelong look of accusation.

  ‘It used to be just a field, and a pretty rough one at that,’ Doherty said when Memory Meadow was mentioned. ‘I used to have a friend out there. We used to go treasure hunting in that field.’

  ‘Did you ever find anything?’ Honey asked him.

  ‘A coin. A single Roman coin.’

  He took the coin out of his pocket and showed her. ‘For luck. From the reign of the Emperor Claudius.’

  ‘Nice,’ said Honey.

  ‘Grubby,’ said her mother and shuddered.

  ‘Nice pub if my memory serves me correct.’

  Memory Meadow was situated in the village of Much Maryleigh. Honey had read all about it in the Bath Chronicle. Once a barren field where little grew except for sheets of discarded corrugated tin and old mattresses, the area had been cleared of rubbish and weeds and seeded with grass, and a landscape gardener had been contracted to make it pretty. The result was an eco-friendly place without gravestones or any sign that the deceased was actually there except that a tree or bush was planted – life from death sort of thing.

  ‘Rich nutrients,’ murmured Doherty.

  Honey shot him a warning look. She’d been thinking the same thing, but it didn’t do for her mother to know that. People were sensitive. Her mother was also a traditionalist.

  Luckily she hadn’t heard.

  ‘The girls will gather at my place,’ she voiced in a manner that made Honey think she’d ordered them to her place.

  ‘Right,’ said Honey with a curt nod. ‘You’ve got them organized.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘What time do you want me to pick you up?’

  ‘Right. I need two hours to get ready once I’ve had my bath …’

  Arrangements were made, or rather orders were given.

  ‘I take it you’ve got something that doesn’t have ketchup stains to wear to the funeral,’ her mother added, her eyes targeting each and every blemish on Honey’s apron.

  ‘I have the customary little black dress.’

  ‘That should be fine,’ her mother said. ‘We don’t want Arlene thinking Sean passed you over because you were a slob.’

  Honey’s jaw dropped. She was speechless.

  Her mother had given Steve Doherty a quick jerk of her chin in greeting on the way in. She gave him another on the way out.

  Doherty closed the door behind her, leaned his head back, and expelled a sigh of relief.

  ‘She doesn’t like me. She’ll never like me.’

  Leaving her perch on the desk, Honey tugged at his tie, his prime concession to smartness for the ordeal ahead. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d seen him wearing a tie.

  Placing her hand at the nape of his neck, she planted a quick kiss on his lips. ‘I don’t care. Thanks for being so non-confrontational.’

  He opened one eye. ‘That’s a big word for this early in the morning. Besides, I wouldn’t dare. Your mother was full-on. Strange how funerals bring out the battlefield general in people.’ He paused. ‘Do I know this guy who had his eye on you before I did?’

  ‘He was ancient,’ she snapped.

  ‘I know how some girls have a thing about sugar daddies.’

  ‘Well not this girl,’ she told him. ‘And let’s get this straight. The minute I heard he had his eye on me I put on my running shoes and kept well out of his reach. Sean O’Brian could teach the Italians a thing or two about pinching a woman’s derrière.’

  He smiled. ‘Sounds like fun – though only when it’s consensual, of course. Still, at least there’s a party after the funeral. That might not be so bad. Wakes have a habit of turning into parties.’

  ‘Possibly, though not if you’re designated driver. Mother and her friends do like to in
dulge in a sherry or two at funerals.’

  ‘I’ve heard Memory Meadow bury people in cardboard boxes. They advertise them as environmentally compatible, but they’re still only cardboard boxes when all’s said and done.’

  He was rambling, saying anything for the sake of putting off the dreaded moment.

  ‘Stop,’ she ordered, placing a fingertip on his mouth. ‘Procrastinating has to stop. You have to go in there.’

  He groaned and eyed the ceiling.

  She tapped his chin.

  ‘It’s no good looking up there. You can’t get out of it now.’ she said to him. ‘The Fans of Agatha Christie Association awaits your pearls of wisdom.’

  The conference taking place at the Green River was a first and Honey, always open to the main chance, had thought it a good idea to suggest she knew a policeman who could give a talk.

  Doherty had jumped at the chance – after some persuading, like an hour or two when he was at his lowest resistance, in bed, his place, and three o’clock in the morning.

  ‘Do you want me to come in and hold your hand?’ she asked him.

  His cheeks ballooned before he let out a big out rush of breath. ‘No need. We’ll get round to that later.’ He managed a weak smile. ‘Now lead me into the lion’s den.’

  ‘You’ll enjoy it.’

  He grinned and tried to look as though he was only joking, that he wasn’t really fazed at all. ‘The things I do for love.’

  Honey wasn’t fooled either by that or the look of casual indifference. Steve Doherty was nervous and it was all thanks to her.

  He was about to talk about his job in front of an audience. And not just any audience. The fifty or so people waiting for him in the conference room were fully paid-up members of the Fans of Agatha Christie Association (North Somerset and Wiltshire Branch).

  The face of the tough cop was as pale as plaster of Paris.

  Honey gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. Her other hand was poised on the door handle.

  ‘Breathe deeply.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Ready?’

  ‘Hold on. I need to do something memorable.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘An act that will stay in my mind, top up my testosterone, and diminish my nerves. I got the idea from some old book I’ve been reading.’

  She postponed opening the door and looked at him. ‘OK. Do whatever you have to do.’

  One deep breath was followed by another. Then he took his hand from hers, ran it down her back, and squeezed her right buttock.

  ‘Right. I’m ready now.’

  Feeling warmer than she had been, Honey eyed him quizzically. ‘What book did you get that from?’

  ‘Not sure. It could have been the Kama Sutra.’

  Honey grinned. ‘I should have guessed.’

  Honey’s daughter, Lindsey, twirled round on her revolving chair behind the reception desk.

  Folding her arms, she looked Doherty up and down.

  ‘Poor old Stephen. You look like a Christian about to be thrown to the lions.’

  ‘I feel like one,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Do you know that Steve has a Roman coin, Lindsey?’

  Lindsey looked amused. ‘Does he now?’

  ‘Show her the coin,’ Honey encouraged.

  ‘It’s just a coin,’ he sighed, but did as he was ordered.

  ‘Claudius,’ said Lindsey. ‘It was while he reigned as Emperor of Rome that Britain was conquered.’

  ‘Is it valuable?’ asked Honey.

  Lindsey shook her head. ‘Not just one. A whole hoard and you might be talking of serious money. Gold would be best, though the Crown is likely to shout “Treasure Trove” and take their cut before you get anything out of it.’

  Mother and daughter only needed to glance at each other and know they were thinking alike. The tough cop had a marshmallow centre – at least when it came to giving talks to an audience. Talking about coins and treasure troves had calmed his nerves, though only temporarily. The moment passed, he was now staring at the doors leading into the conference room.

  Like her mother, Lindsey kept her eyes on Doherty as she spoke. ‘What did my grandmother want?’

  Honey kept her voice down. ‘Your grandmother wants a taxi service for her and her friends to a funeral. It’s out of town – Memory Meadow. So I’m it.’

  ‘You’d better go.’

  ‘I am …’ Honey answered before realizing that Lindsey was referring to the man standing frozen and still staring towards the conference room.

  Honey took Doherty’s hand and squeezed. ‘OK?’

  He looked gratefully down at her and nodded.

  ‘Then I’ll lead you in.’

  A low buzz of conversation ran among the Fans of Agatha Christie Association. Most of them were over fifty. Their organizer – a man named Charles Sheet – was less than that. The earnest look of a shepherd guarding his flock glowed behind his designer spectacles. His hair was dark blond and shoulder-length. A few hairs sprouted on his chin – not enough to be termed designer stubble. Lindsey had confessed to her mother that she couldn’t take her eyes off those hairs.

  ‘I want to pluck them,’ she’d said. If Lindsey hadn’t said that maybe – just maybe – Honey wouldn’t have noticed them, but she couldn’t help it. The hairs were wiry and sparse – like copper springs bristling from his chin. She tugged her gaze away and concentrated on introducing Doherty.

  ‘Oh, Detective Inspector, my group are so very excited about meeting you.’

  Honey took gradual steps back as the enthusiastic Mr Sheet took over, arms spread wide as he guided Doherty to the platform and called his diverse audience to silence.

  She watched briefly as Doherty was introduced and the audience clapped. He stood up. She saw his right hand grip the table more fiercely than it had gripped her right buttock. She smiled. He was going to be all right.

  Chapter Three

  C.A. Wright had a smug smile on his face. He was lying flat out on a comfortable bed in a nice little hotel in Laura Place. Although small the hotel was beautifully furnished, its ambience as close to five-star rating as a little place could be.

  C.A. Wright stretched his short, skinny legs and reached for the glass tumbler sitting on the bedside cabinet. It was three o’clock in the afternoon; he’d left London just after lunch, the journey taking an hour and a half tops. Lunch had been taken at an Italian restaurant just round the corner from the station. He hadn’t eaten much but he had knocked back three whiskies and a bottle of red wine followed by a Drambuie.

  The bottle of Glenmorangie he’d brought with him was already showing the strain, there being about two-thirds left.

  Never mind, he thought as he smiled at the amber liquid. There were still the bottles in the hotel fridge. They had an honesty policy here: you owned up to what you’d drunk. He grinned at that. Who the hell was stupid enough to own up to anything? Certainly not him.

  C.A. Wright specialized in writing reviews for the travel section of a national newspaper and his brief included reviewing hotels, restaurants, and other attractions in the area in which he was staying.

  This little hotel in Laura Place was a gem and anyone of a more honest disposition than him would have praised it to the skies. But C.A. Wright was not honest. Neither was he very nice. Even his own mother had called him a shit.

  Words were water off a duck’s back to C.A. Wright. Words were also how he made his living and writing in glowing terms about small establishments ran by loving and hard-working couples wasn’t the way he did things. Wright knew which side his bread was buttered. His full name was Colin Alan Wright. Professionally he preferred to be called by his initials. Some people called him other names. Not that he was that bothered. He quite liked infamy. It suited him better than namby-pamby-lovey-dovey. Wright is always right! That was his motto.

  C.A. Wright worked the world of review writing to suit himself and usually while under the influence of drink. Even the more accurate reviews
were written in the company of a bottle of whisky and a sturdy glass tumbler.

  He reworked the details on some others depending on who he was writing for and also what the kickback would be. Big hotels paid him to praise their premises. Small ones did not.

  Although writing about travel and hotels were his mainstay, he also wrote articles about other aspects of service to the general public.

  The tone of his articles made him come across as some kind of consumers’ crusader. The truth was far from that. He loved what he did. He loved manipulating, cajoling, squeezing every pleasure possible from every assignment. At times he was almost close to admitting to himself that he loved feeling the power of criticism so much that he might consider writing the reviews for free – not that he really would. A line had to be drawn somewhere.

  He liked the way small hoteliers jumped to attention when he played the role of awkward customer. He liked it even better when he told them who he was. They would do anything for a good review. He was OK with that and told them that he was always up for offers. He took all that came.

  The trouble was that there had to be some balance in his work, i.e. bad reviews had to be balanced against good ones, mediocre good against mediocre bad. He couldn’t write bad reviews about every hotel and there were very obvious exceptions.

  Never in the world would he dare to write a bad review for a hotel belonging to one of the big groups. Big hotel groups were his bread and butter. After reading a favourable review, most of them sent him a cheque in a brown envelope. Sometimes they asked him to come in and have lunch with the manager. On those occasions the brown envelope held cash. The big groups had a contingency fund for that kind of thing and with that knowledge firmly in mind he went out of his way to be kind to them.

  However, he’d been too kind and sugary of late, mostly due to the fact that he’d met his son for the first time in years. He’d split up with Warren’s mother after going on one binge too many. On reuniting with Warren he’d made a great effort to stay on the wagon. It might have worked out if Warren hadn’t decided to emigrate to Canada, where he had a girl and a great job waiting for him. C.A. had got angry. They’d rowed and Warren had stormed out, headed for the airport, and flew off without saying goodbye. ‘And to think I stayed on the wagon for the ungrateful brat,’ he snarled to himself, already reaching for the whisky.