The Ghost of Christmas Past: A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries Book 8)

by Jean G Goodhind

  ‘Did you get to take some photographs?’ Honey asked her daughter.

  ‘Not many. The light wasn’t good.’

  It seemed a poor excuse. The camera was modern. Light levels didn’t matter. And Lindsey seemed overly nervous. Why was that?

  Doherty waded in. ‘Hi Lindsey. Mind if I ask you some questions?’

  Lindsey’s face was poker straight and her response was muted. ‘Now? You want to speak to me now? You’ve hardly had a word to say to me about you and Mum getting hitched, and NOW you want to speak to me?

  Surprised by her sharpness, Doherty turned to Honey. ‘What did I do?’ he whispered.

  ‘Nothing.’

  Jake Truebody had already got to his feet and was making a move to leave the hotel.

  Anna was right, thought Honey. Truebody left as soon as the police appeared. Or was it when she, Honey, appeared?

  ‘No problem, officer. You carry on. I’ll leave you all in peace,’

  He nodded at Honey and Doherty, at the latter just a shade too abruptly. ‘I have to pay a visit to the ATM – get out some cash to see me over the holiday.’

  Lindsey’s eyes flickered as he got up, posted his key into the keep box, and headed for the exit. A small frown appeared. Honey saw it and wondered what it meant. But she wouldn’t ask. Her daughter’s personal life was her own. Besides, come the New Year, Jake Truebody would be heading back across the Atlantic and out of their lives.

  Doherty pulled up a chair, the same one the professor had been sitting in.

  ‘OK. Let’s make a start. Some of the Mallory and Scrimshaw party left the building just before the party on the night in question. A car alarm went off. Somebody went out to check on it. A young lady went home to check on her child and another couple – Mr and Mrs Emmerson – said they left to check on an aged parent, but were seen having one hell of a ding-dong in Reception and then departing in different directions so they couldn’t both have been going off to see that aged parent. Is that right?’

  Lindsey linked her hands around her knees. ‘I’m not sure which alibi belongs to which of those people, but I saw all of them go out. David Longborough went to check the car alarm, one was in tears, two were arguing, and the fifth left in a flurry of fretfulness. Mary Jane was here too. She spoke to Mrs Finchley and David Longborough.’

  ‘I take it that Miss Brown was the one who was crying.’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘The Emmersons went to visit their aged relative and Mr Longborough went to shut off his car alarm. Is that right?’

  Lindsey frowned. ‘Those were the reasons they gave.. I couldn’t vouch as to whether any of them were telling the truth.’

  There was nothing else Doherty could think of. He thanked her and went with Honey for a coffee.

  Lindsey waited until they were gone before doing what she’d steeled herself to do. Making sure nobody else was around, she emptied the key box. There were only three in there. She easily found the one she wanted; number thirty-six; the key to Jake Truebody’s room.

  Anna had returned from lying down and took over Reception. Key hidden in her hand, Lindsey made an excuse to go upstairs.

  ‘I just need to check that we’ve got enough laundry to last us,’ she explained.

  It was a poor excuse and Anna looked a little surprised. They’d gone through the laundry list together. Everything had been in order. Anna did exactly what Lindsey had feared she would do and took it the wrong way.

  ‘I did it right. Honestly I did,’ said Anna sounding as though she could be on the verge of tears.

  ‘I know you did,’ said Lindsey reassuringly. ‘But perhaps I didn’t. Won’t be long.’

  She didn’t look back in case Anna saw the guilt on her face. Not guilt about lying with regard to the laundry list, but guilt at what she was about to do.

  Jake Truebody had refused to be photographed. The only other course of action was to borrow his passport. Hopefully the photograph would scan OK, but there was no guarantee.

  Everything was quiet in the first floor corridor. Lindsey glanced up and down. Nobody appeared. There was no sound except for the television in Mary Jane’s room. Mary Jane didn’t admit to being a little deaf. She had a tendency to sleep with the TV going full blast. It was usually downright annoying, but on this occasion Lindsey welcomed the noise.

  Nobody could possibly hear the sound of the key being put in the door and turned. Nobody could have heard the door squeak as she pushed it open, but she was careful – very careful.

  The room was in darkness. The curtains were drawn. If she were to discover anything about this man, she either had to draw back the curtains or switch on a light. She decided to switch on a light.

  A single piece of luggage, a brown leather holdall sat on the foldable luggage rack. For someone who’d crossed the Atlantic, this man travelled light.

  She searched for his passport, but couldn’t find it. She guessed he’d taken it with him. He’d definitely had a passport stating he was Jake Truebody. She’d checked him in. She’d taken a photocopy and made a note of the passport number.

  Yet his sister had posted him as missing, presumed dead.

  It occurred to her to contact that sister telling her that her brother was spending Christmas at a hotel in Bath. Not yet, she decided. Not until she was totally clear who he was and why he was here.

  There were no tell-tale pieces of paper in the bag; no newspaper clippings, no files marked ‘top secret’ or ‘FBI’ (the thought had crossed her mind). Her father had been rich and dealt in companies. Rich men were not always honest. It wasn’t beyond reason that the American federal authorities might be going over a cold case. She needed to know. She needed to find something. There was only a notebook computer.

  Her fingers itched to take it out and log in. But could she log in? It would take an age to find the right password. If he was FBI, there was probably some device not only preventing her from logging in, but also recording her attempt. She couldn’t risk it. Not until she knew more about him. All she did know for sure was that he sure as hell was not a professor of history.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Honey led Doherty into the dining room where boxes of crackers were piled up waiting to be placed on tables. She kicked an escaped balloon aside, poured coffee, and set it down on a table.

  ‘Was that balloon your ex-husband’s head?’ Doherty watched it float across the floor.

  ‘What made you say that?’

  He shrugged. ‘Just a joke – I think.’

  Carl was like a nasty taste on her tongue this morning, and she didn’t want to talk about him.

  She handed Doherty a bag of balloons. ‘Blow them up and put them in the net. Once it’s full we can fix it to the ceiling.’

  He lost the serious look. ‘I know a game using balloons. It’s best done naked, though.’

  ‘I bet you do.’ Her imagination went into overdrive when he returned her own knowing smile. She knew that game too; passing a balloon up between bodies – male and female bodies of course.

  ‘This is kids’ stuff. Lindsey should be doing this,’ he exclaimed suddenly.

  ‘Some kid!’

  Lindsey was closing on twenty but Doherty was right. Usually she would be helping but she was in an uncharacteristic mood.

  ‘So?’

  Honey knew what the questioning tone meant. Calling Lindsey a kid had been a leading comment. He knew things weren’t running too smoothly, and being a policeman he just had to ask questions. At Honey’s request, he had not mentioned the engagement to her daughter. He asked her about it.

  ‘She knows,’ she said and told him how a police constable had spilled the beans.

  ‘That’s not good.’ He frowned. ‘He should have kept his mouth shut. It’s that time of year. Nobody is concentrating on what they should be doing. How did she take it?’

  ‘She’s been very off and not terribly helpful. I would prefer that you didn’t mention it to her.’

  ‘I won’t.
’

  In sympathy, he slid his finger over her cheek. It should have soothed but it prickled. The fact was, it hurt that Lindsey was being so off with her.

  It was as though a big sheet of glass had been placed between them. She could see Lindsey clearly but couldn’t touch her. It hurt. In one split-second everything had changed, and that was difficult to deal with, especially at this time of year. Since Honey had first bought the Green River Hotel, a massive investment for her at the time, her daughter had been totally supportive. Today, on Christmas Eve, she was far less obliging.

  Anna was also proving to be a bit of a worry. She had presented herself for work despite the baby being due. ‘It is mostly sitting down work today, I think,’ she’d said in her soft Polish voice. ‘I will write up the name cards for the dinner tomorrow and the ghost story people. That will be no problem. I tell you, I have two more months. Two months. I know better than the doctor.’

  ‘And the doctor said …?’

  Anna pulled a face. ‘He is wrong. I am not ready. Baby is not ready.’

  There was no way Honey was going to insist. Being firm might upset Anna, and Anna upset might go into labour then and there. Very apt for the time of year, but the Green River Hotel was not a stable, she, Honey Driver, was not a midwife, and Anna, bless her little cotton socks, was not a virgin. Apart from that, it might be quite a crowd-puller if it made the front page of the Chronicle.

  Honey came back down to earth, applying herself to the job in hand. Doherty was also applying himself. One big puff and he had a fully blown-up purple balloon.

  ‘So what do you think is happening between Lindsey and the professor?’ he asked as he knotted its end.

  ‘How do you know he’s a professor?’

  ‘Stands to reason. He looks like every film or television’s fictional ideal of a professor I’ve ever seen.’

  Thinking about it, she had to agree that Steve was right. Jake Truebody was indeed stereotypical of every professor she’d ever seen at the movies. She should have noticed herself.

  ‘Now you mention it, he does look what he is. On top of that, he doesn’t look like the type that Carl usually associated with.’

  ‘Too academic?’

  ‘Could be. Carl mixed with movers and shakers and people out to have fun. I’m not saying the professor is a party pooper, but he doesn’t strike me as a party animal either. And I keep asking myself, why did he come here?’

  Doherty heaved a big sigh, wrapped his arm around her, and gave her a hug.

  ‘Some people are not born sensitive. He probably thought that Carl Driver’s wife would be happy to see someone who’d known him; chew over old times and all that.’

  ‘Strange.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘That I feel so jealous of him. He’s got Lindsey’s attention and I can’t figure out why.’

  ‘Has Lindsey ever been rebellious? Run away? Got blind drunk, taken drugs?’

  ‘No. Nothing like that.’

  ‘Then perhaps she’s making up for lost time.’

  Honey took a deep breath. ‘No good dwelling on it. There’s work to be done.’

  ‘Right. I’ll blow up more balloons.’

  Honey was only half listening. ‘I could make mileage out of this for next year’s bookings. I know the actual murder didn’t happen here, but there is a connection. And people love murders – the whodunit kind, like Agatha Christie.’

  She ran the idea past Doherty.

  ‘Would you think it a little mercenary if I use this murder in my marketing campaign for next year?’

  ‘It didn’t happen at the Green River.’

  ‘No, but the employees are suspects, right? People love stuff like that.’

  ‘Ghoulish, but you’re right. People do love stuff like that. Now if you could arrange a murder …’

  ‘Blood everywhere? No. I’ll pass on that one. Getting the carpets cleaned costs an arm and a leg. So have you got any leads?’

  ‘None that are leading anywhere special. I’d like to talk to the employees again, though in a more relaxed environment. This ghost story session on Christmas Day could be just what I’m looking for – mingle and mix; get close up and unguarded. I shall look forward to it.’

  ‘Not so much as Mary Jane.’

  ‘Mary Jane doesn’t count.’

  ‘I don’t think she’d like to hear you say that.’

  ‘Mary Jane has one foot in the real world and one in the hereafter.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘Do you believe in ghosts?’

  Honey sucked in her bottom lip while taking a moment to answer. She recalled one particular incident when it had been pouring with rain in a particularly historic alleyway in the centre of Bath. Whilst bending down to tie her shoe lace someone wearing shoes with shiny buckles had passed by, yet when she’d looked up – there was nothing.

  ‘I keep an open mind. How about you?’

  ‘Irrelevant. You’ve got a full house for ghostly storytelling, so obviously a lot of people do believe in ghosts.’

  Honey nodded. ‘You’re right there. Ghost stories are popular. My mother’s coming.’

  ‘Great. She can get in some practice.’

  ‘You’re being facetious. Better still, you’re not crying off.’

  He shook his head and took on his policeman face.

  ‘Personal feelings don’t count. In this instance I’ll be forbearing. This is police work and I’m taking advantage of a useful situation. The Scrimshaw crowd have all given statements but I figure they’ll be more relaxed in a party environment.’

  ‘You hope a little drunk.’

  ‘That too.’

  Honey puffed just once on a balloon, then paused. ‘My visit to the hairdresser turned out lucky.’

  Misunderstanding, he looked at her hair. ‘They did a good job. Beats wearing a paper bag over your head.’

  ‘That wasn’t what I meant. They had a good view of the Scrimshaw building. It may be that Ariadne, who I presume is the owner, was warning the girl off as a matter of course; she was a bit paranoid.’

  ‘It could be something, it could be nothing, and we did question them. According to Sergeant Catchpole, the officer I sent over, nobody seemed to have noticed anything.’

  ‘Tallulah mentioned something about a big piece of jewellery someone was wearing that was still visible even through the mist. She didn’t say they looked suspicious. She just noticed.’

  The balloon expanded as Honey gave it another big puff.

  Two figures close together, laughing pleasantly passed on the other side of the dining room doors. Lindsey was with Professor Jake Truebody. Honey felt her face muscles harden.

  Doherty saw her looking. ‘Stop grinding your teeth.’

  ‘I wasn’t.’

  ‘I heard you.’

  ‘Jeesh!’

  She felt Doherty’s eyes on her, scrutinising, evaluating the thoughts in her head purely by reading her body language. Doherty was good at body language. Good with bodies full stop, in Honey’s opinion.

  He tilted his head, his hair flopping forward and giving him that boyish look, the one that sometimes filled her dreams when she hadn’t seen him for a while.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The idea of using the murder to boost next year’s marketing campaign wouldn’t go away. She was still considering the prospect when attending the auction rooms and was to blame for her failing to win a very nice pair of camiknickers from the1920s.

  On her way home she called in on Casper.

  Le Reine Rouge was an elegant hotel with an exquisite interior; when it came to presentation, Casper and his friends certainly knew how to fling things together – though the posse of beautiful boys who worked for him as waiters and greeters never flung; they chose, they prevaricated, they had eclectic stripes running down their backs.

  Casper’s great passion was clocks. Not for him the odd grandfather clock shoved in a corner, clanging the quarters with a resonant twang. Casper’s cl
ocks were of such pedigree that some of them should really have been holed up in a bank vault or a museum. One of them, a great white porcelain thing, of putti, naiads, and bunches of grapes, and nineteenth century, had been exhibited at the Great Exhibition in Paris.

  Her feet sank into the thick Turkish rugs scattered around Reception before being shown into Casper’s office.

  First off he wanted to know everything about the murder case, so she filled him in.

  ‘And this red nose thing. I disapprove. I think you should get involved.’

  She didn’t like to tell him that she’d already got herself involved and that it had been a case of mistaken identity on two different counts. She’d mistaken a plumber for the vandal and a ballcock for a red nose. On reflection, there was a third case of mistaken identity; the plumber had presumed her loaf of bread to be a baseball bat.

  She promised him that she’d do what she could.

  She had not mentioned running murder mystery weekends on the back of her connection to the case.

  But I could, she thought to herself as she walked back to her own hotel. I could give talks on what it’s like being Bath’s Crime Liaison Officer. Even once she was back behind her reception desk, visions popped into her head like multi-coloured bubbles.

  Her mother phoned and burst the bubbles – all of them.

  ‘I’ve got a confession to make. When Fred set this website up for me, he asked me for the details of someone to use as a guinea pig, so I put your details online.’

  Honey groaned. The last thing she wanted was to be offered like an auction item on a dating website – correction, a dating website for the over-sixties. She pointed this out to her mother.

  ‘So when did you do this?’

  ‘About two months ago.’

  ‘I’m too young for your website. It’s for the over-sixties.’ A website called Snow on the Roof could hardly be anything else, thought Honey.