Something in the Blood (A Honey Driver Murder Mystery)

by Goodhind, Jean G

‘Right,’ said Mr Street Cred – who she now knew was named Doherty – sitting back in his chair. ‘Tell me your involvement.’

  ‘I prefer to be called Honey.’

  ‘As in Honey Bee?’

  ‘Well,’ she began, feeling like a suspect in some cheap television detective series, ‘I have been appointed by Bath Hotels Association to liaise with the police regarding any crime connected with tourism …’

  ‘Yeah! I understand that,’ said Doherty, the fingers of his right hand fiddling with the pen protruding from his left breast pocket.

  ‘That kind of stuff out there,’ he jerked his head indicating the waiting room beyond the wall. ‘Muggings, theft and diddling the exchange rate. Anything that upsets the tourist industry. Must keep ourselves a squeaky clean image mustn’t we? Or the Yanks won’t be visiting these hallowed shores so the business folk decide an amateur detective is the answer. What a laugh!’

  The policewoman covered her giggle with one hand.

  Honey sprang to her feet. ‘Don’t be so bloody condescending!’

  He sprang to his feet. ‘This is a cop shop not a bloody tea shop!’

  They were like bookends, glaring at each other across the table.

  Honey slammed her hands palms down on the wipe-clean table surface, rattling the cups and sending a pen rolling.

  ‘Pleased to meet you too! You think you’re looking at a soft touch, a woman who knows nothing of the hard knocks of life. Well let me put you straight. I’ve got a chef that’s threatening to slice out the butcher’s entrails over the standard of the steaks and a mother who’s likely to get herself made into pies if she keeps trying to fix me up with dog-eared divorcees and bog-standard bachelors. Now, I came in here to tell you as much as I know. I didn’t ask for the job and I can do better things with my Sunday mornings. Can we get this over with so we can both get back to our work?’

  ‘Sit down!’

  He did the same, sitting sideways on in his chair, eyeing her out of the corner of his eyes.

  She copied his stance, sliding one stockinged leg over the other. He tried to keep his gaze fixed on her, but hell, that skirt was short and those stockings … No man could resist a shifty glance.

  ‘This bloke disappearing. There has to be something in it, I suppose, what with him leaving his kit behind.’

  He sounded sincere, no longer giving her the impression she had no business in the amateur sleuthing game.

  She leaned forward, her eyes in danger of popping out of her head. This was so exciting!

  ‘You think he’s been murdered?’

  He leaned forward too, lower arms resting on desk, hands clasped just inches from hers.

  ‘I don’t have a clue. Even private dicks go on mystery trips.’

  Honey frowned. ‘Are you making fun of me?’

  Doherty grimaced. ‘I’ve been appointed as your official contact within the police force. Chief Constable’s orders. I’ll do my duty, but I’m not happy about it. I think you should know that.’

  Deflated, Honey sat back in her chair.

  The sound of a stifled snigger came from Detective Constable Sian Williams.

  Doherty scowled. ‘Shut that!’

  The policewoman’s pink lips wobbled a bit before coming under control.

  Something was not quite right. Honey narrowed her eyes and threw Doherty a piercing look.

  She pointed at the tape recorder.

  ‘So why the hell have that thing on?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘It doesn’t work. I just turn it on for the hell of it. Didn’t unnerve you, did I?’

  One side of his mouth lurched upwards into a lop-sided grin.

  Honey sprang to her feet.

  ‘Well stuff you, Doherty! You may have times for fun and games, but I do not! I have a business to run and it depends on tourism, which, I might add, pays your wages!’

  The grin turned into an apologetic smile. He held up his hands in surrender. ‘Look, I’m sorry.’

  ‘You’re not taking this seriously.’

  He nodded at the policewoman indicating she make for the door. It closed behind her.

  Doherty noted Honey’s brown eyes, the dark hair nicely contrasting with a crisp white blouse, a buff-coloured waistcoat and smart skirt. She was wearing stockings. Not tights. Stockings clung more closely to the skin and he considered himself a connoisseur of such things.

  Hannah Driver was not at all what he’d expected. She looked posh totty, but underneath that cool exterior he sensed something hotter.

  Honey folded her arms in a way that shielded her bosom. ‘I should never have taken this job,’ she muttered.

  ‘You didn’t want to develop a long-lasting relationship with a crime-fighting member of your local constabulary?’

  She cocked an eyebrow. ‘Don’t flatter yourself.’

  ‘I wasn’t exactly spoilt for choice either!’

  She didn’t go into details of why she’d accepted the role. What would the likes of an unshaved, hard-nosed copper know about business?

  ‘Can we start again?’ He sounded as though he meant it.

  She considered telling him to get lost, but the shrewder side of her nature stopped her. Casper had promised her fiscal rewards for doing this job and finding the American. Filling her rooms to capacity and every table in the restaurant ordering three courses plus the best vintage wine was not beyond the realms of possibility. She could do with it. The Green River was slightly off the beaten track and could do with all the help it could get.

  She sat back down. ‘So! What shall we do about this Elmer Weinstock/Maxted or whatever?’

  Doherty laid his hands flat on the desk and studied his fingernails. ‘So! He was a private detective,’ he said thoughtfully.

  ‘Was he here on a job? Have you checked?’

  He nodded. ‘Yes. We have checked, and no, he was not here on a job. He was on vacation according to his office, tracing his family tree so I was told.’

  Honey frowned. So why use an alias?

  Doherty gave his own answer to the unspoken question in a voice that was a fair impersonation of Humphrey Bogart.

  ‘These private dicks have a sense of the dramatic. They’ve been watching too many cop shows on TV. He just liked the deal of being somebody else.’

  ‘You’re not going to investigate are you?’

  ‘No. Shall I tell you why?’

  ‘You don’t have to, but I guess you will anyway.’

  ‘I think he’s met up with a dishy broad and he’s gone off to taste a last sip of the sweet honey of life. So what if he doesn’t make his flight? Yep. That’s my theory. A taste of honey. That’s what he’s found.’

  Honey held back her temper.

  ‘Very poetic, but I think you’re wrong.’

  He spread his hands and winked. ‘That’s it, sugar.’

  Blue eyes and dark hair. It shouldn’t be allowed. A sneaking liking for him developed there and then. Her lips were sliding into a smile without a by-your-leave. She managed to wipe it off before it reached full bloom.

  ‘I’m not going to encourage you.’

  She got to her feet.

  ‘So what are you going to do, sugar?’

  She paused by the door, rested her hand on her hip and winked. ‘I think I’ll pay another visit to the house of a thousand ashtrays.’

  He grinned. ‘Cora Herbert.’

  ‘You bet.’

  ‘You’re wasting your time.’

  Honey rested her hand on one curvaceous hip and held her head to one side. ‘You didn’t want to work with me and you still don’t, do you?’

  His expression clouded. ‘It’s nothing personal.’

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘and it won’t ever get that way.’

  Sian came back after Honey had left, her stockings making a rustling sound as she slid one leg over the other.

  Steve Doherty found himself comparing them to Honey Driver’s pins. They weren’t a patch.

  Unaware of his judge
ment, Sian folded her arms across her uniformed chest and grinned at him.

  ‘You enjoyed that more than you thought you would.’

  He stretched his arms above his head and flexed his muscles. ‘Take that grin off your face.’

  ‘She’s an attractive woman. Getting on a bit, though.’

  He spun to face her and pointed an accusing finger. ‘Not another word, Williams. I still think this hotel liaison nonsense is all a bloody waste of time.’

  She cocked one eyebrow. ‘But she makes it more palatable?’

  Doherty smirked and a lock of dark hair fell onto his forehead.

  Sian Williams went weak at the knees.

  His smile was enough to leave her panting for more. Last night his voice had poured into her ear like thick, dark treacle. She’d scored, but she knew from Doherty’s reputation that she was just another number on his gun.

  Steve Doherty was smiling to himself and whatever thoughts he was thinking were strictly private.

  When he spoke she knew he wasn’t really speaking to her. He was advising his inner self, telling it just what to expect next.

  ‘Leave it with me. A little of the old Doherty charm and she’ll forget all about being Miss bloody Marple. She’ll be putty in my hands. I guarantee it.’

  Chapter Six

  Cora Herbert insisted that Honey take Elmer Maxted’s stuff away.

  ‘I can’t have it blocking up my storage facility,’ Cora said indignantly, an unlit cigarette jiggling at the corner of her mouth.

  Honey grimaced at the memory of the dusty, dirty cupboard beneath the stairs. Describing it as a storage facility was stretching credibility. Dust, cobwebs and a haphazard mix of jumbled luggage and discarded furniture.

  It made sense to take it all back to the Green River and do a more thorough check of Elmer’s things.

  Back in her office without a hairy-legged spider in sight she took her time. First she took out his passport, flight tickets and official documents and took them into her office and her private safe. On studying the flight ticket, the return date was only two days hence.

  There was a mystery here. Two days until he flew home? He should be making plans to go right now, checking railway and bus schedules or making arrangements to drop off a hire car – if he’d ever had one.

  And there was something else. If Elmer was tracing his forebears, why no birth, marriage or death certificates, or even a half-completed family tree?

  She couldn’t suppress the tingle of excitement that ran down her back. This was a real conundrum – as the old sleuths of the nineteen twenties would have said. Neither could she throw off her first instinct – that Elmer Maxted was dead. Murdered. But how and by whom? And why?

  The hospitality industry consisted of sixteen-hour days, seven days a week. Public holiday times, like Christmas, Easter and the height of summer, were their busiest times of the year.

  She reminded herself of where he’d been staying and the nature of the people running the place.

  Even during normal times, she rose at dawn and didn’t fall into bed until the early hours of the next day. Tiredness led to short tempers. Had Cora or Mervyn snapped and done something stupid? She thought about it. Cora? No. The woman wasn’t Mrs Cordiality of the Year, but the only murdering that went on in their guest house was probably burning the sausages at breakfast time.

  The door to the office was well oiled, so she didn’t hear Lindsey come in.

  ‘Mother! What are you doing?’

  ‘Are you trying to give me a heart attack?’

  ‘Why would I?’

  Lindsey was wearing her gym kit, her navy and white bag slung over her shoulder. She grinned. ‘Not unless you’ve left me a fortune in your will. I might chance it then.’

  ‘I suggest you speak to your grandmother on that score.’

  Gloria Cross had had three husbands. All of them had been millionaires including her own father. He’d shoved off back to Connecticut with a trophy wife. Undeterred, her mother had sued for settlement, got it, got a new millionaire and drank a toast to her former husband’s memory when he’d died in bed on his honeymoon.

  ‘A fitting end to a man who loved women,’ said her mother. That night she’d drunk two bottles of Krug and ate a whole lemon meringue pie – her favourite. It still was.

  On marrying a Methodist she’d become teetotal. He was dead and gone. It was a matter of time before champagne corks popped again.

  Honey smelled her daughter’s freshness as though she’d just showered.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  Honey began tucking the passports, papers and flight tickets back into the plastic zip-up and then into the safe. Before finally turning the key, she paused, her eyes again falling to the calendar.

  ‘There’s a disparity between the booking he made at Ferny Down Guest House and his return flight from London Heathrow. Where did he intend going between those two dates? Had he booked in somewhere? Had he failed to arrive?’

  Lindsey shrugged. ‘Perhaps he was going to stay on at chez greasy spoon a few more days.’

  Honey thought about it, then shook her head. ‘To book in for a week at a bed and breakfast is unusual in itself. Most tourists aren’t that specific – certainly not in an establishment like Ferny Down. It caters for the lower end of the market.’

  ‘We’re not being snobby here, are we?’

  ‘Realistic!’

  Lindsey didn’t argue. She was as aware as her mother that most tourists staying in certain establishments had definite travel plans. Depending on budget, one or two days sufficed in each place they visited.

  ‘But there are always exceptions.’

  Honey waved the airline ticket. ‘He was flying home two days from now. That doesn’t leave long for travelling anywhere. A day at most. The last day would have been set aside for travelling to the airport.’

  Lindsey agreed. ‘Most people travel up to London the day before.’

  Honey fluttered the tickets against her mouth as she thought things through.

  ‘That means he would have left for the airport tomorrow.’

  ‘And what else?’

  Honey slid her eyes sidelong. ‘He was researching his family tree, and yet there are no birth, death or marriage certificates in his luggage. I find that strange.’

  Lindsey sighed and looked at her watch. ‘So you think he’s been murdered.’

  ‘Do you think so?’ Honey’s eyes stretched and a mix of fear and excitement tingled in her ample bosom. The possibility had entered her mind, but surely there was no hard evidence. Had Lindsey spotted something she hadn’t?

  Her daughter’s response swiftly removed any hope of enlightenment.

  Lindsey grinned. ‘It’s my off-the-cuff opinion – purely because I’ve got no time to consider anything else.’ She glanced at her watch again. ‘Oops! Must get changed. I’ve a bar to open.’

  ‘Where do you get your energy?’

  Lindsey kissed her mother’s cheek. ‘I inherited it from my mother along with her good looks.’

  ‘Really?’ exclaimed Honey while studying her muted reflection in a glass fronted cabinet.

  Lindsey wrapped a loving arm around her shoulder.

  ‘See,’ she said, her head resting against that of her mother. ‘We’re more like sisters than mother and daughter. But it’s a safe bet that my love life is more intriguing than yours.’

  ‘You wait. I am an amateur detective you know. Who knows what delicious men I might come across.’

  ‘And today you went to the police station. So tell me. Did you meet any good-looking policemen?’

  Honey opened her mouth to deny the fact when Doherty popped into her mind.

  Lindsey had insight which, in Honey’s opinion, wasn’t right in a girl of her age.

  ‘Mother, you’re blushing.’

  ‘No, no, no, no, no. It’s my age.’ She waved her hand in front of her face. ‘Hot flushes. See?’

  Lindsey stood by the door, a glint in
her eye, her brown legs smooth and shiny. ‘You may be my mother, but you’re also a woman. I think it’s time you lived for yourself not for me. Have a slice of romance, mother. You deserve it.’

  Honey gaped. When Carl died in a boating accident, Honey had promised herself that she would put Lindsey first in everything. For that reason she’d shied off permanent relationships. She’d seen the problems they could cause. She’d never voiced that promise, so it came as something of a surprise that Lindsey was aware of her sacrifice. And now?

  Like a thickly iced cream slice, Doherty came to mind again. Naughty, but nice.

  Perceptive as ever, Lindsey winked. ‘That good, huh?’

  Once she was alone, Honey dragged her thoughts back to the missing tourist. Cupping her chin in her hand she stared out at the blank wall beyond the small window. If he had been murdered, where was the body?

  She shook the thoughts from her head, zipped up the bags and shifted them into a far corner.

  There were other possibilities of course. He could just have gone walkabouts. Perhaps he’d met some old relative while tracing his family tree and was making up for lost time.

  As she shut the door behind her and prepared to check in a nice couple from Ontario, another thought crossed her mind. Would a man seriously searching his family tree leave the paperwork behind? Perhaps that might explain there being none in his luggage. But if that were the case, why leave his passport and airline tickets?

  She shook her head, her mind in overdrive.

  ‘We have a room booked in the name of Whittaker,’ said the nice middle-aged man.

  Plastering a smile on her face, she entered their names on the system, checked their passports and handed them their room keys, menu cards and a map of the city.

  ‘There’s plenty of information in the folder in your room,’ she added, ‘but don’t hesitate to ask if there’s anything else you require.’

  They thanked her before moving off, Daniel, porter, handyman, native of Croatia, helping them with their luggage.

  Her phone rang.

  ‘DS Doherty here.’

  Blue eyes, dark stubble. ‘I was wondering …’

  ‘So was I. If Mr or Mrs Herbert had murdered Elmer Weinstock, Maxted or whatever his name is, where would they bury him?’