A Taste To Die For - A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries) (9 page)

‘So you won’t mind answering a few questions.’

She studied them as they thought it through. They’d looked almost identical when viewed at a distance. Up front there were subtle differences. One had a cauliflower ear and the other had a broken nose.

Squashed-Ear exchanged a look with Broken-Nose before proclaiming their decision. ‘S’pose not.’

‘How much did Brodie owe you?’

Broken-Nose adopted an indignant look. ‘Not enough to kill for. We don’t do things like that. We just repossess.’

‘Yeah, repossess,’ echoed his partner.

‘We want the salamander.’

‘Yeah. The salamander.’

They both spoke as though their tongues were too big for their mouths. And they were very big guys, almost round. Tweedle Dee and his brother Tweedle Dum.

‘Do you know what a salamander is?’ Honey asked.

They looked at each other before one of them answered. ‘It’s something in the kitchen.’

‘A grill,’ she said. ‘Wait here. I’ll check that the police are finished.’

Luckily for the repo men, the salamander – chef terminology for a large wall-mounted grill – was in a separate part of the kitchen that could be entered through another door, so they wouldn’t be contaminating the crime scene. After disconnecting the gas, they unbolted it and heaved it onto their shoulders.

‘Why do I think I should be humming the funeral march?’ Honey muttered as she watched them progress sedately out of the door.

One of Doherty’s team heard her. ‘Sorry. Did you say something?’

‘Tell Steve I have to go, but I’ll be seeing him.’

Despite him being busy, Honey hoped that Steve would call and ask her out tonight. Depending on staffing levels, the dishwasher and whether she could find something to wear, she’d be up for that. He was in need of a night out after a day like this. So was she.

She stepped out of the restaurant, and walked along Quiet Street, a stone’s throw from Queen Square.

The city air was as fresh as a mountain stream after the smell of death. Honey thought about sitting in Queen Square again for a while. That was until she saw her mother coming the other way, arm-in-arm with a man whose identity wasn’t quite clear at that distance, though he was definitely familiar. He reminded Honey very strongly of steak, for some reason …

‘No thanks!’ she muttered, heading off in the other, direction, half-thinking that she might turn vegetarian …

Chapter Twelve

Having avoided her mother and ‘lover boy’, Honey made for a seat in Abbey Churchyard reckoning she needed the break after what she’d been through. The smell of singed flesh lingered in her nostrils.

Purchasing a coffee from Starbucks en route, Honey sat down and prepared to enjoy the passing scene. It was like taking a seat at the United Nations but without the speeches. Everyone was enjoying themselves.

A crowd of French students huddled together while a colleague took a photo. Their smiles were cheesy. Were they saying ‘cheese’ or ‘fromage’? They were interesting to watch, chic even in their youth. No one could be as snap-happy as the Japanese of course – except snapping now also meant digitising – filming the family on demand.

Steve rang. ‘Are you OK?’ He sounded worried. She pictured him trying to disguise the fact. It made her feel better, though slightly naughty. For a second she toyed with the idea of encouraging even more sympathy. No. Not fair. She made an effort.

‘Fine. No breakfast this morning. You know … an empty stomach and all that.’

‘Get some fresh air.’

‘I am. I’m sitting in Abbey Churchyard.’

‘Alone?’

‘In Abbey Churchyard? Are you kidding?’

‘I meant close companions. Or the living.’

Was he jealous? The idea was quite thrilling.

‘None.’

‘By the way, you dropped something when you keeled over.’

Did she? She couldn’t remember and hadn’t noticed. Her keys? Her purse?

‘I hadn’t noticed.’ She did a brief rummage of her copious tan shoulder bag. Everything seemed in order.

‘Hmm.’ For a brief moment she was sure she heard a trace of amusement. What the devil could be so funny after finding Brian Brodie like that?

‘Never mind,’ he went on. ‘I’ll bring it along to the Zodiac tonight – if you’re up for it. I’ll be there.’ He sounded tired.

The Zodiac was one of their favourite haunts; subterranean and dingily impersonal. It was open until the wee hours and was a place where hard-pressed hoteliers, restaurateurs and pub landlords gathered to unwind once their own businesses were closed.

‘I’m afraid it’s got to be around the witching hour.’

‘Yeah. I guessed that.’

He hung up.

There was nothing she could do about the time. During their brief relationship, he’d insinuated she was too controlling wanting to oversee everything at the hotel until most guests had gone to bed. She hadn’t argued with that. Delegating responsibility wasn’t her thing. If that was controlling, then that was her.

Tonight he’d brief her on what he knew so far. She wondered at Brian Brodie’s previous girlfriend. Funny him being shacked up with a bit of fluff so soon after she’d left. Seemed like him and Oliver Stafford were tarred with the same brush. Both liked to play around. What about Sylvester Pardoe? She made a mental note to check up on him when the hotel and other pressures allowed.

Now what was it Steve had picked up that she’d dropped? She delved into her bag again. Nothing important was missing. Never mind. He might be mistaken.

The façade of the Green River Hotel gleamed like gold in the late afternoon. It was her favourite time of day. She looked along Pulteney Street, admiring the hard black shadows falling from one side of the street, and the honeycomb colour of buildings on the other. Mary Jane, their resident doctor of parapsychology, was right. If you squinted it was easy to imagine women in bonnets and empire-line dresses, and Regency bucks in tight-fitting trousers and riding boots. The smell would be different though; waste from a horse’s rear end rather than the exhaust pipe of a BMW.

Lindsey looked up from behind the reception desk. She managed a weak smile.

‘I didn’t expect you back so early.’

Her expression made Honey think she’d caught her off guard. She looked slightly panic-stricken, her hands seeming to be buried behind the high top of the reception desk.

‘Now what? What’s gone wrong?’

Lindsey looked hurt. ‘Nothing’s gone wrong.’

She sounded defensive.

Honey counted to ten and drove the suspicious thoughts away. Lindsey had had one big lack of judgement. Honey was still trying to deal with her disappointment, but it wasn’t easy.

She didn’t mean to march so swiftly to the counter. She also didn’t mean to be so obvious about trying to see what Lindsey was hiding.

‘These are for you,’ her daughter said suddenly.

Dark red roses nestled against white freesias and dark green leaves.

Normally Honey would have had to scrutinise a tiny booklet-type of card to see who had sent her the flowers. In this instance she didn’t need to. The card was flat and white and said simply, ‘TO MY MOTHER. WITH LOVE.’

Honey bit her lip. Dark red roses with velvety petals always brought a lump to her throat. Carl had bought her such roses back in the good old days before they’d married. He’d bought her the same for each and every anniversary and when Lindsey was born. Then they’d stopped and bunches of indiscriminate flowers had arrived via Interflora, yellows and pinks and purples. She’d known he hadn’t chosen them; knew that what had been something special had become no more than a duty.

Silently, Honey wrapped her arms around her daughter. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘So am I,’ said Lindsey hugging her back.

They both sniffed as they parted.

‘Any messages?’ Honey at last asked.

‘Nothing important.’ Lindsey suddenly turned all furtive, looking around her and dropping her voice to just above a whisper. ‘Mary Jane wants to see you.’

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Shh! Grandma will hear you.’ She took the flowers. ‘Here, let me take them. I’ll put them in water.’

Honey frowned. ‘What does Mary Jane want?’

‘She wants to give you some advice.’

She was shoved into the store room just behind reception. Mary Jane was sitting cross-legged on the floor. How a woman of her age ever got in such a position was a mystery. It was a wonder she didn’t break something. She was in one of her trances, head back, elbows bent, hands palms upwards.

‘What’s going on?’

‘As you are no doubt aware, Grandma’s got herself a boyfriend,’ said Lindsey.

‘Yes, and he’s got a Rolls-Royce. You know how she is about that particular make of car. I’m not opposed, It’ll keep her off my back.’

She made to leave. Lindsey pulled her back. ‘But this Roland Mead guy … I mean, Grandma’s not a very good judge of character.’

Shocked, Honey eyed her daughter and paused that bit too long. The fact that her mother was stepping out with Mead the butcher was surprising. But this was no corner shop outfit he owned. He had ‘brass’ as northern folk would say; warehouse interests, property, and probably supply depots all over Europe.

‘Anyway,’ Honey added without thinking. ‘We all make mistakes with men at some point in our lives. Some of us worse mistakes than others. It’s probably hereditary.

‘OK. So perhaps I inherited my recent lapse from her,’ said Lindsey in the glum manner she’d adopted of late.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean …’

An indignant Mary Jane threw her hands up in the air, her batwing sleeves causing one hell of a draught.

‘Nice flowers,’ she said, opening one eye. ‘However, I’d appreciate if you guys could shut your traps. Give me silence and I’ll tell you what the future holds.’

Honey shrugged at Lindsey. In response her daughter dragged her over to the door and whispered.

‘Mary Jane’s already done the tarot and given a verdict. She reckons Grandma’s new boyfriend is up to no good. And he’s younger than her.’

‘Younger as in?’

‘Sixty-ish.’

Honey waved her hand in front of her face. ‘Thank goodness for that. For a moment I thought you were going to say that he was only thirty-six.’

‘I’m worried about Grandma,’ said Lindsey.

‘She’s old enough to look after herself.’ The saying ‘There’s no fool like an old fool,’ ran through her mind like Wall Street ticker tape.

 ‘I don’t know what she sees in him,’ whispered Lindsey.

‘He drives a white Rolls-Royce.’

Lindsey nodded sagely. Everyone knew that Gloria went weak-kneed at the thought of a man with a Rolls-Royce. Not the chauffeur of course, but the owner; it proved he had the bank account to afford the fuel and parking fines.

Honey gave what she thought was a philosophical appraisal. ‘Perhaps the guy’s up front and just wants a bit of company. He’s not likely to be after her body at her age – unless he’s an undertaker. And he’s not.’

Lindsey was more blunt. ‘No. We know he’s not. He’s a butcher.’

‘Butcher by trade, butcher by nature,’ Mary Jane said suddenly.

Cripes! Honey rolled her eyes. Suddenly she wanted to be up on the ceiling, away from all this madness.

‘I think he’s got an ulterior motive,’ said Lindsey.

Honey folded her arms, resigned to listening no matter what. ‘OK. Shoot.’

‘I think he’s after our meat order.’

Chapter Thirteen

Although there were far more important things to think about, the fact that her mother was in a relationship with Roland Mead stayed with Honey all evening. Those words Lindsey had uttered,
He’s after the meat order
, were worrying.

Was it possible? Could the man be that mercenary?

She couldn’t help but confront him when her mother entered the hotel excitedly proclaiming that they’d booked a table in the restaurant.

His handshake felt warm and moist and lingered too long. His smile stripped the clothes from her body. Her worst fears were realised.

‘I’m going to chance the steak,’ he said in a way that left Honey in no doubt that he intended finding fault. ‘It won’t be up to my standards no doubt, but I’ll be lenient in my judgement.’

His smile was wide, his toupée neatly straightened. His eyes dove down the front of her dress. Perhaps that was why he didn’t appear to recognise her from their meeting in the kitchen of the Beau Brummell: he didn’t bother to look up at her face. Honey didn’t enlighten him. And her mother seemed too enthralled with ‘Mr Toupée’ to notice his wandering eye.

Honey had a strong urge to hit him between the eyes.

‘My daughter’s a widow too,’ said Gloria Cross with surprising frankness. ‘And the silly girl’s had such wonderful opportunities. You would never believe how many eligible men I’ve introduce her to. Rich of course. All professionals. But will she listen? No! She’s like all these youngsters nowadays. They all know better than their elders.’

‘Happens you’re right, petal. There’s no substitute for the University of Life.’

Honey cringed when he kissed her mother’s hand. Bowing slightly from the waist sent his toupée tipping forward.

Her mother went off to powder her nose. ‘Won’t be long, my big Aberdeen Angus.’

Honey’s surprise obviously showed.

Roland turned his attention back to her. ‘Your mother likes bulls. I keep bulls – Aberdeen Angus. They’re chunky, slow-growing and well-muscled.’ His grin suited his trade – thick and meaty. ‘A bit like me.’

‘Is that so?’ It was quite true that Mead was as big as a bull, though the look in his eyes was pure Big Bad Wolf.

Roland Mead had the kind of smile that wasn’t really meant for anyone but himself. There was a definite flicker of interest as once again his gaze dipped into her cleavage.

‘Must say I agree with your darling mother,’ he said, his wet tongue lashing along his slippery lips. ‘You need a man. A big man I should think. One built like a bull.’

‘I’m engaged,’ Honey blurted, making a mental note to have a word with her mother. What did she see in this man? Ah, yes. A white Rolls-Royce.

She wondered what her mother would say if she knew he was playing court to her. The guy didn’t know who he was dealing with.

She thought of him later still when she wriggled herself into a little black dress that always made her feel slimmer. Whether it
actually
did that was another matter. But never mind. Every little bit helped.

Two bubbles of fat spoiled its smooth lines, just a bit higher than her hip bones. Love handles people called them. Love? Were they kidding?

She retrieved a certain item of underwear from their hideaway at the bottom of a drawer.

It’s only temporary, Honey told herself. I’ll lose four pounds by the end of next week. Definitely.

As she pulled on the slinky spandex, she averted her gaze from the full-length mirror and flipped her mind back to basics. Was it really just a coincidence that Roland Mead had tried to wangle his way into Smudger’s domain the moment he started playing court to her mother?

Honey wasn’t meeting Steve until late, so she hung around welcoming guests and diners into the restaurant, one eye always on her mother’s bewigged man friend.

She warned Smudger about Mead beforehand.

‘He’s going to order steak. You know the score.’

Smudger grimaced. ‘Judge a good restaurant by its steak.’

‘He’s just trying to get our business.’

Smudger’s jaw dropped big-time and he spluttered as though about to explode. ‘That bloke supplies meat to this place over my dead body!’ With a loud bang, he brought a steak mallet down onto a piece of pale pink veal.

Honey retreated.

The smell of night and the lights of the city beckoned. Restaurants close to the Theatre Royal were still busy. So were the pubs, their doors wide open, their patrons spilling out on to the pavements.

As usual the eyes of the doorman at the Zodiac peered out through a slit at eye level before letting her in.

‘Are you in fancy dress?’

She recognised Clint’s voice.

‘No. Should I be?’

‘It’s optional.’

‘Then I choose not to participate. Let me in.’

It was quite a shock when he opened the door to see a slit of a mouth and his eyes – similar to the view she’d had through the door. Head to toe he was dressed in bandages.

Honey looked him up and down. ‘Have you had an accident?’

‘Course not! I’m an Egyptian mummy.’

‘So I see. Have you been raiding my first aid box?’

He grinned. ‘I’d need a lot more than one box of bandages to cover me. The boss hired this for me from a proper fancy dress place. He reckoned it suited my image.’

Honey nodded a questionable agreement. Clint had a shaved head and scary tattoos. He also wore earrings and a ring through his nose.

She made her way to the bar where she perched on a stool. Steve hadn’t arrived yet. She ordered a vodka and slimline. She looked down at her legs. Was this dress too short? Were fishnet stockings going a bit too far? Yep. She spied a hole a few inches above the knee.

Never mind. She took another sip of her drink then tugged at the hem of her skirt to cover the hole. It didn’t do much good. Thank God for dim lighting.

The place was filling up. Despite their efforts at fancy dress, she recognised a few hoteliers. Jim Sadler, Financial Director of a big hotel group, was dressed as a rabbit. A colleague – or it could have been his wife – was dressed as Alice in Wonderland, complete with Alice band on her head, an apron and a blue dress. The dress was low-cut, the skirt short. Honey frowned. She couldn’t remember Alice ever having such a deep cleavage or wearing white stockings held up by frilly garters. Oh well.

She heard laughter that wouldn’t have been out of place on a hyena. She saw Bling Broadbent draped over a big Samoan guy who she recognised as a player with the Bath rugby team. He didn’t look comfortable with Stella’s attention, but Stella didn’t seem to notice. She was sozzled and sprawled over the thick thighs that formed his lap.

‘I like ethnic types,’ she slurred running her hand over his chest.

‘So I noticed,’ Honey murmured into her drink. A Masai warrior, a Samoan; had she got round to Eskimos yet?

The Samoan stood up. He was built like a battleship. Stella slid off him like a bundle of wet seaweed.

‘Hey, big boy! You off already?’ Stella’s voice was slurred.

The Samoan stomped off, chairs and tables scraping the floor as he sidled through them – as best as anyone of his size could sidle.

Stella’s gutted look followed his progress. That was her eyes chanced to meet Honey’s.

‘Shit!’ She was coming over.

Honey took a sip of her drink and averted her eyes. Hopefully Stella’s vision was on the wobble and she wouldn’t see her as long as she kept her head down.

‘You!’ she shouted and pointed a bejewelled finger. ‘You! Honey bloody Driver!’

Too late. Ah, nothing for it. Honey raised her eyes.

Stella staggered across with far less agility than the rugby player. A chair or two toppled over and one or two of the patrons she bumped into ended up wearing their beer instead of drinking it. They shouted at her to watch out. She totally ignored them.

‘I want a word with you.’ She spat the words. At the same time she attempted to scramble on to the next stool. Her scrambling attracted some attention. Her skirt, a nice silky brocade number – definitely designer – rode halfway up her thighs. She was wearing granny knickers, the firm sort designed to keep everything under control, the legs ending a few inches above the knees. The height of the stool proved too much. She ended up resting her arms on it, buttocks jutting prominently behind her.

Stella’s smudged make-up was the good stuff. Her earrings were gold, the size of toadstools and matched her necklace. Her eyes were narrowed, like a sharpshooter taking aim. Her tongue was totally out of control.

‘You’ve been slandering both my good name and that of my establishment,’ she said making a wobbly stab at being sober.

This was new. Slandering the woman? Well … not really!

‘Slandering you? A woman of your expertise? No. Certainly not. You’re quite capable of doing that for yourself.’ This was hardly the time for sarcasm. Stella’s brain wasn’t quite in gear.

Stella looked puzzled – vaguely aware that something profound had been said, though not quite understanding what it was. She finally seemed to cotton on. Her look darkened.

‘You’ve been spreading rumours that I married a man I met on safari.’

Honey picked up her drink, swirling the liquid so that the ice clinked against the glass. ‘No. I was told this.’

Stella’s brows beetled over her nose. ‘So who told you?’

Sheer envy that this woman had a hotel with a car park made her relish the moment and take her time answering. Slowly she set her drink down. Slowly she twirled the lemon round with her finger. ‘Your husband. At least, he said he was your husband.’

Stella’s indignation was like a spluttering firecracker fizzing all over the place. ‘He … is … NOT  … my … husband!’

She said it emphatically. She said it loudly. Heads turned. Whispers passed from one curious ear to another.

Honey was relishing this. ‘Are you sure? I hear these safaris are great fun. Me shy, white memsahib, you big black chieftain – and plenty of booze of course!’

The flush running down Stella’s throat matched her rouged cheeks.

‘I may have had a drop too much to drink, but I did not sodding marry him! I did
not sodding
marry him
! Someone put him up to it. The same person doing all the other sodding stuff. You probably!’

‘Not me!’ Honey shook her head emphatically.

A whole sentence of nothing but expletives issued from Stella’s mouth.

A hushed gasp ran amongst those who’d heard.

‘OK,’ said Honey indicating the crowd with a flick of her head. ‘Now everybody knows exactly what sort of woman you are.’

Stella was livid. Suddenly her anger got too big for her body. Clutching the handle of her Lacroix handbag, she swung it through the air, aiming it at Honey’s head. Honey ducked. The back-swing of the handbag took Stella with it. She overbalanced, landing flat on her rear, legs in the air.

Honey gasped. So did a lot of other people. Some sniggered. Stella’s granny-knickers secret was out.

Accompanied by subdued sniggers, a couple of off-duty hotel managers helped her to her feet. The manager of the Zodiac also appeared, his expression as flat as a frying pan.

‘I won’t have trouble,’ he said. His mouth clacked shut like a spring-loaded letterbox. He nodded in the direction of Clint and one of the other doormen. The latter was dressed like Russell Crowe in
Gladiator.
He didn’t look like Russell Crowe; maybe a little like a very blond Brad Pitt, but on a much bigger scale.

Smugly self-satisfied, Honey ordered another drink and watched as Stella was carried out through the door that opened on to North Parade Gardens. The public entrance to the gardens was locked at this time of night, but there was a seat just outside the Zodiac’s private exit.

Honey imagined her out there all alone – Stella, the hostess with the mostest! She chuckled and raised her drink in a silent toast. Poor Stella, sitting out there in her designer clobber until she sobered up.

The club got stickier as the crowd increased. A bunch of blokes dressed as fairies, complete with pink tutus, fairy wands and five o’clock shadows trooped through to rousing applause. One of them was still wearing a pair of rigger’s boots. Judging by the dust and dirt clinging to the soles, his day job involved getting dirty.

Faces she recognised flitted past. Some acknowledged her. Some were too drunk or too wrapped up in the people they were with.

Honey glanced at her watch. Steve was late. He’d phoned earlier to say he might be held up. He’d phoned last night as well and also around three o’clock this morning. The job was taking its toll. He’d been on duty too long. He was losing track of time.

When she looked up she saw him pressing his way to the bar.

‘I forgot where I left my phone,’ he explained. ‘Had to find it.’

She ordered him a drink and slid it beneath his hand. He looked floppy and worn out. If she’d had a heart, or been twenty years younger, she might have offered to firm him up a little. As it was it was getting late and she was doing the breakfast shift in the morning.

‘OK. Tell me all about it.’

He yawned. ‘No luck with Jones the seven-foot Masai warrior.’

‘Don’t exaggerate! He wasn’t any more than six feet six.’

‘Big enough.’

Steve sounded grumpy. She reckoned it was due to the fact that he wasn’t much above five eight himself. But nicely put together all the same.

‘Never mind,’ she said, patting his hand. ‘Big isn’t everything.’

‘I don’t suppose it is dressed like that bloke was. But somebody must know where he is.’

She’d expected a more sexual riposte, but Steve blew hot and cold. She liked the hot best. His gaze wandered to the fairies, the Roman soldiers and the Jane Austen look-alikes. The latter in particular held his gaze. She could see why. Would Jane really have walked around with a 36D bosom ballooning out of a low-cut bodice like that?

Honey’s mind ticked over as her eyes followed the swirl of crazy outfits. Fancy dress. She felt her face reddening. Was that all Obadiah had been?

‘Shit!’

Steve looked at her. ‘I’m sorry?’

Sighing she pushed her drink away and hid her eyes. ‘OK, we know the Masai warrior wasn’t for real, but he must have got that costume from somewhere. It may have looked slung together, but it wasn’t. So that means he must have hired it.’