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

by Jean G. Goodhind

  ‘That’s not what I was getting at. My grandmother’s still here. If she doesn’t leave soon I swear she’ll turn into a pumpkin – or I will.’

  Doherty paused. ‘I’ll rephrase. I don’t want to bring your mother’s reputation into disrepute with your grandmother. So what’s she doing there?’

  ‘She’s holding a séance with Mary Jane and a few of her friends. They’re trying to get in touch with Dora.’

  ‘Did she leave much money?’ Doherty asked, presuming that her friends were going to ask the dead Dora about her will.

  ‘That’s not the problem. They’re worried about who gets to inherit Bobo. My grandmother promised she’d look after the dog. She didn’t mean it could move in with her. And before you ask, no, she doesn’t know that the dog’s been kidnapped. She thinks my mother’s out for a walk with her at this very minute.’

  ‘Did your mother say anything about this blond jogger wearing the small shorts and vest?’

  ‘She did. Pity she didn’t get his name.’

  ‘Never mind. He’s got to show up on one of the letters Wright received. It’s being looked into.’

  ‘Really? I thought you’d be sticking to the letters from ex-businesspeople in Bath.’

  ‘We’ve already interviewed them. They don’t match the description of the dog-napper.’

  ‘No blond joggers?’

  ‘Only one man and he’s dead.’

  Ned Shaw hit the trapped rabbit over the head. Although he had a day job and didn’t really need to go poaching in order to put some food on the table, he couldn’t quite get out of the habit.

  Poaching was another occupation that he and his family had carried out for generations. To his mind he still had every right to do it. No matter who owned the land, he couldn’t and wouldn’t drop the habit.

  The great thing about Memory Meadow was that the warrens that had been there for generations were still there, or at least the tail ends of them were. Wildflowers grew amongst the long grass growing against the boundary walls. The new owners had insisted that they stay and continue to give shelter and food to butterflies and bees. Both he and the rabbits were glad of that, the rabbits because they could hide amongst the grass and him because he knew exactly where to find them.

  He’d set the snares the night before when the lack of moon and the rain kept honest folk at bay. There was no rain tonight but it was still moonless. Nobody would be around.

  Confident that he’d be alone, he took out a packet of cigarette papers and a little tobacco. He couldn’t see what he was doing, but he didn’t need to. He’d done it a thousand times before.

  Normally he didn’t smoke if there was the slightest chance of anyone being around, but tonight he chanced it.

  Perhaps things would have been fine if he hadn’t had a few pints before venturing here, but he had so his instincts were not so finely attuned as usual. Usually he regarded the darkness as his friend and was confident of his footsteps and his whereabouts. Tonight he wasn’t so fortunate.

  The sound of a match being struck sounded like a thunderclap. For a moment the flame penetrated the pitch-blackness and just for a moment he thought he heard somebody take a sharp breath.

  He froze immediately. Not the coppers. Surely not. Not at this time of night.

  ‘Who’s there?’

  He listened.

  ‘Stupid sod,’ he muttered. ‘As if anybody’s going to answer.’

  It was a slight sound, crumbling earth falling and leaving its own damp, dank smell behind, but a sound all the same.

  Reaching into his pocket he fumbled for his matchbox, meaning to strike a light, his only aid for seeing in the dark. His wife had suggested he buy himself one of those small torches with a blue, direct light, but he was having none of it.

  ‘This is the way I’ve always done it and this is the way I’m going on doing it. I’m not changing the habits of a lifetime.’

  The match flared into life, but he saw nothing. In the time it had taken to fetch the matches from his pocket and light one, someone unseen had swung a shovel against the back of his head. Ned Shaw fell face forward on to the pile of earth he’d removed from the cesspit.

  Unseen, his attacker stood over him, his breath catching in his chest and the sweat from his brow trickling down his face and on to his chin.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Rolling over in the bed, Honey’s blurred vision cleared and the tom-toms in her head stopped beating long enough to notice the note Doherty had left her.

  The scrap of paper seemed to have been torn from the bottom half of a pizza delivery note.

  ‘Had to go. Sleep it off. See you later. How about we have lunch at the Poacher?’

  She sighed, stretched out her arm, and felt the spot where he’d lain. The cotton sheets were already cold.

  Oh well, the drums in her skull were still throbbing to a dull beat. She wouldn’t have been the best of company anyway.

  Wincing, her eyes met the chink of bright light showing where the curtains didn’t quite meet. Turning away she closed her eyes again. Guessing it was mid-morning a few more minutes in bed wouldn’t hurt. Bliss! A huge bed all to herself.

  She should have known better. Soak in a bath, or doze in front of a made-for-idiots TV programme, and the phone was bound to ring.

  Doherty’s only homage to antique anything was an ivory-coloured phone from way back in the fifties. Mary Jane had told her that if you concentrated on who you wanted to be in touch, ninety-to-one your wishes would come true.

  She wished for Doherty.

  Doherty it was. How great was that?

  ‘How’s the sleeping beauty?’

  ‘Is that what I am?’

  ‘The sleeping or the beauty?’

  She grinned into the phone. Doherty wasn’t the greatest at giving compliments but the message was in the way he said it.

  ‘It’s the thought that counts,’ she said to him. ‘You were thinking about me so you called.’

  ‘I was also going to tell you that I was calling on the three phantom letter writers. Are you interested in coming with me?’

  ‘I thought you said they were all women?’

  ‘I didn’t say they were nuns. They might know your blond runner.’

  ‘Give me half an hour. By the time you get here my eyes should be back in their sockets.’

  ‘I’m on my way.’

  This morning she was in heaven, heaven being naked in Doherty’s shower and thoroughly enjoying the warm water cascading over her head. Warm edging towards cool was the temperature of choice when your head was playing host to a group of bongo drummers.

  The shower was spacious; a wet room tiled in black marble and smelling of spicy gels and shampoos.

  Although definitely in the Alpha Male category, Steve Doherty was a man who had a penchant for the finer things of life. Despite his sometimes dishevelled appearance, he was never grubby. Rugged was the best description.

  The big comfort in his bathroom was provided by a pair of fluffy towels, big enough to make a quilt out of. She could easily have wrapped herself up in one of them and lain down on the other. She’d slept but not that well. However, she had made him a promise to accompany him to interview these three letter writers.

  Fishing for her clothes was no big deal. She found them neatly folded on a chair, which in Doherty’s estimation was superior to a hanger and a clothes rail in that it was closer to hand.

  Doherty tended to put things down rather than put them away. On reflection he seemed to have an aversion to hanging things up. Come to think of it a lot of men were pretty much the same way.

  She had no make-up with her and Doherty wasn’t that type of guy. Rooting through the bathroom cabinet she did find a cream of some description, the label long rubbed away. It smelled OK and had the consistency of moisturizer. A little seemed to go a long way. Her face felt soft. Screwing the lid back on the pot she put it away.

  By the time Doherty arrived she was dressed and ready to go
.

  He pulled into the kerb outside his place in Camden Crescent in the low-slung Toyota Sport he loved so well. The sun was out so the top was down. Wisps of hair were blowing across his face – though only gently, she was pleased to see. Nothing gale-force.

  Doherty wrinkled his nose. ‘That smell’s familiar. Is everything all right?’

  ‘Smell?’

  At first she wasn’t sure what he meant, then she twigged it.

  ‘Oh! You mean my face cream.’

  ‘Is that what I can smell?’

  ‘I expect so. I didn’t have anything with me so I borrowed some from that pot with the blue lid.’

  ‘Oh!’

  The way he said ‘Oh!’ should have alerted her that something was wrong. But she let it go. Anyway, he’d already swung out into the traffic – more swiftly than usual it had to be said. A cyclist swerved. A car honked its horn.

  Whatever smell she might have been harbouring was blown away.

  ‘So where are we going?’

  ‘Widcombe. Trudy Wendover lives in one of the static mobile homes up there. She couldn’t say much to enlighten me about our friend Mr Wright except to say that she hated him, wished he was dead, and could we pin a medal on the person who did it. Besides that she had an alibi; in fact all the letter writers had a plausible alibi. It’s a long shot, but perhaps she or one of the others might know who our blond jogger is.’

  Mrs Wendover lived on a static home site where occupancy was confined to the over fifty-fives.

  Net curtains hung at the bay window of Mrs Wendover’s mobile home. They twitched as they drew up. On seeing who it was the curtain was dropped and the door opened.

  Mrs Wendover had a shapeless figure and mousy hair, and although her bone structure was excellent, she had the pale, unmade-up face of someone who was beyond caring.

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector. How delightful to see you again.’

  She held out her hand. Doherty shook it.

  ‘This is my associate, Mrs Driver.’

  Mrs Wendover looked her up and down with hooded eyes, her chin held at an imperious angle. Honey decided that when it came to looking down her nose, Mrs Wendover was top of the tree.

  ‘Delighted to meet you. Would you care to take tea?’

  Anyone else might have asked if she wanted a cuppa, but Trudy Wendover was top-drawer material. At one time she must have been quite a Chelsea-type girl, definitely privately educated. Despite living in a static mobile, she had not let the side down.

  ‘Stiff upper lip and tight corsets,’ Honey murmured to Doherty.

  ‘We wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble,’ Doherty said as they were shown into Mrs Wendover’s living room.

  Everything in it was white: white carpet, white furniture and white walls. Overall it looked quite smart though Honey wondered how the devil she managed to keep it clean. It wouldn’t suit her at all. Wouldn’t suit her guests either.

  Mrs Wendover settled herself into a comfortable armchair. Close to her feet a Persian cat slept in a basket lined with pink satin quilting. Sensing there were visitors, it stretched one smoky grey leg and opened one yellow eye. Deciding that they were of no particular interest or immediate threat, it went back to sleep.

  Doherty sneezed. ‘Sorry,’ he said, wiping his nose. ‘I’m allergic to cats.’

  ‘That’s Sylvia,’ said Mrs Wendover.

  ‘I think I’d better take a rain check on the tea,’ said Doherty, dabbing at his nose with a man-size tissue.

  Honey was about to say that she’d never known he had a problem with animals. That was before she realized that he was using an excuse not to take tea. They had two more people to see.

  The cat decided the time was ripe to exit its basket. After stretching languorously, it furled its tail around Honey’s ankles while Doherty asked Mrs Wendover about the blond jogger.

  ‘No,’ she said, shaking her head emphatically. ‘I can’t say I have.’

  Honey looked down at the cat. ‘Has anyone ever threatened to kidnap your cat?’

  ‘No!’ cried Mrs Wendover, sucking in her breath as she bent to scoop her beloved and expensive-looking cat up from the floor. Eyeing Honey with outright suspicion, she stood there wide-eyed, the cat hugged tightly against her face.

  Honey regretted frightening the woman like that and tried to explain. ‘The blond jogger we’re seeking kidnapped my dog.’

  ‘And we think he too may have written a threatening letter to Colin Wright,’ added Doherty.

  Mrs Wendover stiffened. ‘My letter was not threatening! It was the truth. Wright ruined my life. It broke my husband’s heart when he read that awful review. Not everyone sets great store by reviews or depends on them for their business. But we did. I don’t regret writing that letter and I certainly don’t regret that Wright is dead!’

  ‘Can we speak to your husband?’ asked Doherty.

  Mrs Wendover’s lips curled into a defensive snarl. ‘You can if you wish, though you won’t get anywhere. My husband has dementia. He can’t even remember who he is, let alone the likes of that scoundrel Wright.’

  Doherty made his apologies for troubling her. They left.

  ‘Well that’s telling us,’ quipped Honey laughingly once they were back in the car and heading towards Salisbury Plain. ‘C.A. certainly didn’t get an A plus for good will to all men – or women.’

  The sun was getting warmer. Just for once she didn’t mind travelling with the hood down. Doherty’s little Toyota made short shrift of the miles, the fields were green, and the sun was causing a white mist to rise from the damp grass.

  They stopped at a Little Chef on their way along the A36 before heading off across the long green curves of Salisbury Plain and the monolithic structure of Stonehenge.

  The second letter writer lived in a pretty cottage that might once have had a thatched roof. The roof was now of dark red ‘Rosemary’ tiles, small but pretty and made prettier by scalloped tiles of the same sort along its lower edges. Tiles had replaced thatch on a lot of cottages: understandable really seeing as they were pricey to replace every twenty years and also pushed up the cost of home insurance due to the risk of fire.

  The moment she opened the door there was something just too familiar about Adelaide Cox. Not a day under sixty, she was well turned out, though in a blousy way. Her hair was big, blonde, and in a seventies style; her skirt was too tight, and her sweater too low-cut. A pink chiffon scarf was tied around her throat, its ends fashioned into a bow on the right-hand side beneath her jaw.

  She beamed on recognizing Doherty from his last visit.

  ‘Oh, it’s the nice policeman.’

  She didn’t acknowledge Honey at all.

  ‘This is …’ Doherty began.

  ‘How lovely to see you again,’ she gushed. ‘Now do come in and tell me how I can help you further.’

  Adelaide Cox exerted a firm grip on his arm as she propelled him into her home. Honey squeezed through the gap she left. The woman showed no sign of regret when she almost closed the door on her.

  They were shown into a chintzy parlour where china birds of various colours, shapes, and sizes perched on every available surface. A real live bird – a budgerigar – twittered from a cage on a stand.

  When Mrs Cox smiled her Botoxed lips dominated her face. Honey felt her stomach tighten. The woman was a younger version of her own mother.

  A charm bracelet rattled on her wrist when she waved her hand in the direction of a fat, chintz-covered sofa.

  ‘Do sit down, Detective Chief Inspector. Doherty wasn’t it? I don’t think you gave me your Christian name when we first met. You know mine of course,’ she simpered, her eyes twinkling as she propelled him to where she wanted him to sit, pressing him on to one half of the sofa. Adelaide took the other half. Feeling as useful as a chocolate fireguard, Honey was left standing by a table. There was no way Adelaide Cox was going to include her in the conversation. Adelaide wanted Doherty to herself.

  Listening to Dohe
rty getting similar answers as they had had from Mrs Wendover without being asked to comment was irritating. Her concentration began to wander around the room finally settling on the newspaper sitting on the table. It was turned to the personal page, the one where men and women advertised for company.

  Honey ran her eyes over the long list of ‘gay divorcee’, ‘trim, slim woman in her fifties seeks fun companion,’ and ‘merry widow. Likes dining out, foreign holidays, and cosy nights in for two.’

  There were men of course. There’d be no point in the pages if they weren’t included, but they were fewer in number. Most were women who couldn’t survive without male company, romance, and intimate twosomes still the ultimate aim of their singleton lives. One glance at Adelaide Cox was enough. She definitely fitted into the seeker of romance category.

  The evidence of that was also on the table: two pens; one green, one red. Some of the advertisements from men looking for company were circled green, others crossed through with the red pen. Green was obviously for ‘go’. There weren’t many. Red predominated.

  Bending her head slightly so she could see better, she also took in what looked to be the beginnings of an advert Adelaide herself was writing.

  Curious to see how Mrs Cox described herself, Honey bent her head some more.

  ‘Attractive lady, 45 years old …’

  Forty-five was definitely stretching it. Sixty more like.

  Adelaide Cox was totally absorbed in what Doherty was asking her so didn’t notice Honey’s incredulous look. She was too busy offering Doherty tea and cake which he was firmly resisting. One of her knees was pressed against his.

  Doherty was handling it well. ‘Sorry. I have to think of my waistline. I wonder if you can help me, Mrs Cox …?’

  ‘Call me Adelaide.’

  ‘Adelaide. I’m looking for a man …’

  ‘So am I …’

  ‘… Who may also have sent a derogatory letter to Wright,’ Doherty went on, shifting in an effort to put at least an inch or two between them. ‘It’s very possible you may have known him in the days when you and your husband still had your business. He’s tall, blond, and quite athletic I think.’