Marriage is Murder

by Jean G. Goodhind

  Whoever had kidnapped Gloria Cross has bitten off more than they could chew. If she had been kidnapped that is. If she had, it certainly threw his suspicions about the threatening letters into disarray. He’d had a theory, one he hadn’t confided to Honey. Writing threatening letters was one thing; kidnapping was quite another.

  ‘We have to be sure,’ he’d said to Honey over the phone. ‘It could just be one big practical joke.’

  ‘You don’t sound as though you’re taking this very seriously.’ She’d sounded hurt. If he could see her face he knew she would look puzzled.

  ‘Instinct,’ he had responded, unwilling to voice the suspicion that had nagged at the back of his mind since the first letter had arrived.

  When a day started off on the wrong foot there was a pretty good chance it would stay that way.

  First one of the diners had insisted on seeing the box her breakfast eggs had been bought in.

  ‘I only eat free range,’ she’d proclaimed in a very loud voice.

  Clare, art student and occasional breakfast waitress had assured her that the eggs were indeed laid by free-range fowl.

  ‘The eggs come from Mr and Mrs Baker. They keep hens and geese and all sorts of things on their land.’

  The guest, a Madam Brussard who came from Rennes, was unconvinced.

  ‘I cannot possibly take the word of a waitress. Show me the box.’

  The woman’s head was crowned with a beehive of carefully arranged hair. As if to balance it, she held her head high, her voice seeming to exit via her nose rather than her mouth which gave her tone a nasally, throaty burr.

  Clare, bless her cotton socks, was aware that although the eggs came from a smallholding on the outskirts of Bath, the box they came in was a recycled grey preformed thing used by every supermarket in the city and surrounding areas.

  Clare was already flushed because the hotel was full and all the residents had descended on the dining room at around the same time.

  At least one person sitting in that dining room noticed the poor girl was rushed off her feet. Mary Jane had also overheard the Frenchwoman’s demands regarding her wish to scrutinise the egg box.

  ‘I’ll go get it, honey,’ she said, giving Clare a reassuring pat.

  Amazingly energetic for her age, Mary Jane marched out of the dining room bumping into Honey before making the kitchen.

  ‘The French broad doesn’t believe the eggs are free range. She wants to see the box they came in.’

  Honey drew in her chin. ‘A box?’

  ‘The chick has never bought outside a supermarket and supermarket free range eggs come in a box that say so.’

  Honey remembered a broken box that had said just that. She rummaged in the bins before finding a suitable free-range egg box. The French woman almost cradled the shabby grey box to her breast. Honey hadn’t the heart to tell her that she’d retrieved it from the same bin that contained wet wipes used on the baby’s bottom in room twelve. The box had been sandwiched between that and the baby’s discarded disposable, the latter very full and very smelly.

  Next the butcher decided to leave his brains behind and delivered a turkey for the Sunday carvery that was below weight. Smudger was not amused.

  ‘Take it back.’

  Unfortunately the van driver was new, hadn’t met many chefs before and didn’t seriously believe Smudger’s threat to bury the meat cleaver in his head.

  Whilst Smudger shot off to collect his weapon of choice, Honey saved the occasion, told the driver to take the turkey and deliver them a bigger one. By the time Smudger got back he was gone.

  The day calmed down until a trip to the car park of the cash and carry when a woman pushing a large flat bed trolley loaded up with bottles of booze collided with her car. The happy faced Chinese lady pushing it apologised most profusely on seeing the dent she’d left in the wing of Honey’s beloved old Citroen.

  ‘So, so, very sorry. I give you my insurance details.’

  On recalling that she had a hefty excess amount before insurance paid out, Honey brushed her offer away. ‘I’ll cover it myself.’

  What the hell? It was only a dent. Minor irritations. That was what they were, she told herself. How about something less irritating

  It was just after agreeing with the Chinese woman to forgive and forget that Lindsey sent her the details of the email and assured her it was genuine.

  ‘Can you trace it or something?’ Honey had asked her.

  ‘I’m good, but not that good. But I will try. I do have a friend who works for GCHQ...’

  ‘Spare me the details. I’ve no wish to add an investigation by MI5 to my problems! I’m going round to her flat. If there’s no sign of her there, I’ll pop round to some of her friends.’

  Doherty had expressed the opinion that there was anything to worry about. ‘A few days and they’ll bring her back.’

  ‘I knew you’d say that.’

  ‘I just can’t help thinking...well...you know your own mother.’

  ‘I could get Lindsey to reply and say OK, the wedding is off.’

  Silence followed before Doherty spoke. ‘Is that what you want?’

  ‘No,’ she said abruptly. ‘Of course it isn’t. I’m just thinking it might put an end to this. I did tell you about the frog and stuff didn’t I?’

  ‘You’re thinking it’s all connected.’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Don’t give up on us, Honey.’

  His considered flippancy had turned serious.

  Honey was touched. She was worried about her mother but also angry. That was the way it had always been. She wouldn’t put it past her to stage something to throw a spanner in the works.

  ‘What with this and Nigel the Nutcase. You have to see that house to believe it. Everything white and then a wedding dress. I presume it was his wife’s.’

  Doherty’s silence was like a full stop. Honey waited for the next sentence, which laid the truth bold and bare. ‘Unfortunately he checks out. Cast iron alibi; he was wearing one of his dresses at the time. I’ll see you later at the Zodiac. Speak to you then.’

  So here he was waiting for her at the Zodiac, and there she was opening the door at her mother’s place.

  As the door opened the smell of roses and heavy perfume wafted out through the gap.

  ‘Hello! Anybody home?’

  Her voice didn’t echo off clear surfaces and white walls as it might in a home with minimalist features and furnishings. Her mother didn’t do minimalist; she did table lamps with glazed bases in oriental designs, the cone shaped shades big enough for a coolie to wear as a hat. Bookshelves lined two walls of the sitting room, the television was hidden in a Sheraton style cabinet, the carpets were thick and the upholstered settees and chairs bursting with silk covered cushions.

  The curtains were custom made of pale mustard shantung, a glistening fabric kept in place with silk tasselled tiebacks.

  Honey took a good look round. Nothing was out of place, but then, she’d expected it to be that way. Her mother had a cleaner come in three times a week to make sure everything was picture perfect. If Home and Style magazine ever wanted to do a photo shoot of the discerning senior’s crash pad, Honey was certain that this was the one they would choose.

  The bedroom was a place of pink, cream and pale green calm. There was a noticeable similarity between her mother’s bedroom and Nutty Nigel’s, though at least her mother had added pale green to give it a bit of colour. There was no wedding dress standing in the middle of the bedroom; in none of the bedrooms in fact.

  All the same, Honey felt herself shudder at the memory of Nigel Brooks.

  The bed was made, three favourite teddies from her mother’s collection snuggled against the satin edged pillows, their button eyes staring up at the ceiling.

  There was no sign of a struggle. No note pinned to the pillow, no sign that anyone had broken in.

  A hoax.

  Perhaps Doherty was right, if he was, then where was her mother and wh
y hadn’t she been in touch?

  The key, she decided, would lie with her mother’s vast collection of clothes, bags, shoes and other accessories. Everything hung on hangers or was stored in drawers or on shelves in her mother’s wardrobe.

  Honey flicked the switch that turned on the interior light and stepped inside.

  At first glance, everything was neat and tidy. On second glance the gaps were obvious. So was the fact that the set of quality luggage usually kept on the very top shelf at the end of the room was gone. The luggage was new and if she remembered correctly, her mother had told her she’d bought it for a special occasion. Honey had asked what that occasion might be, but didn’t get an answer. She assumed a cruise; her mother so liked cruises.

  ‘That’s for me to know and you to find out,’ her mother had said. The coy look in her eyes and the blush on her cheeks had not escaped Honey’s notice. Something was going on a new beau? A new business proposition? Please God, no to the last. Her mother had been playing around with on line business ventures. So far she hadn’t fallen for the digital spiel, with the noted exception of Snow on the Roof, an online dating site for seniors. But there were plenty of sharks out there. If her mother wasn’t careful she and her considerable income, courtesy of a few marriages that whilst not exactly being made in heaven, had set her up very nicely financially, might be swallowed whole. Honey wouldn’t want that to happen. An independent mother could be kept at arm’s length. A destitute one might move in with her!

  Standing in the middle of the well-proportioned storage space, she surveyed the hanging garments, the dressing table, and the shoe bars where feminine pairs of mostly kitten-heeled shoes were stored in colour banded regularity. As with the hanging rails, there were gaps.

  And where were her mother’s silver handled hairbrush, her toiletries, her makeup, and her jewel box...?

  Nowhere!

  She opened one of the six drawers to the side of the dressing table. No sign of the jewel box. Very little underwear too. Was it likely that thief would steal underwear as well as her mother’s jewellery box? OK, Gloria Cross favoured silk underwear, but a burglar wasn’t likely to know the difference. Anyway, it still didn’t account for the missing luggage and gaps on rails and in drawers. Her mother had gone somewhere without telling her. Judging by the neat gaps in the wardrobe, she was convinced that her mother had not been kidnapped. She had gone somewhere, but where?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  By the time she got to the Zodiac Club, the air was thick with the smell of juicy steaks and garlic infused prawns, both served on sizzling platters with chips and all the trimmings. Nobody could fail to be moved to hunger pangs when a waiter bearing one of these snake hipped his way through the clusters of iron-framed tables.

  She sensed Doherty’s welcoming smile was something of an effort. He looked tired and fed up. After giving him a hug, a kiss and commiseration that Nigel Brooks had proved a dead end, she outlined the position as she saw it with her mother.

  ‘Luggage, clothes, shoes and other things are missing, but everything has been left neat and tidy. No sign of a struggle. Her luggage was brand new.’

  He managed a sardonic grin. ‘It’s not usual for a kidnap victim to be given time to pack. Have you checked with her friends?’

  Honey nodded and took a sip from the drink he bought her. ‘Some. Those that were at home. It’s summertime. People go on holidays. Old folk fly to the sun and go on cruises. I blame old time dancing.’

  Doherty nodded. ‘I’m not sure where this is going, but presume the waltz and the tango have a lot to answer for.’

  Honey threw him a wry don’t you know nothing, kind of look.

  ‘Wrong age group. My mother and her friends are into Saturday Night Fever. The old boys on these cruises usually manage to pull a white suit, a la John Travolta,’ out of the closet.’

  ‘Pax,’ he said, raising his hands in abject surrender. ‘Pax and goodwill towards men, especially this man. I hereby own up that I kidnapped your mother and presently have her chained up in the cellar.’

  ‘You haven’t got a cellar, and anyway, this is still a serious matter. I am now more or less certain that she has not been kidnapped. She’s shot off on some last minute Saga cruise with some hot man who doesn’t have one foot in the grave and the other on a bar of soap. That,’ she said with an air of finality, ‘is my theory.’

  A lock of glossy hair fell forward half obscuring Doherty’s deep blue eyes. She brushed it back for him with her fingers, smiling as reassuringly as she could. He was bitterly disappointed that the case of the dead brides was not yet tied up. In an odd way her mother had done them a big favour. Doherty needed something else to think about, and although she had adopted a flippant attitude towards her mother’s disappearance, it was more to do with keep Doherty’s spirits buoyant than anything else. Although she knew her mother could be very conniving, deep down she was still worried. She wouldn’t let Doherty know that.

  ‘I see where you’re coming from,’ said Doherty. ‘No kidnapper gives his victim time to pack. Throwing a change of clothes into a rucksack is about as far as things are likely to go. It’s my experience that top quality leather luggage is never used. Your mother’s choosey. I bet everything missing from that wardrobe is colour coordinated.’

  ‘I think you’re right.’

  The fact is she’d already come to that conclusion herself, but Doherty needed his spirits lifted.

  ‘I know my mother. It wouldn’t be the first time she’s lit out into the wide blue yonder without relating the details to me or anyone else. However, let’s say she has gone on holiday; perfectly understandable. She likes cruises. She also likes intrigue, and the most telling item that still worries me is that the sender of the email must know her movements. How did that person know she was going on holiday – if indeed she is? Whoever sent that email must know that; so what now? What are we supposed to do next?’

  The urgent ringing of his phone interrupted Doherty’s response.

  ‘I’ll drop you home,’ he said grimly after the call was finished.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Let’s just say we have another bride to deal with.’

  ‘Another dead bride? Another dead woman in a wedding dress?’

  He took his time straightening but she guessed he was happier because his downcast eyes were now fixed on the curve of her breast.

  ‘No. A live man wearing a wedding dress. Your friend Nigel the Nut. He’s been accused of causing an affray in the village of Wainswicke. It was reported by one Janet Audrey Glencannon.’

  It was only to be expected that Doherty would be a while reporting back to her on his interview with Nigel Brooks.

  Still, she had a dented car to deal with so with that in mind she drove over to see when Ahmed Clifford could book it in and sort it out.

  The first question he asked when he saw her was regarding his car.

  ‘Do you know when I can expect it back? Don’t the police realise I have a business to run?’

  His velvet brown eyes were so full of concern, she half expected him to burst into tears.

  ‘Ahmed, darling, I dare say it won’t be too much longer,’ she said to him only barely resisting the urge to give him a big comforting cuddle. ‘Just a day or so I expect.’

  Actually she was only guessing, but she was pretty good at guessing. Guessing was a small part of what it took to be good at what she did – Crime Liaison Officer that is, not hotelier. The hotel game was a minefield, never the same from one day to the next and, on that score she reckoned she was still learning.

  Ahmed ran a hand over his plastered back black hair. ‘I ‘ope this don’t get ‘round. No happy couple are goin’ to want to hire my car for their wedding if they hear a dead bride was found in the back of it.’

  ‘I take it they’ve questioned you about the woman?’

  ‘Steve said I could go into the station and do it tomorrow.’ His smile broadened. ‘He’s a good cop, he is. Got faith
in me I reckon. Weren’t fazed about me not coming in until tomorrow. Anyway, I’m not going anywhere am I? They’re got my car.’

  Honey couldn’t help feeling sorry for him. ‘Look, I’m quite happy if you can’t repair my dent until after you’ve dealt with the statement and everything.’

  He looked only marginally relieved. ‘OK. I’m not up to speed yet if you know what I mean, what with the business of the car and all that. How about next Wednesday?’

  ‘Let me check my diary.’

  Whilst rummaging in the depths of her big brown bag, the photos of Carolina Sherise made their way to the top and fell out.

  ‘Hey!’ cried Ahmed as he bent down and picked them up. The full frontal one with the sequins and feather was on top. ‘Wow! Sex on legs!’

  Honey grabbed it back, letting it fall into the depths of her bag. ‘Yes, I’m OK for next Wednesday.’

  ‘That bird. She can wrap her legs around me any day of the week.’ Ahmed sniggered. ‘Or weekend for that matter. I’m easy. The skirts that chick wears are unbelievable. Nothing left to the imagination. As for her other assets...’ He cupped his hands in the vicinity of his chest.

  Honey was about to make comment that they surely weren’t that fantastic, when she suddenly realised exactly what he was saying.

  ‘You’ve met this woman?’

  He nodded. ‘Yeah. She wanted to know how much it would cost to hire the Roller. I gave her a price, she wrote it down, and then split.’

  ‘You met Carolina Sherise?’

  He nodded again. ‘Yeah. I didn’t know that was her name though. Come to that, I can’t remember her giving me her name.’

  Doherty had also given Honey a photo of Harold Clinker. ‘What about this man?’

  Honey slapped off the mucky thumb he put on the photo. Ahmed shook his head. ‘No. Never seen ‘im before.’

  ‘What about the people who live in the houses adjoining where you kept the car, do you know the names of any of them?’

  ‘Oh yeah! A few of them anyway. There’s Reg and Vera for a start. They don’t miss much and chat plenty over the garden fence. Then there’s the Geraldine woman, though when you see her depends on what shift she’s working. Then there’s Nigel the Nutcase. I don’t think he’s really nuts, just a bit lonely since his wife did a runner. Can’t understand why he misses her so much. She certainly ain’t much to look at. Right dog if you ask me, but then, they reckon that you do get to look like your dog – if you’ave a dog that is.’ His laughter was loud until he saw the disapproving look on Honey’s face.