Deadly Lampshades (Honey Driver Mysteries Book 5)

by Jean G. Goodhind

  ‘I see.’

  Honey really did see, or rather, she’d seen. However, she didn’t let on about Cybil’s conversation regarding the cats and the fact that she hadn’t seemed to remember inviting Honey in.

  Anyway, she’d been in the company of older people, notably her mother, long enough to know what ‘gaga’ meant. It meant awkward, opinionated and possessing a devil-may-care attitude towards family, friends, men, and the world in general. Old folk pushed the boat out when they knew damned well that time was running short.

  ‘Old folk do get forgetful. They have rights to.’

  Her mother was not fooled.

  ‘I can see you’re only humouring me. Don’t. This is serious. She’s becoming a meddler of the first degree. She makes it her business to meddle in other people’s lives.’

  ‘In yours, Mother?’

  Honey raised her eyebrows in what was meant to be a sarcastic manner. The effort was lost on her mother, who appeared to be taking this very seriously indeed.

  ‘Certainly not,’ she said indignantly. ‘She’s not interested in the likes of me. She’s after people who break the law. And foreigners. She’s got a thing about foreigners. Especially Russians. She hates them most of all.’

  Yes, Honey conceded, she did know what she was like. Cybil was a nosy parker. She was old, lived alone, and was probably lonely. It was par for the course.

  ‘She likes to know what’s going on around her,’ Honey offered. ‘She seems quite involved in village life.’ It wasn’t necessarily true, but further investigation might reveal it to be so.

  Her mother was having none of it and bit back again. ‘Hannah, I am old but I am not obtuse! Cybil thinks she’s some kind of Robin Hood. And she reckons that the owners of the hotel opposite are in league with some characters from Star Trek.’

  A vision of Cybil wearing Lincoln green and toting a bow and arrow came to mind. So did a few way-out creatures from the Inter-Galactic League. Television had a lot to answer for. Both scenes were funny enough to bring a smile to her face.

  Her mother noticed.

  ‘Hannah! This is no laughing matter. I am very much afraid that Cybil is going to land herself in a great deal of trouble. Perhaps Robin Hood is not the right person to make a comparison with. Zorro might be better.’

  Honey bit her bottom lip to keep from laughing out loud. Zorro? Could she really see Cybil wearing a black cape, big hat and leaving her initials etched with a sword point? She could not. Cybil was very, very Laura Ashley. All the same, she could believe that Cybil was capable of it. There was something gutsy about her and, when she wasn’t away with the fairies, she could be quite sharp-minded.

  ‘It just presented an amusing scenario.’

  Hiding her smirk by pouring the tea, she asked her mother how come she knew all this.

  Her mother leaned close in a conspiratorial manner. ‘She told me herself. She said that she intended righting a few wrongs before she dies. Especially against people who dislike cats.’

  All things considered, Honey decided that it wasn’t really a bad idea. Some kind of superhero could do a lot of good if he – or she – put their mind to it. She told her mother this.

  ‘No, Hannah. I know Cybil’s not quite all there, but that doesn’t mean she can cast aside responsibility and go out there armed with a gun that she picked up in East Berlin somewhere around 1969.’

  ‘Mother, you’re telling porkies,’ said Honey, unable to stop the smile from spreading. ‘Cybil Camper-Young doesn’t really have a gun.’

  ‘Oh yes she does. And she’s a crack shot.’

  Quite taken aback, she looked at her mother’s face. Honey had always hoped that she’d inherit the fine cheekbones and youthfully sparkling eyes. At this moment Gloria Cross was wearing a look Honey had rarely seen before. She was looking seriously concerned and also a little confused.

  ‘You mean it?’

  Gloria Cross nodded.

  Honey gaped. The fact that a confused old lady was stalking the streets of Bath with a weapon was very worrying. If they’d had street gangs – which she didn’t think they did – the punks would be wise to watch their step. Otherwise, bang!

  ‘You do mean it!’ she exclaimed, her expression disbelieving.

  Her mother nodded slowly. ‘I wouldn’t say anything about it if I didn’t know it to be true. She showed it me.’

  This was surreal. Elderly ladies did not fit the mould of vigilante types. OK, Cybil was well-built, but she wore rose-printed chintz. How could anyone who wore stuff like that go round packing a Luger, or any kind of gun for that matter?

  ‘In her moments of clarity, she’s an incredibly intelligent and logical type. But her mind’s going. Dementia, I’m afraid. It’s in those moments that she’s back in Berlin fighting the Commies.’

  Honey didn’t quite get the bit about the Commies; surely her mother was wrong. Ignoring the comment, she consoled herself in the hope that the gun was purely a replica or, failing that, so old that it did not work. Even better, she might not have any bullets. However, wishing and hoping could not be relied on.

  ‘You must tell her to keep it out of sight or she’ll be arrested,’ Honey told her mother after she’d considered the matter.

  ‘No,’ said her mother, setting the cup and saucer firmly back on the tray. ‘I can’t seem to get through to her.’ She frowned. ‘She never used to be like that before she went into the service. Only when she came back. And only sometimes. She was very insecure at times.’

  ‘Well, there you are. Go and have a nice talk with her.’

  Her mother glared. ‘Don’t be so ridiculous, Hannah. I know nothing of that kind of thing. You’re the professional! You must have a talk with her.’

  Chapter Thirty-three

  The Zodiac Club was heaving as usual. The blue smoke and rich smell from the sizzling steaks hung thickly in the air, confined by the barrel-vaulted ceilings of the subterranean premises.

  The club was approached down a set of wooden steps and stretched out beneath North Parade, exiting on to North Parade Gardens.

  The air hummed with the chatter of those who worked in the hospitality trade. Usually it wasn’t this busy until the witching hour, but, even in the fair city of Bath, Tuesday night was slow for business, especially in the shoulder months. April was definitely a shoulder month: neither the height nor depth of the season and the weather neither here nor there. Folk were making the most of it.

  Doherty had phoned earlier asking to meet her at their usual place. He’d said he had something important to tell her. ‘Something about you and me.’

  There was something about the way he spoke that pulled her up short. She tried to recall exactly what it was, besides that his tone of voice was kind of cute. She’d been expecting their relationship to step up a notch. This could be it.

  Dressed to the nines with a hip-hugging skirt, a plunging neckline, and an itch she hoped Doherty would get round to scratching, she waited at the bar. And waited. And waited. Having a drink. Getting angrier. Having another drink.

  Folk around her were having fun, drinking, dining and laughing together. A guy she knew pushed through the crowd to get to her. He asked if he could buy her a drink and perhaps they might have dinner sometime. She told him she was waiting for someone.

  Now she was wishing she’d accepted. Damn Doherty! Her good opinion of him worsened with each passing minute. Now why the hell did she want to get involved with somebody like him? For a start, he only shaved every three days or so. And he dressed casually – even scruffily – faded jeans, black leather jacket, black T-shirt straining over a surprisingly well-honed body …

  She shook her head. The bad opinions were definitely warring with the good, or her good sense with her hormones. The fact was that she’d never seen him in a smart lounge suit or tuxedo. Come to that, she’d never seen him in his birthday suit either …

  Then her phone rang. Well, he’d better have some pretty good excuse.

  ‘We’ve f
ound Olsen. In Devon,’ he went on. ‘Well, we’ve kind of found him. He’s got a weekend place here and did have a yacht.’

  She ignored the past tense regarding Olsen’s weekend boat. This could be it! Olsen was caught. ‘Does he admit killing them both?’

  She could understand to some extent why he’d disposed of his wife, but Philippe was a different matter. OK, they’d been members of the same project team, but that was their only connection and there wasn’t a whiff of rivalry between them. There seemed no reason for one to murder the other.

  She became aware that Doherty was saying something about bits and pieces. Her phone connection had been playing up so she didn’t catch it all.

  ‘Can you repeat that?’

  ‘Olsen’s not admitting anything. He’s been blown to bits. A gas canister on his yacht leaked and it got into the bilges. The yacht blew up and caught fire. I’m told that it could indeed have been a leaky canister, or somebody could have left the tap on. One spark – just by turning the ignition switch, and it’s curtains. Are you at the Zodiac?’

  ‘Yep! This is where we were supposed to meet.’

  ‘Ah! Yeah! Is it busy tonight?’

  The way he added such an incongruous comment to the more serious one regarding Olsen’s demise threw her, until she realized the reason why.

  ‘I’m OK,’ she murmured, eyeing the action going on around her, the liaisons, the laughing, the press of people up against the bar. ‘Any leads?’

  ‘None. We have to surmise that Aloysius Rodrigues had something to do with it and yet he seems so unlikely. Interpol and the Portuguese police have checked his home address. He’s vanished without trace. His wife hasn’t seen anything of him and enquiries point to a family man with three kids working abroad to get the best for them.’

  There was sympathy in his voice. Rodrigues had a family. Neither of them wanted him to be guilty. Absence could equal guilt in some cases.

  Honey told him about the Hoffners, the truck and the contents of Philippe’s store room. ‘Can you believe it? The Hoffners trussed up among boxes of Dresden and architectural artefacts!’

  She sensed his surprise and felt elated that she was the one to inform him.

  ‘I’m not up to speed on that one yet. I’ll catch up when I get back,’ he responded.

  He sounded tired. She imagined him rubbing his face with his hand in a wiping motion designed to perk him up a bit. All it seemed to do was rearrange the bags beneath his eyes into more manageable portions.

  ‘Will you be long getting back?’ she asked.

  ‘Hell no. I’m so sorry about this. Tonight of all nights.’ He sounded severely disappointed. He paused then said, ‘There’s still something I need to discuss with you. It’s a surprise. I think you’ll like it.’

  ‘Sounds intriguing.’

  ‘It is. It’s a proposition.’

  ‘Not a suggestion?’

  ‘That too.’

  She sensed his tiredness had receded and that he was smiling. I know that because I’ve got to know him so well, she thought to herself. That’s nice.

  His suggestion for the time being was that they catch up just after lunch on his arrival back in Bath. She told him that would be fine. It fitted in with her schedule. First job was to work out the guest list for the opening of their newly refurbished reception area. Most were members of the Bath Hotels Association, plus a few radio and local media magnates for good measure. Anything for a bit of publicity.

  Once the decks were cleared, including welcoming Dumpy Doris back with open arms on to the breakfast shift, it was off to visit Cybil Camper-Young and suggest that she hand in her gun to the police under the current amnesty. That way she wouldn’t end up with a criminal record for keeping a gun without a licence. It was only an historic gun after all. It was probably rusty from disuse, she thought to herself, and smiled. Yes. That was it. It was just a rusty old gun in the hands of a rusty old woman.

  Cybil Camper-Young took a loving look at her beloved Mini Cooper before closing and locking the garage door.

  Nobody gave a little old lady driving a mini a second look. Now if she’d been driving a flashy Austin DBS or Jaguar like that James Bond character that dear old Ian had created, everyone would have noticed her. What a stupid man! No agent worth their salt ever drew attention to themselves like that. Being low key and an unlikely agent was what it was all about, that and having an incisive mind. Inventive too.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Mary Jane was bubbling with excitement. ‘I’ve just heard about the Hoffners. I know I hated the sound of those knitting needles, but I sure am glad they’ve turned up safe and sound.’

  Honey was dealing with a caller with hearing difficulties and had to speak rather loudly.

  Anna had plonked both baby and carry-cot behind the reception desk and was heading for the door, a packet of cigarettes clasped so tightly that her knuckles were white.

  ‘I won’t be long,’ she called over her shoulder.

  The baby began to cry.

  Honey made signs for someone to pick it up.

  Mary Jane did the honours, but only until a taxi arrived to take her out to the American Museum at Claverton Down.

  She bundled the child into Doherty’s arms. ‘Here you are.’

  ‘I don’t … ’

  He didn’t have a chance. Mary Jane was older than him and thus had greater experience of how to pass on big and little bundles. He found himself holding the baby.

  Over the reception desk, and the baby’s head, they discussed where they were on the case.

  ‘We have to accept that Aloysius Rodrigues was the last person to see Philippe. Find him and we could have our murderer. I say could because it still wouldn’t explain Mrs Olsen’s death and the modus operandi are very much alike. However, Mr Olsen is a different matter. I’m pretty certain it was an accident.’

  Doherty took a deep breath and downed his drink without really tasting it, while jigging the baby up and down.

  Honey eyed him from beneath veiled lids. A smile haunted her lips. ‘You’re good at that. Had much training?’

  He eyed her back. ‘Never had the chance.’

  She read something of a promise in his smile. Doherty was possessive about his personal history. Honey didn’t know whether he had ever been married and had children. Watching him with the child found her wondering, and even feeling a little jealous. Her emotions were surprising. She hadn’t felt so intensely about Steve Doherty before.

  Honey’s thoughts were floating and she had no control over the dreamy look that came to her eyes. The index finger of her right hand tapped her bottom lip without her really noticing. She was distracted and couldn’t help it.

  While Doherty cooed over the child, she began reciting details of the case – just like a shopping list.

  ‘Mrs Olsen loved her horses. Mr Olsen had loved his boat and Philippe had loved … ’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t really know. He was in a bathroom and was killed by having a porcelain lavatory handle shoved down his throat.’

  ‘An antique lavatory handle,’ Doherty added.

  Honey stopped tapping her lip and looked at him wide-eyed.

  ‘That’s it!’

  ‘That’s what?’

  ‘All three of them were killed by something they loved. It’s a kind of pattern.’

  ‘Rubbish. They were killed by someone involved in the health food game. It’s nothing but a big scam in my opinion.’ He took a bite of his bacon sandwich and gave some to the baby.

  Honey raised an eyebrow. ‘What would you know about healthy eating?’

  Doherty ignored her.

  ‘The way I see it is this,’ he said, placing what was left of his sandwich back on the plate. He began counting items off. ‘Olsen was blown up. Philippe got his belladonna from a practitioner of homeopathic medicine …’

  ‘And Mrs Olsen the same?’

  He stopped. ‘No. I don’t think so. We’ve checked. She wasn’t taking
anything like that.’

  Honey couldn’t help the triumphant smile.

  ‘She wasn’t. Her horses were. It’s common knowledge that people with pets or who work with animals sometimes take veterinary medicine if there’s no prescribed stuff to hand.’

  Doherty sat back in his chair and put down the remains of his sandwich. ‘You’re right. Philippe had been drinking crème de menthe and Mrs Olsen had access to the herb – herb it most definitely is. Both of them were taking belladonna voluntarily – mad as it may seem. Though not Ferdinand Olsen.’

  Honey cupped her chin in her hands. ‘So what’s the connection?’

  Doherty looked thoughtful as he munched the last of his bacon sandwich. ‘Oh. I forgot to say. Pathology found a bruise on the back of his neck – Philippe Fabiere that is. A very professional job according to them.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Army training. Something like that.’

  ‘Russian army training?’

  His eyes met hers. ‘I see where you’re going. The hotel owner is Russian.’

  Honey narrowed her eyes. ‘Poor Philippe. The most dangerous things in his life before this were clashing colour schemes or ugly lampshades.’ She sighed. ‘Still, back to business.

  Honey’s dreamy look came back, outward evidence of her dreamy thoughts. She recalled the scene. Anyone trying the locked door would have assumed that the person on the inside wished for privacy – for whatever reason. Could it be that Philippe had not been alone in there?

  ‘Philippe was in there with the waiter,’ she blurted suddenly.

  ‘And he killed him.’

  Honey shrugged. Until they found Rodrigues it was all supposition.

  Anna came back for the baby.

  ‘Oh. She is wet,’ she said, casting an accusing look at Doherty. ‘You did not change her?’

  ‘No,’ he said, wiping his hands on the paper napkin. ‘I do bacon sandwiches, not baby changing.’

  Chapter Thirty-five

  The mechanic whistled as he backed the coach into the workshop. A colleague waved him in until he could stop straight and true above the inspection pit. The coach had been hanging around for a while waiting for a new differential to be delivered. The owners had also requested that the vehicle be thoroughly cleaned inside and out while it was being repaired, and given a full service.