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

by Jean G. Goodhind

  So far she’d only managed to wish Anna all the best and phone Casper to tell him as much as she knew, which, so far, wasn’t very much.

  ‘He got skewered through the neck. As you can imagine, the suspect list is likely to be very long.’

  Casper had tutted. ‘And it would have to happen here. How very unfortunate. So inconsiderate. Why couldn’t it have happened when he was staying in somewhere less prominent like Brighton or Bournemouth?’

  There was no answer to Casper’s callous single-mindedness and Honey had no intention of trying to find one. In Casper’s book the reputation of Bath superseded sympathy for the deceased or for the reputation of Brighton or Bournemouth, or any other place for that matter.

  Not that he had any empathy with C.A. Wright, or didn’t seem to, but she really couldn’t tell. Casper was closed-mouthed about his dealings with the man, but Honey did detect a slight change in his tone of voice when Wright was mentioned.

  All this plus the everyday running of the Green River Hotel was playing on her mind, though she wasn’t really seeing it, not until she’d left a sink full of breakfast dishes.

  ‘You’re stressed,’ Lindsey said to her.

  ‘Nonsense. I’m just engrossed in my work.’

  ‘No you’re not. You’re stressed.’

  It wasn’t until Lindsey had gone to the bathroom and she’d taken payment from a nice Austrian couple in room six that she realized just how stressed out and busy she was.

  The invoice was located on the computer system and printed off, payment was made by debit card, and Honey wished them both a very good day.

  ‘You wash dishes too?’ asked the wife, an amused smile playing around her mouth.

  ‘I help out wherever I’m needed,’ Honey responded chirpily, not really too sure what the woman was getting at.

  ‘So we see,’ said the Austrian woman, exchanging yet another wry smile with her equally smiling husband.

  She smiled and waved at them as they left.

  ‘I wonder how they knew that I’ve been washing dishes?’ she asked with a sigh of satisfaction.

  ‘Easy,’ said Lindsey. She nodded down at her mother’s hands. ‘I think the yellow rubber gloves are a definite giveaway.’

  ‘Ah!’

  The guests were next to make the day wobble, more particularly the Fans of Agatha Christie Association, North Somerset and Wiltshire branch. They’d been away for a few days in Dartmouth where they’d done the tour of Agatha Christie’s house. Now they were back for their bi-monthly meeting. Tucking the yellow gloves beneath her arm, Honey was on her way to the kitchen when a small group of them spilled out of the lounge, their faces rapt with the enthusiasm of those who spend most of their time living in a dream world or crocheting for charity.

  Their spokesman was a little woman Honey knew as Miss Sofia Clacton. The beaming little figure approached on stick-thin legs which ended in feet encased in lace-up brown shoes.

  ‘Mrs Driver. My friends and I have been talking and well, this conference is turning out to be far superior to any other we’ve ever had. We have been inspired. Indeed, we feel fired up with enthusiasm and sharper of mind that we’ve been for absolutely ages.’

  Thinking that hotel ambience had something to do with it, Honey beamed expectantly. Good feedback was always welcome.

  She gushed the usual platitudes. ‘I’m so very glad you’re enjoying your days here. If there’s anything else we can do please say so.’

  Sofia Clacton clasped her little hands together, her eyes shining with gratitude.

  ‘Oh, Mrs Driver! We think you’ve done enough. Having a murder happen while we’re here was more than we could have hoped for.’

  Now this was nothing like what Honey had been primed for. She’d been prepared for praise of the hotel’s good food and a well-stocked bar. Laying on a real murder wasn’t on the list. She felt a need to explain.

  ‘You do realize it was a real murder. I didn’t lay it on as such. A man is really dead.’ She spoke slowly, stressing the fact so that Sofia Clacton was under no illusion that murder was not part of the service.

  She wasn’t entirely sure that what she’d said had sunk in. Ms Clacton and her entourage of Agatha Christie fans nodded appreciatively.

  ‘We feel sorry for the man of course, but it does give us the chance to do a spot of detective work – you know, just like Miss Marple. We can help. We’re sure we can. Being versed in criminology, we have a measured advantage to the everyday policeman.’

  The speaker was a tiny little old lady with a chirpy expression – another spinster, Miss Fox. Ferret would have been a better name. She did resemble a ferret, though the fact that she was wearing bright red lipstick made the allusion a little surreal. Splashes of the lipstick were smudged on her face at cheekbone height and she was hugging a spiral notebook to her chest. A pencil perched behind one ear jiggled each time she opened her mouth to speak. All she needed was the knitting and Miss Marple was alive and kicking if this old dear was anything to go by.

  Honey gave her what shouldn’t have been – but was – a condescending smile.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Our Association. We can help solve the crime. We would LOVE to help, in fact. And I’m sure that nice policeman who gave us the talk the other day would appreciate having us add our expertise. We saw the news on television. That nice policeman was holding a press conference asking for help and we’re offering our resources.’

  Honey stood gaping.

  Miss Fox must have been eighty if she was a day and had been brought up in India just before it gained independence. There was something of the old school about her, the sort of aura that comes from growing up in a fading empire, in a world within a world, closeted from reality in a house full of servants. It was Honey’s opinion that Miss Fox’s thinking was a little off-kilter and not all of it was down to ageing.

  Assuming that Honey hadn’t seen the broadcast, Miss Fox explained what was required in measured tones. ‘That nice policeman was asking for help from anybody with any information regarding the murderer – or anyone making off with a giant teddy bear.’

  Other members of the Fans of Agatha Christie Association came out to join Miss Vincent and the others, their faces beaming with zealous interest. Enthusiasm glowed from their faces, not at all like professional policemen. Unlike poor old Doherty, these detectives were not snowed under with paperwork. They were up for old-fashioned detective work, the parlour game sort that only happened in books where there was murder in the library and the butler was always a possible suspect.

  Having such a crowd pressing around her was slightly unnerving, but Honey had held business conventions where the delegates had paid more attention to their alcohol consumption than they had to their spreadsheets. Maintaining a cool outer facade, she took small backward steps towards the kitchen.

  ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me,’ she said cheerily, thinking that today had been strange and couldn’t possibly get any stranger.

  A sudden draft accompanied the squeaking of the revolving doors. In a haze of perfume and wearing a rust-coloured linen suit from Max Mara, her mother wafted into the reception area. Everyone noticed. Everyone was meant to notice. Her mother dressed to attract attention and she usually got it. Everything about her, from her coiffured hair to her polished patent shoes, was immaculately chosen and immaculately presented.

  Sometimes she resented her mother appearing like a genie from Aladdin’s magic lamp. Today she took immediate advantage of her arrival.

  ‘My mother,’ she exclaimed with gushing affection, much more than she usually showed for her mother’s unheralded arrival. ‘Do excuse me.’

  A gap appeared in the encirclement and Honey slipped through, quick marching it to her mother, taking her arm and guiding her behind the reception desk and into her office.

  ‘Entertain them,’ she hissed to Lindsey on her way past. ‘Talk to them about the Romans.’

  ‘A Roman detective?’
<
br />   ‘Do you know one?’

  ‘Yes, actually …’

  Honey didn’t catch the name.

  Once the office door was shut, she took a deep breath and leaned against it as though just in case the old ladies decided to attack en masse.

  ‘Would you like coffee?’ she asked her mother.

  ‘What are you up to?’

  Gloria Cross eyed her daughter quizzically until her attention was drawn to the rumpled sleeve she had hold of.

  ‘Hannah! You’re ruining my favourite Irish linen.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  Honey removed her hand.

  Frowning enough to send her brows tumbling on to her nose, her mother smoothed a softly scented hand over the wrinkled sleeve, determined to it press it down into obedient flatness.

  ‘Do you know how much this cost?’ she grumbled, her attention still focused on the sleeve.

  Honey didn’t ask how much, concentrating instead on pouring the coffee. She handed a cup to her mother.

  ‘So. What brings you here?’

  ‘Does there have to be an excuse? Can’t I just visit my only daughter?’

  There was something about her tone, something about the look in her eyes that put Honey on her guard. There was always a reason for whatever her mother did. Today was no exception.

  ‘There is usually.’

  Her mother sipped the coffee, her pink lips leaving an immaculate imprint on the cup. She swallowed and seemed to be gathering daisies before voicing whatever it was she’d come to say.

  Honey considered making a swift exit. Something about this visit was disturbing; bad vibes as Mary Jane would say.

  She decided it was the pause that was worrying. Her mother rarely minced words, immediately declaring the reason for her visit before a morsel passed her lips. Usually she started off with demands, or at least, observations; things like ‘you’re putting on weight’, ‘when was the last time you had a decent facial?’ and ‘isn’t it time you found a man who shaved at least once a day?’

  All these things when added together really did equal bad vibes. Honey smelled a rat.

  ‘Dora’s dead.’

  It was said in a single breath. Her mother’s shoulders heaved with a heartfelt sigh. ‘Another of my friends has crossed over.’

  Regretting her suspicion, Honey bit her lip.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  Her mother sighed again. ‘Another funeral. Funerals form the backbone of my social life nowadays.’

  Another funeral . The words rang like a dinner gong inside Honey’s head. Hopefully she wouldn’t be expected to provide the transport yet again, but it wouldn’t help to offer a little prayer to the powers that be: Dear Lord, please ensure a plentiful supply of taxis.

  On the other hand, providing sympathy was no problem.

  As befitting the occasion, she sat down far more sedately than she usually did and spoke very softly.

  ‘So how did it happen?’

  ‘She was found dead in the bath, a truly horrible occurrence. The paramedics had to drain the water and get the fire brigade to cut the bath with a cutting torch to get her out. She was wedged in that tightly.’

  ‘How dreadful. I’m so sorry to hear that.’

  Though not surprised. Dora had been grossly overweight. She’d been a great lover of chocolate, cream cakes, and rum truffles dipped in Cornish cream.

  Honey reached over and patted her mother’s hand. ‘What a terrible thing to happen. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘They said she died from a heart attack. I really don’t think she should have taken a bath that soon after her midday meal. She’d been warned by her doctor that her arteries were clogged up and that she should leave dairy products alone. She did cut down from full cream to semi-skimmed milk.’

  ‘How about chocolate?’

  Her mother shook her head and made a whooshing sound through her pouting mouth. ‘Oh no. Dora thought that would be taking things a bit too far. She didn’t want to overdo it. No, she shouldn’t have taken that bath,’ her mother said solemnly.

  ‘Neither should she have eaten a large midday meal,’ Honey murmured. ‘Dora always did things large and the stuff clogging her arteries was probably Cornish cream.’

  The pause happened again, an odd silence when Honey could almost hear the cogs in her mother’s brain making distinct and well-planned manoeuvres.

  ‘The trouble is,’ said her mother, choosing her words carefully and speaking very slowly, ‘she had no relatives. She left her estate to Bath Dogs’ Home.’

  ‘Ah yes. She would,’ said Honey nodding agreeably. ‘Dora was fond of dogs. Especially Bobo.’

  She noticed her mother’s eyelids flicker at the mention of the widdling dog. It was as though a ton of grit had fallen on to her pupils and her eyelids were working overtime to get rid of it.

  An alarm bell rang in Honey’s brain. And then it happened. The truth finally hit her. Her mother did have a reason for visiting.

  ‘Bobo is the problem,’ she explained, her eyes downcast whilst still maintaining their shiftiness. ‘She’s left her to one of her friends. We don’t know which one yet – not until probate is settled. In the meantime …’

  Without her needing to say anything, Honey knew her mother was hoping she wasn’t the chosen one.

  She was thinking along the same lines herself, for one dreadful minute anticipating the dog having been left to her.

  ‘It’s very sad, but they’re very good at the Dogs’ Home. She’ll be fine there until everything is sorted out.’

  She should have known better. Today had been a pressurized kind of day and her mother was nothing if not a pressurizing kind of person.

  Patting her beige blonde bob, Gloria Cross made a big thing of clearing her throat. ‘I’m afraid it’s not as simple as that. Dora stipulated that Bobo should never see the inside of such a place. I promised her at Sean O’Brian’s funeral that I would look after the little creature until things were settled should anything happen to her. She took me at my word, so I have to keep that promise, Hannah.’

  Honey was still hoping that her suspicions were wrong. She was blowing hot and cold on the issue. Though she nodded approvingly, a big question mark flashed red inside Honey’s head.

  What her mother said next sent her suspicions soaring like sky rockets.

  ‘I should never have been so accommodating. The trouble was that I’d had a few sherries and didn’t know what I was saying. I really think I should go back to being teetotal,’ she said shaking her head. ‘I blame Mary Jane.’

  Honey kept her eyes fixed on her mother. Something was going down here. Something she really didn’t want to face but had a feeling she couldn’t avoid. She was sure of it.

  In the next breath the excuse she’d feared and its likely consequence came tumbling out.

  ‘The problem is that I don’t have a garden,’ her mother began. ‘As you know, I live on the third storey, besides which I lead such a busy life …’

  ‘With all those funerals you have to go to …’ Honey began feeling her throat tightening at the prospect of what might be coming.

  ‘And Secondhand Sheila, and the literary society, and the dramatic society, and the lunch club. Also, I’m not one of those people who goes for walks in the park. Neither am I in need of exercise like those people who are always scuttling around indoors … like you, so I thought …’

  Honey could feel the blood draining from her face. ‘I don’t have a garden.’

  Setting teacup and saucer on the table, her mother sat ramrod straight. ‘But you have a courtyard. And you live on the ground floor. Plus, of course, you are in need of fresh air and exercise. I’ve made my mind up. Bobo will do you good.’

  Honey was speechless. Why me? Why do I always end up drawing the short straw when my mother’s about?

  She had to attempt some kind of protest.

  She tensed her shoulders and clenched her fists. She was all set. Defying her mother wasn’t that dissim
ilar to a bout in the boxing ring. Her mother was stubborn. Her mother was a street fighter though she’d be appalled that anyone – especially her daughter – would think her so.

  ‘Mother, it may have escaped your notice but I too lead a busy life. I run a hotel, for Chrissakes! I cannot possibly spare the time to feed it and take it for walkies, besides which it isn’t properly toilet-trained. I’m sorry. No. I do not have the time.’

  ‘You’ve got staff.’

  Honey barely restrained a deep-throated response that was pretty close to a growl.

  ‘They’re here for the benefit of guests, not a dog!’ she explained through clenched teeth. Her teeth ached with the effort of self-control. If she wasn’t careful she’d start gnashing them to breaking point.

  Her mother sprang to her feet, full to the brim with righteous indignation and about to throw a tantrum. Gloria Cross was good at tantrums.

  Tossing her head, her little chin quivering, away she went.

  ‘Hannah! How can you be so selfish? I have lost a dear friend. I have yet another diary date with a funeral, and now you’re preventing me from keeping a promise to that dear friend to look after her beloved little dog!’

  Honey couldn’t believe this was happening. She shook her head. ‘But I’m not the one who promised to look after him when Dora died. You are.’

  ‘Hannah! How could you be so insensitive?’

  Her mother began to wail.

  Honey narrowed her eyes. ‘This is ridiculous,’ she muttered.

  Sometimes, just sometimes, she could quite easily cross the thin line between solving a murder and committing one.

  The lace-frilled handkerchief came out to be dabbed alternately at nose and eyes. Most people had long ago resorted to paper tissues for such a purpose. Her mother had standards; high standards. There was no way she was going to swipe at her countenance with anything similar to the paper used in toilet rolls.

  Honey looked up at the ceiling wishing she could fly up there and barge straight through the plaster and up into the sky. It wasn’t going to happen so instead she mouthed, ‘Heaven help us.’

  However, since there was not a heaven-sent angel in sight on that ceiling, nothing except a cobweb missed by the extendable duster, the matter remained the same and unresolved.