‘Precisely!’
Lindsey took each of her mother’s arms in turn and shoved them into her coat.
‘We’re going out.’
‘Like this?’
Honey was wearing jeans and a black sweater, the casual get-up she favoured when she wasn’t meeting and greeting or out with someone she wanted to impress. Basically she wore it when she was doing the washing up or attending to the pot plants.
Lindsey looked her mother up and down. ‘You’ll do. Here. Put on your wellies.’
Giving in to her daughter was easier than resisting when she was in one of these moods. In that Lindsey was like her father. Carl had been very persuasive – so persuasive in fact that he’d got her into bed on their first date. No other guy had done that before or since. It still made her blush to think of it. And glow. Carl had been good at making a woman glow.
Honey found herself frog-marched out of the door to end up sitting in the back seat of Mary Jane’s car.
‘Your daughter reckons you need a day out, and I’m going to make sure you both get there,’ declared Mary Jane.
Honey felt her stomach churning even before Mary Jane had started the car and bunny-hopped away from the kerb. Clutch control was not one of her finest skills.
The first thing that entered Honey’s head was to wonder how long would she be sitting in the back of the only bunny-hopping Cadillac coupé ever made.
‘Where are we going?’
She resisted the urge to close her eyes, at least until they were out of the city.
‘I’m going horse riding,’ said Lindsey. ‘And so are you.’
It was hard not to slide to the floor. What with Mary Jane’s driving of a car lately christened the ‘vomit comet’, plus the prospect of riding a four-legged brute with a mind of its own, today was going downhill at a rate of knots.
Deirdre Olsen was waiting for them outside the stable block around the back. Honey dragged her heels, head down. Mrs Olsen appeared not to recognize her as the woman who’d come calling with a police officer just a day or so before. Horses were remembered. Humans were not.
She didn’t enlighten her when Deirdre said, ‘I’ve seen you around.’
‘I expect you have,’ Honey answered breezily enough. ‘I ride as much as I can, when I can.’
It was an absolute lie.
Lindsey rolled her eyes and mouthed, ‘Wicked woman.’
Mary Jane stayed in the car. She was presently trying to write her memoirs about her time working as the part-time help at a wedding chapel in Reno. That was when she’d had her first ‘out of body experience’, she’d told them. The minister had got drunk on communion wine – or he’d said it was communion wine – though he was far from being minister of any mainstream church that used it, more something off the cuff – kind of the Church of Those Who Like to Do Their Own Thing. He’d stumbled in climbing up to his pulpit and knocked the lectern over. The lectern had hit the stiff cardboard cut-out of a married couple; this had tumbled over to hit a standard lamp, which in turn had fallen and knocked Mary Jane out cold. She’d been writing in the register at the time and reckoned she’d been flying above it while unconscious. She hadn’t a clue what happened to the couple getting married.
One horse was black and the other was grey. Honey got the black, a Welsh cob who seemed due for his afternoon nap. The grey allocated to Lindsey was keener, but then she was a far better rider than her mother.
Although Honey had once had ambitions to be a top event rider, she’d never been very good at it. She said this to Lindsey as they made their way to the field.
‘That’s because you’re top heavy and your legs are too short,’ returned Lindsey. Honey gave her the evil eye. Sometimes daughters could be cruel.
They eventually reached the field.
‘You seem capable, so I’ll leave you to yourself,’ Mrs Olsen declared, shutting the gate behind them.
Mother and daughter exchanged looks.
Honey didn’t want to appear nervous, but she had to feel safe. Feeling safe was very important.
‘It’s been a long time. I wouldn’t want it to run off with me.’
‘Mother, you’re riding a Dobbin.’
Of course she was right.
‘Race you.’
Lindsey kicked her heels and off shot the handsome grey. Dobbin, whose real name was Mildred, played follow-my-leader without Honey having to do anything except cling on.
A little warning voice of sound advice clicked in at moments like these. It did so now. Try thinking about something else.
A good idea. She couldn’t have come to a more auspicious place, and not just to ride a horse.
‘I’m hoping I’ll learn something since I’m here,’ Honey said breathlessly as she slowed from trot to plod beside her daughter. ‘That woman’s husband is one of the three on the project management committee at St Margaret’s Court.’
‘Uh oh! You’re not going to dismount and go snooping, are you?’
‘Well … not unless I see something interesting.’
Lindsey groaned. ‘Mother …’
‘Don’t worry. I haven’t seen anything of interest yet. Just horses, grass and the odd dollop of manure.’
‘Good things come to those who wait.’
‘Here’s hoping,’ grunted Honey, her fingers clawing at good old Mildred’s mane in an effort to hold on.
It was just a case of resurrecting old skills. Eventually everything seemed to come together. Mildred finally got the idea that her rider was in charge and that breaking from a trot into a canter wouldn’t result in a total collapse of the legs.
‘I think I’ve got my sea legs,’ shouted Honey while in the process of a slow canter past her daughter.
Lindsey, who had been doing wondrous things with the haughty grey, had slowed to a walk and appeared distracted.
Honey turned Mildred’s stubborn head and went back.
‘Did you hear what I said?’ she cried gleefully, bouncing up and down at a rising trot.
‘Sea legs are for people in boats, Mother. I think you mean you’ve got your seat.’
Honey looked over her shoulder in the direction of her derriere. It seemed stubbornly stuck to the saddle. She decided that having a reasonably sized one probably helped in the process of staying mounted.
‘It looks OK. What do you think?’
Receiving no reply, she looked up. Daughter and horse were motionless.
Lindsey’s eyes were fixed on a shallow copse and the smoke from a bonfire. ‘I think we’re being watched.’
‘I don’t see anyone.’
‘There was someone there just now.’
Honey peered again in that direction and repeated that she couldn’t see anyone.
‘Well, there was someone watching us. He was standing next to the bonfire.’
‘Let’s go and see if he’s still lurking around.’
After dismounting and tethering the horses’ reins, they climbed over the fence and into the copse.
‘Yoohoo! Anyone around?’ yelled Honey.
‘Ye – sss! Meeeee!’ Lindsey yelled back.
‘No need for sarcasm.’
Lindsey eyed her mother reproachfully. ‘Really, Mother. Don’t you know that undercover cops never draw attention to themselves?’
‘There’s no one around. Well at least, not now there isn’t.’
‘You don’t know that for sure. Someone with something to hide isn’t going to shout back, “Here I am. Come and get me!” ’
Honey strode on. The fuel on the fire had obviously been too damp to burn furiously. Instead it smouldered, hence the plume of smoke.
‘Just a fire,’ said Lindsey.
Honey frowned. ‘Boxes? Or is that only one box?’
Bending down she examined the box. There’s an “ais” on the side.’
‘Two vowels, one consonant.’
‘Stop being a smart Alec.’
Lindsey fell into silence. Honey was still thinking about the
familiarity of the box and the lettering when Lindsey broke into her thoughts. Her daughter had not been put out by her comment. She’d been considering the possibilities.
‘Français. Something in French or of French provenance.’
Honey got up slowly. ‘That’s just what I was thinking. Still,’ she shrugged. ‘It’s only a box. A lot of things come from France nowadays.’
‘Which is where your paintings were coming from?’
It had always been something of a trial having a daughter who was too clever for her own good. Now she was being a mind reader too. Coming here wasn’t just for a day out.
It made Honey seethe to think that someone was enjoying the provenance of the paintings she’d paid for. ‘Let’s go and have a word with Deirdre Olsen.’
Mrs Olsen was dishing out bran mash into buckets. She looked up when they wandered back into the yard.
‘Had enough already?’
Honey mentioned about the man watching them. Mrs Olsen denied all knowledge.
‘I don’t employ any men, only girls. They love horses more, and they work better under a woman boss. Men tend to get a bit shirty when you tell them they’ve done something wrong.’
Honey was inclined to agree with her. Smudger, her rugby-playing chef, wasn’t too good at taking criticism. For the most part she avoided giving it. Good chefs were hard to come by. Tact was the name of the game.
‘He was burning some rubbish over by the trees,’ offered Lindsey as she led the chestnut to his stall.
‘I told you. I don’t know who he is,’ returned Deirdre Olsen, more gruffly now, her eyes shifting uneasily from the horse to Honey as she led Mildred into her stall. She swiftly shut the stable door behind the horse before Honey had a chance to enter. Not that she wanted to. The riding was fine; the taking off of tack, brushing down and cleaning of hooves, was bloody hard work. Still, thought Honey, shutting me out was a bit drastic. I’ve got nothing against Mildred and I don’t think she’s got anything against me.
She persisted with her line of enquiry.
‘I thought I recognized one of the boxes. I had some stuff from France arrive in a box like one of those being burnt.’
‘Did you now!’
There was no doubt that Deirdre was being deliberately off-hand. Honey had a terrible urge to slap her broad backside with the riding crop she still carried. It certainly presented a large target as she bent down to clean out Mildred’s hooves.
‘You’ve already paid. No need to hang around,’ Deirdre said over her shoulder.
‘No problem,’ said Lindsey. Her eyes met her mother’s over the back of the horse as she ably removed the saddle. She jerked her head sideways, a signal for Honey to wander a little, nose around if she wished.
Gingerly, she backed away from the stall, sidling past the one Lindsey was hanging around in, making for the very end of the barn-like building.
The stall next to that of the grey Lindsey had been riding was empty. So was the one after that. In the gloom at the far end of the building where the light hadn’t been switched on she thought she saw something move. It might only have been a shadow, but she moved to investigate anyway. According to Lindsey someone had been watching them outside in the field. Was that same someone watching them now?
Softly placing her footsteps, she inched her way closer and closer. Her heart began to race with the kind of excitement that only comes with apprehension – and fear.
Bales of straw bedding were heaped to one side. Bales of hay were stacked immediately in front of her. Someone could have been hiding behind these bales looking out at them.
Narrowing her eyes she leaned forward, attempting to peer behind the stacked straw. Slipping on a patch of muck, she reached out for support.
A chestnut head darted out over the top of a stall, knocking her off balance. He screamed and reared, his nostrils flaring, hooves flailing.
Honey flattened herself against the wall opposite, her breath tight in her chest.
Deirdre Olsen came running.
‘Captain! Captain!’
She didn’t attempt to help Honey up. Lindsey was left with that job.
Once she’d calmed the horse down, her expression was less than pleased. ‘Look! You stupid woman! See what you’ve done. You’ve upset him terribly!’
Honey tried to apologize, but Deirdre wasn’t listening. She was talking to the horse.
‘There, there, Captain darling. Mummy will kiss it better for you.’
Honey swallowed her temper. The bloody woman was fussing over the bloody horse! Those flying hooves might have killed her.
‘I think we’d better go,’ Honey muttered as Lindsey helped her brush the dirt and debris from her clothes.
‘Mother, you’re shivering.’
‘That horse scared me.’
‘Seems to me like he was pretty scared too.’
Honey noted her daughter’s frown. ‘We scared each other. I just thought I saw someone.’
In all honesty she couldn’t be sure. She might have been proved right if the horse hadn’t gone crazy. She said so to Lindsey.
‘Horses don’t go crazy for nothing. Something has to spook them.’
‘Our friend from the bonfire?’
Had she detected the smell of smoke? She tried to remember but the crazy horse had sent all logical thoughts scuttling from her head. She remarked on this to Lindsey.
Lindsey was thoughtful. ‘Horses can scare at the smell of smoke.’
They took one last look at Deirdre and her horse. The former was bending over, aiming a hosepipe into the fitted water butt. Her rear obscured the view.
‘They say that people get to look like their pets,’ Lindsey remarked. ‘That includes horses. Do you think she resembles her horse?’
Honey glanced over her shoulder and decided it was true. ‘But only from the rear end,’ she remarked.
Lindsey looked, nodded, and agreed with her.
Chapter Eight
Joybell Peters was in her late thirties, had platinum shoulder-length hair and wore a red suit with black tights. She also wore big earrings and a painted red smile. Strong perfume wafted from her clothes each time she waved a hand to emphasize something she said. A diamante elephant sparkled from the collar of her suit jacket and vaguely matched her earrings. Not that they were elephants – just diamante.
She smiled and straightened in her chair as Doherty entered.
He liked to think he’d made an impression. Perhaps she was expecting an older bloke. He heard the unmistakable shush of nylon stockings as she crossed one leg over the other. This was a gal who knew how to entice. Another time, another guy. He was here on serious business.
After clearing his throat, he introduced himself. ‘Detective Inspector Stephen Doherty.’
‘Steve!’ she gushed with open-mouthed exuberance. ‘What can I do for you?’
The sound of rasping stockings was repeated. Different leg.
She said the word ‘do’ as though it encompassed a whole variety of likely services. Doherty kept to the script and outlined the basics, the basic of all basics being that she’d been having a fling with Ferdinand Olsen.
‘We understand he was with you at the time in question.’
The inviting smile froze. ‘Did he tell you that?’
‘No. His wife did.’
What she did and said next threw him.
She shrugged as though it were the most normal thing in the world. It was – in a way, men and women being what they were – sexual opposites, and regardless of marriage vows one attracted the other. Mrs Olsen preferring horses – though not sexually of course – it was only to be expected.
‘Yes. We were making it together. Ferdinand’s good company. Good-looking too.’
‘He’s married.’
‘So?’ She tossed her silvery mane, her eyes and her earrings flashing in unison.
Doherty gave her the casual but hard cop on the streets type of look, folding his arms and eyeing her as though
she were the biggest liar he’d ever met – which she might very well be.
‘Don’t you think it’s a bit out of order for you to be screwing another woman’s husband?’
She shrugged her elegant shoulders. ‘Not at all. She prefers horses to Ferdy.’
Though he had not intimated the fact, Doherty had been jealous of Ferdinand Olsen. He was smooth, sophisticated, and most definitely a ladies’ man, the sort who had no problem getting sex and getting a woman. Now it seemed he wasn’t that irresistible. His own wife preferred her horses. Poor bloke!
He focused on the line of questioning. ‘Regardless of that, surely Mrs Olsen wasn’t that pleased when she found out.’
The light of exuberant sexuality suddenly dulled in the exquisitely made-up face. Folding her silky smooth hands before her, Joybell sighed.
‘It’s no secret. I think it suits her.’
‘So why would Mr Olsen say he was with his wife when you could have said he was with you?’
‘I too am married.’
Doherty nodded. ‘So how well did you know Philippe Fabiere?’
‘Quite a while. Purely in a professional capacity of course. Poor Philippe. He had such exquisite taste and flair. Everyone I know went to him for his interior-design skills. He was the best in Bath. His father wanted him to join him in the family business. Philippe toed the line for a while, but it didn’t last. He was such an artistic man. Goodness, it would have killed him to stick to making concrete blocks for a living.’
‘He helped his father make concrete blocks?’
Joybell interlocked her fingers with their red varnished nails. ‘His father made block-making machinery for manual operation in developing countries. Philippe – or George as he was then – made the blocks as a sideline. He hated it. So I am reliably informed.’
‘So you admit to being with Ferdinand Olsen on the night in question?’
‘Of course I was, though it would have been simpler for me if his wife had given him an alibi. Unfortunately it leaves me with some explaining to do.’
There was nothing more he could say. Olsen had his alibi.
Deadly Lampshades (Honey Driver Mysteries Book 5) Page 5
