Deadly Lampshades
Jean G. Goodhind
When Honey Driver decides to give the Green River Hotel a makeover, she didn't envisage her interior designer Philippe Fabiere getting choked to death with an antique lavatory flush handle. It also turns out that his storeroom has been completely cleared of its antique artefacts - including a painting of a scantily clad woman that Honey herself had purchased.
When traces of deadly nightshade are found in Philippe's system, the finger of suspicion points at others in his profession. Is this a case of professional jealousy, or is there something even more sinister afoot? What have the Russians at St Margaret's Court Hotel got to do with it? And what about the German couple who sit around reception at Honey’s hotel?
Just who is it that's so fond of deadly nightshade?
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty one
Chapter Twenty two
Chapter Twenty three
Chapter Twenty four
Chapter Twenty five
Chapter Twenty six
Chapter Twenty seven
Chapter Twenty eight
Chapter Twenty nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty one
Chapter Thirty two
Chapter Thirty three
Chapter Thirty four
Chapter Thirty five
Chapter Thirty six
Chapter Thirty seven
Chapter Thirty eight
Chapter Thirty nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty one
Chapter Forty two
Chapter Forty three
Chapter Forty four
Chapter Forty five
Chapter Forty six
Chapter One
The reception area at the Green River Hotel was having a makeover and Honey Driver was as excited as a kid at Christmas. ‘I’ve put up with Dracula’s drawing room for three years now. The old place is due for enlightenment.’
She’d opted for the Louis Quatorze look: all china blue and French cream with sparkling chandeliers and ornate Frenchified mirrors.
The red carpet had gone, the dark oak panelling had been rubbed down, and Philippe Fabiere, a blond-haired black guy originally from the East End of London, had ordered the necessary paint, wallpaper, and furnishings.
The crème de la crème of Bath’s interior designers, Philippe Fabiere was much sought after by hoteliers aiming to update their hotels and hopefully to upgrade their business. He was flamboyant, dictatorial, and something of a fraud. His professional nom de plume was very à la français and he’d adopted the accent to go with it. Understandable considering that the name he’d been born with, George Theodore Washington, did not suit an interior designer with towering ambitions, dyed blond hair, conker-coloured skin and artistic – as in very colourful – clothing. He’d told Honey in confidence that his father was an avid amateur historian with a specific interest in American history. Having the surname Washington, he just couldn’t resist.
All that apart, George – or Philippe as he preferred to be called – was the interior designer of choice for Bath’s more cultured hoteliers. Honey had had to have him. The idea was that everything would be completed within two weeks.
Glowing with satisfaction, she cast her gaze over the bare walls, the exposed oak floorboards, the rubbed-down dado rails. At present the place was more Fred Flintstone’s cave than Louis XIV’s Versailles – a bit depressing really. Luckily she had a vivid imagination.
‘Just wait till it’s all done,’ she sighed to herself.
A decorator wearing off-white overalls splashed myriad colours on the wall, and used a palette knife to open a paint tin. The lid opened with a reassuring ‘pop’; not exactly champagne but certainly something of a celebration. The first roller full of china blue was applied to the wall. The smell of fresh paint came with it. She congratulated herself on being so sensible as to decline any room reservations. Guests didn’t like upheavals even when being carried out for their greater comfort. It would only lead to complaints, so she’d given Philippe two weeks to complete the job and declined bookings for that period.
She voiced her satisfaction out loud. ‘Glad we didn’t take any guests.’
Lindsey grunted an inaudible response. Her daughter’s rear was sticking out from beneath the reception counter, a large built-in affair with many compartments, drawers, and shelves. She was attempting to extricate the computer wiring from the tangled mass it had got itself into. The reception counter was also being revamped into something more elegant, more in keeping with Philippe’s artistic vision.
‘That blue was definitely the right colour,’ Honey added dreamily, folding her arms as a wall of bare plaster turned blue.
A dust-covered Lindsey backed out from under the counter and got on to her knees. She wrinkled her nose. ‘Strong smell.’
Honey took a deep breath of the paint-tinged air. ‘It’s a clean smell. A new smell.’
The same red carpet fitted in the reception area had also adorned the sweeping staircase leading up to the guest rooms. The deep red would be replaced by a durable but luxurious carpet of the deepest harvest gold. In the meantime she heard the clomp, clomp, clomp of descending footsteps. Mary Jane, the only resident left in the building, was coming downstairs.
‘Good morning,’ Honey called to her, fully expecting Mary Jane, professor of the paranormal, to be her usual exuberant self.
‘I’ve got a complaint,’ said Mary Jane.
Honey blinked. It wasn’t much past eight o’clock and Mary Jane’s apple green tracksuit was guaranteed to shock anyone into instant wakefulness. The vividly colourful item had been purchased at a car boot sale at a knock-down price. Mary Jane had knocked the price down even further. The collar and cuffs were trimmed with shocking pink and so was the jacket zip. Given its colour the previous owner must have been glad to get rid of it before the need to wear sunglasses became a permanent issue. Her trainers were multi-coloured and matched the wooden parrots swinging from her ear lobes.
Honey was a picture of sympathy. ‘I’m so sorry to hear that, Mary Jane. Tell me all about it.’
Face powder floated down from Mary Jane’s face as she spoke. Mary Jane favoured using a lot of face powder. She left a trail of it everywhere, including an imprint of her face on her pillow.
‘It’s Sir Cedric,’ she said in a low voice, glancing over her shoulder.
‘Oh dear,’ said Honey. She had great patience with Mary Jane. She was a very nice person. After a while, talking about long-dead ancestors who happened to call in on her on a regular basis became second nature. Sir Cedric lived in the wardrobe in Mary Jane’s room. Mary Jane had told them so.
‘He’s upset at the smell of paint. He doesn’t like things changing. This old place has changed too much over the years.’
Mary Jane was also a full-time resident. She’d kind of landed in the room when visiting one year and had decided that that was the place she should be, permanently. In no time at all she had exchanged Californian suns
hine for the more variable English weather.
Honey had learned to talk about Sir Cedric as though he were merely another guest – one who didn’t pay the going room rate, but then he didn’t use the hotel facilities as such. She was suitably apologetic. ‘Please render him my sincere apologies, but it just has to be done. I’m sure he’ll appreciate the improvement when it’s finished.’
Honey presumed that Sir Cedric went wandering around at night. It didn’t do to go into great detail. Show the slightest interest, and Mary Jane would go on for hours about her family tree.
‘You don’t understand,’ said Mary Jane, her eyes shining with that strange glow that always came when she spoke of Sir Cedric. ‘Resident spirits hate having their routine disturbed and tend to show their displeasure.’
Honey glanced at her watch. ‘Well, I’m sure that if we open the windows, he shouldn’t be too disturbed.’
Mary Jane looked unsure.
‘Look …’ said Honey, wondering why she was swallowing this. But, feeling obliged to placate her one and only guest, she made a promise. ‘Tell you what, as soon as Philippe gets here I’ll have a word with him about this. I’m sure we can sort something out – even if it’s only to acquire a less pungent paint.’
Mary Jane looked unsure. ‘Will this Philippe guy be very long getting here?’
‘No,’ said Honey shaking her head vehemently. ‘I’m expecting him at any minute. Leave it with me. I’ll sort something out.’
The fact that she was unsure showed on Mary Jane’s face.
‘Have you had breakfast?’ Honey asked, keen to change the subject.
At the mention of food, Mary Jane’s expression shifted.
‘Doris did room service. It’s waiting for me up top. I’ll get back up there and do it justice. I expect your interior designer will have come and gone by the time I’m finished.’
‘No doubt he will,’ said Honey with more assurance than she felt. It was gone nine and Philippe had promised to be there at eight. Up until now he’d never been late. But there was always a first time, she told herself. Wasn’t there?
Mary Jane’s long legs took her back across reception and up the stairs.
Honey looked down at Lindsey who was still on her knees. ‘Sir Cedric doesn’t like being disturbed.’
‘So I heard,’ said Lindsey, getting to her feet and swiping the dust from her hands. ‘Does this mean he’s checking out?’
‘That’s fine as long as his bill’s up to date. Two hundred years or so at an average of fifty pounds a night – that’s about fifty grand, give or take a million or two …’
‘The least troublesome guest we’ve ever had,’ murmured Lindsey on her way back down beneath the desk, where the tangled wiring awaited her.
Honey picked up a pen and inspected a few requests for reservations. Some had arrived by Royal Mail, the others by email. Luckily they were all for some time after the refurbishment was likely to have finished. She spent about half an hour on these, at the end of which she checked her watch and the old school clock ticking away high on the wall. Ten o’clock. Philippe Fabiere had still not arrived.
The decorators had been on their tea break. On their return, one of them came strolling over.
‘Sorry to bother you, love, but Phil was supposed to be bringing us some more size.’
‘Size?’ What was size? She didn’t have a clue but she tried to look as though she were at least engaged.
‘The sealant we need to put on the old plaster before painting the walls. Just to seal it. Know what I mean?’
‘Leave it with me. I’ll give him a call.’
She did just that, dialling Philippe’s home phone. There was no answer. His answering service clicked in at the eighth tone. She didn’t leave a message but dialled his mobile phone. No answer there either. She opted for being a missed call, and put down the phone. A steady supply of junk mail was threatening to take over her desk. It had to go. Forming a pincer attack with her hands, she was just about to bundle the lot of it up and throw it into a bin bag, when the phone rang. Philippe Fabiere’s number flashed up on the receiver screen.
‘Hello, Phil? Is that you?’
‘Who’s that?’
‘Me.’ She recognised Steve Doherty’s voice. Now that was a surprise.
‘Honey? What were you doing ringing this phone?’
‘Why shouldn’t I be?’
His tone of voice gave her a bad feeling, but she explained anyway.
‘I was after my interior designer. He was supposed to be here this morning. Hang on. I’m getting bad vibes from you, Steve. Let me gaze into my crystal ball. You’re going to tell me something bad. Right?’
There was a pause – a very pregnant pause.
‘He won’t make it.’
Doherty’s voice was super macho, sensually enticing when they weren’t working on a case. It wasn’t like that now. This was business.
‘This sounds bad.’
‘As bad as it gets.’
‘Murder?’
‘You said it, babe. Did you know him well?’
She felt a lump forming in her throat. Philippe was, or rather had been, a nice guy that she’d grown quite fond of. He’d had such energy for his chosen profession, his eyes lighting up at the sight of a particularly luxurious piece of fabric, an interesting paint colour, a scintillating wallpaper pattern. He threw things together seemingly with no thought at all, yet it always worked.
‘He was a nice guy. A great interior designer too. Everyone used him. He wasn’t the cheapest, but he was certainly the best. The rest trailed in his wake.’
There was that pause again. Doherty thought big thoughts in those pauses.
‘Steve?’
‘So he had rivals? Do you know who they were and whether there were any fall-outs of late?’
‘I can soon find out. I’ll make a few calls.’
‘Get back to me.’
‘Where are you?’
‘St Margaret’s Court.’
‘Leave it with me. I’ll catch up with you as soon as I know something.’
Replacing the phone, she sensed Lindsey was looking up at her, waiting for an explanation.
‘Philippe’s been murdered.’
‘By one of his rivals?’
Honey shrugged. ‘Who knows?’
‘Casper would know.’
She was right. The chairman of Bath Hotels Association was a fount of knowledge, especially when it came to the aesthetic, the artistic and the culture abundant in the city of Bath. She rang him and told him what had happened.
‘The poor boy,’ he exclaimed. ‘He wasn’t just the best interior designer in our small corner of the world, he was most certainly the best in the country.’
Honey had to agree with him.
‘Was there much jealousy in the trade?’
Casper gave a gasping, choking laugh. ‘Of course there was! These people are artistes! Creative people, my dear Honey, have insecurities the rest of us cannot imagine. Reputation is their lifeblood, and not just good reputation. Undisputed reputation as the very, very best.’
‘Where should I start?’
‘Julia Porter for one. Dylan Sylvester of the Sugar Moon Design House for two. I’ll let you know if I think of anyone else.’
‘That’s good of you.’
She hadn’t meant to be sarcastic, but it did seem to come out that way. Casper expected great things of her in keeping crime to a minimum in the city, but did not sully his carefully cultivated hands with the nitty-gritty. He left that to her.
His voice turned gravely grim. ‘I want the culprit incarcerated as quickly as possible. I don’t care how you do it. Just see to it.’
Once the call was disconnected, it was Lindsey who voiced exactly what was on Honey’s mind.
‘My bet is on professional jealousy.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘They’d strangle a rival if they thought it would enhance their reputation. With a silk cord,
of course. Something suitably tasteful.’
Honey considered her short acquaintance with Philippe, his drooling over materials and colours, his defensiveness in the face of criticism, his jealousy when a rival’s name had been mentioned.
She looked down at her daughter who was once again burrowing beneath the desk.
‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘You’re absolutely right.’
Chapter Two
It was the worst possible scenario. Things might not have been so complicated if the coach hadn’t drawn up outside. The big shiny tour bus was a shade of beetroot, more classily termed ‘burgundy’; the company name was emblazoned in gold Roman lettering along the side.
Doherty eyed the motley collection of tourists piling off despite having been told to stay on board. By the looks of them and the babble of languages being spoken he could almost believe that the coach had just got back from a whirlwind trip picking them up from all over the world at the speed of light. A lot of them were seniors. The moment he clapped eyes on them, Doherty knew they’d be trouble.
They’d alighted from the coach and were now being held at the bottom of the majestic steps leading up to the equally imposing front door of St Margaret’s Court Hotel. It was obvious from the raised voices and walking sticks that they weren’t happy about it. Like a flock of angry geese they gathered around the tour guide and the two uniformed constables who were expected to keep the public at bay. The coach party did not consider themselves ‘public’. They were tourists. They were guests who’d paid a pretty penny to stay at an original Elizabethan mansion. Now they were being told that they weren’t allowed in.
A carpeted ramp had been set in place over one half of the steps, principally for the use of disabled guests. One of the constables, wearing a worried expression, came striding up it in Doherty’s direction. He pushed his cap back slightly before speaking.
Doherty eyed him sidelong. Constable Shaun Jones, mostly known as Jonesy, was young and fresh-faced. Doherty felt a stab of envy. He himself had been young and keen once, excited to be on his first murder case. Just like the fresh face and the youth, the initial enthusiasm would disappear in time, to be replaced by a sardonic acceptance that there was as much malice in the human race as there was goodness.
Deadly Lampshades (Honey Driver Mysteries Book 5) Page 1
