‘That was her wasn’t it?’
He nodded without looking up, his eyes fixed on the course of his footsteps.
She made a huffing sound. ‘Well let him deal with it. He drew up the contract, not you.’
‘She’s persistent, I’ll give her that. She rang me because she couldn’t get hold of him at the office.’
‘He must have left by now. He should be here, in the hotel.’
Paul Emmerson stopped pacing.
Susan Emmerson winced at the look he gave her. Contempt was written all over his face.
‘You don’t really think he’s going to turn up here, do you? He hates parties.’
‘But he’d still come seeing as he paid for it, surely?’
He shook his head, eyeing his wife pityingly. ‘You don’t really think he paid for all this?’
A puzzled frown accentuated the fine lines that his wife’s forty-five years had gifted her forehead. ‘Surely, he must have done. And if he didn’t pay for it, then who did?’
He shrugged. ‘Who cares? As they say, there’s no point in looking a gift horse in the mouth. And the old sod owes me. He bloody well owes me.’
In room nineteen, immediately next door to the one occupied by Mr and Mrs Emmerson, David Longborough was doing his best to choke his workmate with his tongue.
Samantha Brown broke the connection at the exact moment when his hand crept into the side of her strapless dress, a dark green creation that barely kept her greatest assets in check.
‘Don’t you want me, babe?’ He looked hurt, adopting a little boy lost expression that she’d fallen for before.
She pushed him back half an arm’s length. ‘This isn’t about sex and you know it bloody well isn’t.’
‘Naughty, naughty.’ He tapped her lips with his finger. ‘Old Clarence wouldn’t want to hear you using bad words, sweet Sam.’
‘It’s your fault. If you hadn’t talked me into this …’
Her smooth brow puckered and her glossed lips pouted.
‘If somebody finds out …’
‘Nobody will find out, and by the time they do, we’ll be long gone. We’ll head for London. We’ll have no problem getting a publishing job up there. They’ll take anybody as long as they’ll work for next to nothing.’
Sam’s brow remained puckered. ‘I thought what we did might get us more than that. We might end up in prison.’
Longborough caressed her shoulders reassuringly. The last thing he wanted was for her to come on all serious. For her to come on all sexual was what he was after. He’d been up for this all year. Now was the time. He’d put in plenty of time on seducing her and, hey, it was Christmas. Time for David to be given his present.
‘Now come on. It’s party time. We said we were going to enjoy this and we are. Right? Now smile for me.’
Her frown lessened. Her smile was hesitant but at least it was happening, and Longborough badly wanted it to happen.
He felt a fresh surge of physical desire. The little tramp had been teasing him all year, all the time thinking that she was in charge, she was the one making the running. She was wrong. Now he had her – or would do very shortly.
They started to resume the position they’d been in, but Samantha held him off.
‘Just one thing,’ she said before he kissed her again. ‘Your tongue tastes of garlic. I’d rather you kept it to yourself.’
It was four thirty and in room twenty, Mrs Freda Finchley was taking advantage of the hotel’s deep bath and plentiful supply of hot water. She’d also checked the towels and found them acceptable. On the whole, she was quite satisfied with the room and the facilities. She hoped the dinner would be good too and, knowing Clarence, it would be. He was most insistent on getting value for money. Not a penny was spent unless it was stretched to the limit.
The moment she’d received her room key, she’d left the rest of them, glad to be alone; glad to prepare herself for when Clarence Scrimshaw arrived.
This whole arrangement had come as a big surprise. She’d never known Clarence to spend money on employee entertainment before. Perhaps if she hadn’t been on holiday with her sister in Bournemouth for the past two weeks, she might have known more. Sometimes he opened up and told her his plans. The majority were work related, but just occasionally he would tell her something of his youth and of the early times when Eamon Mallory was still alive.
‘So what are the arrangements for Christmas?’ she’d asked him on her return.
His eyes had sparkled behind his wire-rimmed spectacles and a mean smile had flickered on his lips.
‘Nothing out of the ordinary,’ he’d said to her. ‘It’s just another day. Another year.’
‘I think you’re going to surprise us this year,’ she’d said, smiling at him in the way she’d seen Sam Brown smile at him. ‘You deserve a jolly Christmas, Mr Scrimshaw. All the hard work you put in all year.’
His thin lips had smiled. ‘I know what I deserve, Mrs Finchley, and I reward myself accordingly.’
‘And that is?’
He tapped his lips with his index finger. ‘It’s a secret, Mrs Finchley. A closely guarded secret.’
So he wanted it kept a secret. Everyone seemed to be in on the secret, though nobody mentioned it except in soft whispers. To her all the subterfuge had been a little disappointing. She so loved being taken into Mr Scrimshaw’s confidence, but she preferred to be there alone. On this occasion everyone knew, but did not talk about it except for the girls talking about what they were wearing, and the guys shooting the breeze about very boozy Christmases they’d had in the past.
As the water tumbled into the bath, she set out the seriously scented toiletries she’d brought with her. First she tipped half a bottle of moisturising bubble bath into the water. The bottle said only a capful, but the stakes were high. Her eyes glistened at the prospect of finally winning the man she’d set her heart on.
As the bubbles piled up, she arranged the bottle of expensive body lotion next to the shampoo, hair conditioner, and deodorant.
She eyed her arrangement with some disquiet, instantly feeling that something was missing, something very important.
‘Perfume!’ she exclaimed, her heart pounding with excitement at the thought of it. Freda Finchley indulging in perfumed luxury. Whatever next?
Just to confirm what she’d thought she had done, she checked the dressing table in the bedroom. Sure enough, she had placed the perfume there, ready to dab on profusely once she had finished her bath.
Before immersing herself in the steaming bubbles, she stripped off in front of a full-length mirror.
This way and that she turned, finally deciding that she didn’t have a bad figure for her age. Clarence would not be disappointed. Now all she had to do was to get him to her room. She was sure that once compromised he would be putty in her hands. No man such as he would want his reputation ruined, would he.
The bubbles broke and reformed around her as she lowered herself into the bath, which she did with a deep sigh.
By now he would have found the Christmas card she’d placed on his desk. Once he read that he would be in no doubt what she wanted from him and what would happen if he didn’t concur.
Nice word that, concur; a very legal way of saying agree; and he would have to agree. He would have no choice, and once he smelled her perfume …
Chapter Seven
Lindsey was manning Reception when the Emmersons went out. ‘We have to visit my mother. She’s been taken into hospital,’ Paul Emmerson explained. ‘Hopefully we won’t be long. We’ve had these little emergencies many times before.’
After popping their key into the receiving slot cut in the reception desk, they were gone.
A draught blew in as the door swished shut, scattering the brochures laid neatly out on an eighteenth century side table.
Eyeing them disdainfully did nothing to make the leaflets fly back up again. Lindsey went to pick them up.
Just as she was straightening, she glance
d out through the window behind the side table. Mr and Mrs Emmerson were still outside. They appeared to be arguing. Whatever the outcome of the argument, neither seemed well pleased. Turning their backs on each other, they stormed off, Mrs Emmerson going in one direction and her husband in the other.
She’d just come away from the window when Mrs Finchley descended the stairs. Her face was pink and she left a cloud of something smelly and expensive in her wake.
‘I have to go out,’ she said in a flustered manner. ‘I need air. There’s my key.’
She almost collided with Mary Jane who immediately took the opportunity to introduce herself.
‘Hi there. I’m Mary Jane. I don’t know whether you’ve noticed, but if you’re here over Christmas, I’ve giving ghost story readings after dinner on Christmas Day. It was going to be on Boxing Day, but all the excitement and magic will be gone by then, don’t you think? Can I count on your support?’
The woman looked at her in a dazed fashion, as though she’d suddenly been shocked into a reality she hadn’t known existed.
‘Ghost stories?’
‘Yes. Christmas ones. They’re mostly written by local authors such as Patricia Pontefract, other local ones, of course, and American ones. It’ll be fun and I’m being sponsored by a local publisher mainly because a whole collection of stories was written by one of his authors …’
Mrs Finchley froze.
‘A local publisher? And you’ve got Patricia Pontefract?’
Mary Jane nodded profusely. ‘That’s right. So how about it?’
The woman nodded. ‘If I can, I will. Most definitely.’
Lindsey saw it all. Mrs Finchley was desperate to get out of the door. Mary Jane had tripped her up – though not for long.
‘Unrequited love,’ Mary Jane declared as she placed her bag on the reception counter and was handed her key. ‘There’s a man in that woman’s life who doesn’t know she exists.’
‘How do you know that? Has she had a palm reading with you?’ asked Lindsey.
Mary Jane was into table tapping, astrology and other weirdness. Palm reading was a recently added extra.
‘No.’ She shook her head and recouped her bulbous bag, a shocking pink item with green tassels hanging from the corners. ‘No woman would use that much expensive perfume unless she had a man in her sights. And, boy oh boy, was that perfume expensive!’
Samantha Brown, who was officially staying in room sixteen but had been summoned by David in the hope that she had a present for him, came bolting down the stairs in tears.
Seeing the state of her, Lindsey came out from behind the reception desk.
‘Is something wrong?’ she asked. ‘Can I help at all?’
Samantha shook her head and pushed a paper tissue hard against her nostrils, an action which made her vaguely resemble Miss Piggy.
‘Sam!’
The shout came from David Longborough, his long legs taking two stairs at a time, his chestnut hair flopping over his forehead.
Lindsey gave him the once over, her expression finally fixing in set-concrete disdain. She’d met his sort before. There was a hint of Eton about him, the casual confidence that only someone privately educated possessed. However, she sensed there were two sides to this young man. She wagered he was blessed with the quick wittedness of a Cockney wide boy. Strange that he was in publishing when politics or City trading might have suited him better.
Sam Brown shook off the hand that tried to restrain her. ‘Leave me alone, David. I’m going shopping.’
She darted out. He stood looking after her, his expression too dark to indicate disappointment. He wasn’t disappointed. He was angry.
It was not the policy of the Green River to get involved with residents personal lives, and Lindsey had no intention of doing so now. She stepped smartly back behind the reception desk and felt better for doing so.
However, Mary Jane was a natural born nosey parker. She couldn’t help herself. Like the archangel guarding the Garden of Eden, she stood like a statue between Longborough and the door.
‘Have we met before?’ she asked him.
It was not what Lindsey had expected her to say. Judging by the look on Longborough’s face, it wasn’t what he’d expected either. The question seemed to pull him up short.
‘What?’
‘Your face seems vaguely familiar,’ said Mary Jane, her eyes half closed, thumb and forefinger pinching her chin as though trying hard to recall where she’d seen him.
‘I don’t recall ever meeting you, Mrs …?’
‘Mary Jane Porter. I’m from the United States. California to be exact.’
‘I would never have guessed,’ he said, his sarcasm muted but discernible.
‘Yes, yes … I feel I’ve definitely seen you somewhere before. Are you from around here?’
‘What?’
It was obvious he wanted to get past her, but each step to the right was countered with a step from her and each step to the left, likewise.
‘My father’s family came from the London. Tottenham in fact.’
‘He would do.’
‘My mother’s family came from around here.’
‘Did they now?’
Mary Jane’s expression was very intense and her blockading of the door unassailable.
‘Look. Can I get past? I want to catch up with my girlfriend. She needs me.’
‘She looked pretty upset. Can’t say I believe she needs that – to be upset, that is.’
‘Quite frankly, it’s none of your bloody business.’
‘So what was the name of your mother’s family?’
There was no sliding past without Mary Jane’s say so. Being tall and gangly came in handy. She filled a lot of space.
Longborough glared at her, his fine long hands perched like claws on his wafer-thin pelvis.
‘Look. If it’s of any concern of yours, my mother was a Reynolds and her family lived around here for ages. OK? Are you satisfied now?’
Mary Jane’s eyes opened wide and she seemed genuinely taken aback. ‘Really? Well there’s a thing!’
His expression froze. It was, thought Lindsey, as though their resident psychic and tarot card reader had hinted at family secrets. Whatever it was, Longborough slid past her at breakneck speed and out of the door.
‘I’ll be back,’ he shouted over his shoulder.
Mary Jane rested one elbow on the reception desk, her hand fiddling with the fluffy pink hat she was wearing, eyes narrowed, and brow creased in thought.
‘So where did you meet him?’ Lindsey asked her.
Mary Jane straightened and slapped the desk with one long, bony hand. ‘I didn’t ever meet him. I have seen an oil painting of one of his mother’s ancestors. He looks just like her. I also know that one of his mother’s ancestors was responsible for a good man’s death. I’m sure they’re one and the same. He’d been accused of murder and was sentenced to hang. The truth was that he’d been in his lover’s arms at the time in question, but he never betrayed that. Apparently she was his best friend’s wife. After his execution she used to visit his grave wearing a long black veil. She continued to do it all her life – and thereafter.’
Chapter Eight
The party went with a swing; there were over of seventy people in the dining room, milling around between there and the bar.
A number of part-time staff had been called in, but holes in service emerged which necessitated Honey waitressing where necessary, and Lindsey helping out behind the bar.
In between doing this, Honey offered free drinks to those individuals from each firm participating who had booked the event. No one refused. The only person she didn’t corner with a free drink was Clarence Scrimshaw of Mallory and Scrimshaw, publishers. He was nowhere to be found.
‘One free drink saved,’ she muttered and poured one for herself to compensate.
The dancing went on until midnight; the drinking went on a little longer, the last barflies being despatched to their beds somewh
ere around three in the morning.
Honey and daughter, Lindsey, dragged themselves to their private accommodation, both dog tired.
‘Am I tripping over my feet or the bags beneath my eyes?’ muttered Honey as they finally made it to their own space.
‘Both,’ Lindsey murmured back before sloping off to bed.
The next day was the big clean up, and there was a lot of cleaning up to do.
Mother and daughter talked as they worked. The current subject was Jake Truebody, the man who wrote elegantly and insisted he’d been a friend of Honey’s dead husband.
‘I don’t remember him. I don’t know him, and I’m not going to go out of my way to make friends.’
Honey said all this as she backed out from beneath a dining table where a cold roast potato had sat squashed and alone. After being scooped up with a spoon, the potato was now residing in the rubbish bag along with the rest of the party detritus.
Her comment was in response to Lindsey mentioning his arrival; how he’d appeared suddenly like a ghost with his black hat, horn-rimmed spectacles, and the obvious looks of a university professor.
So far their conversations about him had been brief, both of them uncomfortable with his presence. Honey disliked mentioning him because of the ex-husband connection. Lindsey was mulling over how she felt about the man. In a way she was drawn to him because he’d known her father. On the other hand her instinct made her wary. So far she’d avoided revealing her concerns, not until she had analysed them properly and worked out where they were coming from.
‘But he isn’t a ghost,’ remarked Honey. She did not voice that if he was, she would have him exorcised.
‘This hotel will be littered with ghosts once Mary Jane’s presented her ghost story session. Everyone will be claiming to have seen them.’
‘You could be right,’ said Honey. She groaned as her knee made contact with a splodge of chocolate gateau. What a waste!
Lindsey changed the subject. ‘I see that there are now fifty reindeer sporting red noses. The artists aren’t well pleased. I wonder who’s doing it?’
‘And why,’ added Honey. ‘What’s the point?’
The Ghost of Christmas Past: A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries Book 8) Page 5
