Deadly Lampshades (Honey Driver Mysteries Book 5)

by Jean G. Goodhind

  ‘Very. Someone didn’t know its real value, that’s for sure. Lucky you. Must have been a good stall and a dumb seller. Was there much else there?’

  It was only logical to enquire. After all, a collector is a collector, even if Honey’s particular interest was antique underwear rather than porcelain.

  Smudger was still radiant with smugness, polishing the dish on his sleeve.

  ‘Quite a bit, as a matter of fact. All the stuff on the stall was donated for charity – retired horses or some such thing.’

  His reference to a horse charity sparked a response in her brain.

  ‘Horses, you say? I presume a woman was running the stall.’

  ‘Two women.’ He grinned. ‘Young and gullible women.’

  He proceeded to wrap his valuable purchase in greaseproof paper before placing it into an empty ice-cream container.

  ‘You didn’t steal it from them?’

  The fact that she’d seriously insulted him showed on his face. ‘I will treat that comment with the contempt it deserves,’ he said pompously.

  ‘Sorry. You paid a tenner. Their mistake.’

  ‘It weren’t like that. As it turns out they weren’t supposed to sell it at all. They’d picked it up by mistake according to the woman in charge of the stall. She’d gone off to get herself a cup of tea or something and came running after me wanting to buy it back.’

  ‘I expect she would,’ said Honey. ‘It’s worth fifty to sixty-five tops, any day of the week. But you kept it.’

  ‘Even when she offered me a hundred. I said I liked it and that was it.’

  Honey was genuinely surprised. ‘A hundred! For such a little thing.’

  ‘Little things mean a lot,’ said Smudger. He accompanied the well-known phrase with a knowing wink.

  OK, it was a long shot, but Honey couldn’t get one particular thought out of her mind. Why had the woman offered more than the dish was worth? A sentimental attachment was one explanation. And who was the woman?

  Being suspicious was a prerequisite of the amateur sleuth but a name had popped into her mind. She pushed Smudger for a description.

  ‘Oh, you know. One of those horsy types with big pants and a padded jacket. They all look the same to me.’

  ‘You sure she didn’t have silvery blonde hair and an Alice band?’

  He made a so-so face. ‘Now I come to think of it …’

  Chapter Fourteen

  Like a high-spirited thoroughbred, Honey almost pranced her way to her meeting with Doherty. She felt cocky, clever, and cute because she had something exciting to report to him. She’d worked it all out by herself and felt good, good, good, GOOD about it!

  Never mind that it was all supposition – no proof of any kind. She still intended mentioning the dish and a scam that might be behind the killing. Someone – possibly Camilla – had been stealing things from Philippe’s store room and selling them for cash. Philippe had found out, confronted them, and hey presto! An argument had ensued. Rather than resort to blows – Philippe not being that way inclined – the parties concerned had agreed to meet and settle their differences. Unfortunately one of said parties was not going to play fair. A little something extra entered the interior designer’s cocktail and whack! He went down.

  The vitreous china handle was still a bit of a problem though. Why bother with that? Was it some kind of symbol?

  Never mind. She had a basic map of what might have occurred. Doherty could no doubt fill in the details.

  So there it was! She’d solved it!

  A few more skips drew the bemused smiles of overseas tourists before she arrived at the Zodiac.

  The Zodiac night club had become their place of choice from the very start of the acquaintance between hotel owner and detective inspector. It was crowded, smoky with the smell of sizzling steaks, rich with noise, and abundant with atmosphere. Every hotelier and innkeeper in Bath congregated there in the hours following pub closing time or when paying hotel guests were all safely tucked up in their beds.

  In response to her knock a small shutter opened and a pair of eyes blinked at her.

  ‘Let me in.’

  No introduction. She’d know that pair of shifty eyes anywhere. The door swung open.

  ‘Hi, Clint.’

  Honey didn’t know how he did it, but Clint Eastwood – real name Rodney Eastwood – filled in as doorman-cum-bouncer on his nights off from other work. He had a whole range of jobs including helping out with general kitchen duties at the Green River. What was most surprising about his stints at the Zodiac Club was that he always seemed to fill in on theme nights, when he was required to dress accordingly. Tonight was ‘Fruit Night’; Clint was dressed as a gooseberry. The outfit appeared to be made of some kind of inflatable pale green cellophane to which thousands of nylon hairs had been attached. A twig and green leaf arrangement sat on his head and around his neck.

  ‘Nice outfit,’ Honey quipped as she wiped the tears from her face.

  ‘You’re not dressed,’ he responded hotly.

  Honey spread her hands indicating that crisp jeans, a navy blue sweater, and a silk scarf were a pretty good way of covering her body.

  Clint was unimpressed. ‘You haven’t made much of an effort. It’s not really entering into the spirit of things. You could have come as a banana or an apple.’

  ‘Aubergines are kind of navy blue. My jeans are dark blue. I could pretend to be an aubergine. Right?’

  Clint grimaced. ‘Give over. They’re a vegetable, not a fruit. And they’re purple.’

  ‘Never mind. This is business. I’m meeting Doherty. What do you expect him to come dressed as?’

  A slow grin spread across Clint’s face. It was no secret that he and the police were not exactly bosom buddies, mainly because some of his income was derived from less than reputable sources.

  His smirk stayed fixed to his face. ‘He’s already at the bar looking like a right lemon!’

  ‘You mean he’s alone. Does my lack of costume mean I’m denied entry?’

  He hesitated only briefly. Clint knew which side his bread was buttered. If he wished to continue earning extra cash washing up at the Green River, he had to let her in.

  Doherty was sitting on a bar stool looking like an island of solitude. He was glancing at his watch.

  ‘I’m not late,’ said Honey, taking it that the visual rebuke was meant for her.

  He saw her. ‘I didn’t say you were.’

  ‘You were looking at your watch.’

  ‘It’s allowed.’

  He ordered her a drink. She took a sip before putting across her idea about Deirdre Olsen and her obsession with horses.

  ‘I think Philippe was killed because he found out somebody was stealing from him.’

  She went on to tell him about the dish and the horse charity.

  Doherty was lukewarm about it. ‘It’s a long shot.’

  ‘Have you by any smidgen of a chance got hold of a list of contents with regard to the stuff taken from Philippe’s store room?’

  ‘Sort of. That Camilla woman is working on it. She vaguely remembers him keeping a list on his computer. Apparently she’s having trouble getting into the system. I’ve given her another two days before I contact our own computer bods and get them to break into it.’

  Honey eyed her glass, twirling it between her fingers. ‘When can we expect them to arrive?’

  He shrugged. ‘I have to put in a requisition for service. Shouldn’t take any longer than four days before they arrive and then …’

  On seeing the sneaky way she narrowed her eyes and looked at him sidelong, he paused.

  ‘Go on,’ he said cagily.

  ‘Lindsey could do it in no time.’

  His mouth curved appreciatively. ‘I had a feeling you were going to say that.’

  She felt his eyes on her as she swirled the ice cubes around in the bottom of her glass. She looked up quickly, meaning to take him unawares. His look surprised her. He was eyeing her like a cat
about to take a final leap on a particularly juicy-looking mouse. Apart from that, he looked as though he wanted to say something.

  ‘What?’ she asked.

  His look turned defensive, as policemen’s are wont to do if they feel their security is threatened. ‘What do you mean, what?’

  ‘You look as though you want to ask me something. Anything important?’

  He shrugged and immediately turned casual. ‘Nothing specific. I was just thinking that I’ll be glad when this case is over. We’ll celebrate with a glass or two of champagne. How’s that with you?’

  It was fine with her and she said so. The problem was that she still felt he was holding something back.

  ‘Are you not sharing all the information with me?’ she asked pointedly.

  He spread his hands in the disarmingly time-honoured way. ‘Hey, Hon. Would I do that? Are we a team or what?’

  The comment was a little condescending and made her want to say, ‘Or what’. On the other hand she liked being regarded as one of the team. It made her feel so very professional.

  He was the undoubted professional and bound by the rules of the Home Office. She was the amateur, brought in because she knew on what side Bath’s bread was buttered. She could be as flexible as she liked in her approach to the crime. The fact that she reckoned she’d cracked the case made her cockier than ever. She needed to set the pace.

  ‘How about we do a return visit to Mrs Olsen, her of the knee-high boots and cut-glass accent?’

  She could see by his expression that he wasn’t buying her theory.

  He confirmed that he had his own idea of the whys and the wherefores. ‘My money’s on Camilla.’

  Her hand shot forward. ‘Bet you fifty pounds you’re wrong.’

  He took her bet. ‘Done.’

  His hand lingered longer than it should. His smile was cagey. ‘Anything else you’d like to bet on?’

  She sensed where this was going. ‘That would have to be one hell of a celebration.’

  ‘Fifty pounds would buy the champagne.’

  Dropping her head, she trained her eyes on him. The full sexy look, Mata Hari style.

  ‘I’m worth more than that.’

  ‘I agree …’

  It seemed to her that he’d been about to say something else but had chickened out. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t important. The light of victory was shining in her eyes and doing wheelies in her heart. Everything seemed cut and dried.

  And so it remained – until the following morning.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Back from her holiday and tanned the colour of a crusty loaf, it was Dumpy Doris who informed Honey that Herr and Frau Hoffner had disappeared. They hadn’t come down for breakfast and they weren’t in their room.

  ‘I gave the door a good hammering,’ Dumpy Doris reported.

  Honey had noticed the size of her fists and believed her.

  Shortly after that the painters came calling for their most willing worker.

  ‘Perhaps he’s already out at St Margaret’s Court,’ Honey suggested.

  ‘He shouldn’t be. We told him we were working here this morning.’

  Honey shook her head. ‘Well, neither of the Hoffners is here. We’ve checked their room and neither of them has been down for breakfast. Perhaps he liked it out there better.’

  ‘Very possibly,’ said Peter, a tall skinny painter with a thread-veined nose and a slack mouth. ‘And we get a cordon bleu lunch out at St Margaret’s,’ he added.

  It struck Honey that workmen were so choosy nowadays. In the past a cheese and pickle sandwich would have sufficed. She sensed this could grow into a quid pro quo kind of thing if she didn’t watch out, egging her on to compete with the repast the upmarket hotel dished up for its subcontractors. She was pretty certain that he was angling for her to offer an even classier meal than St Margaret’s Court. She wasn’t going there.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t know where he’s gone?’ she asked.

  He grunted. ‘We wouldn’t be here if we did.’

  Honey frowned and stroked her chin. Two hairs had sprouted there without her noticing. Middle age sprang surprises all the time. The tweezers would take care of them. In the meantime, what reason could the Hoffners have for checking out? – without paying, she reminded herself.

  First things first, she said to herself. Secure the crime scene and ask the relevant questions.

  It turned out that the Hoffners had dined the night before. Comments were made by the waiters about the fact that Frau Hoffner knitted while waiting for the next course.

  ‘But they were acting very strangely,’ said Pallo, one of the waiters. ‘Their heads were very close together – as though they did not want anyone to hear. They looked a bit hotted-up – het-up,’ added Pallo.

  ‘You didn’t hear what they said?’

  He shook his head. ‘No. They were speaking in German.’

  ‘And you don’t understand German.’

  ‘No. I am Portuguese.’

  ‘Did you see them leave?’

  ‘Yes. They didn’t hear me when I asked them if they wished to put the bill for their meal with the rest of their stay. They seemed engrossed with each other and whatever it was they were talking about.’

  ‘Just one thing,’ said Honey. ‘Did you know Aloysius Rodrigues? He worked at St Margaret’s Court.’

  ‘Yes. We came over at the same time.’

  ‘Was he reliable?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Would he go off without telling anyone where he was going?’

  He shook his head adamantly. ‘No. No, he would not do that.’

  ‘I believe he had a family in Portugal.’

  ‘A wife, I think, and two children. He adored them. He said he was working here in order to pay for his children’s future. He was very proud of his girls. He wanted them both to go to university.’

  ‘You heard about the murder I suppose?’

  Pallo nodded. ‘Mr Fabiere was a nice man. Aloysius showed him his drawings. He liked drawing historic buildings. Mr Fabiere told them they were very good.’

  ‘Really?’

  So the missing waiter and the dead man had known each other. She would make sure that Steve Doherty knew that.

  Questions about the missing waiter had been asked of the staff at St Margaret’s Court. Nobody had thought to ask waiters of the same nationality. Pallo had told her a lot.

  However, he’d told her little about the Hoffners, only the basic things he’d noticed. Herr Wilhelm Hoffner had dined that night with his wife. Frau Hoffner’s knitting lay still on her lap when she ate. Between courses the needles would recommence their incessant racket.

  On probing a little deeper she found out that Mary Jane had taken herself out and down to the nearest Pizza Hut. Not a keen pizza fan, it was a case of needs must. She and knitting just didn’t mix.

  The Hoffners had been absorbed in their own world, heads close together as though sharing personal secrets.

  The waiter had asked them if everything was all right. They had replied that it was. He had not caught what Herr Hoffner said to her in return but it was said in German, and he didn’t speak the language.

  Chapter Sixteen

  It was by pure chance that the night porter strolled into the foyer dressed in tartan golfing trews and a green polo shirt. He’d left behind a blockbuster he’d been reading in between doing his nightly rounds and unlocking the front door for those who’d left their keys behind.

  Honey was discussing the Hoffners with Lindsey, who had assured her mother that the room key had not been handed in. Nobody had seen them since the evening before.

  The night porter overheard their conversation. ‘They borrowed the spare and went out last night at around midnight.’

  It had crossed Honey’s mind that they’d absconded without paying their bill; it wouldn’t be the first time that seemingly nice people had flown the nest without settling their account.

  Sid, the night por
ter, put her mind at rest.

  ‘They didn’t have any luggage with them.’

  Honey still resolved to check their room.

  Lindsey handed her mother the bunch of master keys.

  It didn’t sound as though they’d done a runner, but Honey was resolute in her mission. Luggage left behind would be evidence that they had not left without paying their bill but had merely … she fought for the right word. There was only one. Disappeared.

  Still, she thought, jutting out her chin. Early days yet, Honey.

  She marched straight to their room. Mary Jane tagged along behind her, giving her the lowdown on how much quieter her head seemed to be without Frau Hoffner’s needles clicking like clockwork castanets.

  Honey opened the door and entered the room. Mary Jane shadowed.

  Some guests junked their rooms, unjustly reasoning that someone was being paid to clear up after them. The Hoffners were not of that persuasion. The room was pristine: bed made, luggage stowed where it should be, and both clean and dirty clothes stored in their proper place. Even the knitting was where it should be, safely secreted inside a tapestry knitting bag with wooden handles.

  Mary Jane made the very relevant observation that they weren’t the sort of people to stay out all night.

  ‘Midnight makes seniors turn into pumpkins,’ she muttered dolefully.

  Honey was of the same mind. ‘They may just have taken it into their heads to hop on a train or a bus to somewhere they wanted to see. They’ll probably be back later.’

  Mary Jane asked a very relevant question. ‘Have they left their passports? People can go off without their luggage, but they sure as hell can’t travel without their passports.’

  Honey didn’t like the eerie tone that had crept into her voice. She sensed she was not going to like the premise behind that change of tone, but she had to be positive.

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ she responded and tried to sound flippant, as though she was not even a teeny bit concerned. All the same, she made a thorough search for passports. She found Frau Hoffner’s but not her husband’s.