Blood and Broomsticks: A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries Book 9)

by Jean G. Goodhind

  Honey picked it up and shook it. ‘No snow storm,’ she said. ‘I’m disappointed. All paperweights like this have snow storms.’

  ‘Put it down and continue looking.’

  She had one last look at the scene inside the glass globe before putting it down noticing that it held only one solitary figure; a small, crooked goblin with a leering grin and misshapen eyes.

  She pointed it out to Doherty.

  ‘He’s ugly.’

  ‘And not relevant.’

  Honey placed it back where she found it only to see that she was now looking at the back of the globe rather than the front – and a bare bum.

  ‘Why, you cheeky little beggar!’

  The ugly goblin was mooning at her!

  After setting the grotesque back in its place, she headed for the bathroom while Doherty took a look around the rear bedroom.

  ‘There’s something missing from here,’ Honey called out. ‘No toothbrush. And no toothpaste.’

  ‘Perhaps she wore dentures.’

  ‘No Steradent either.’

  Doherty frowned.

  He hadn’t needed to bring Honey with him, but it seemed the only way to make up. Not that he’d been going to rush at making up, but seeing her with John Rees had forced his hand. There was no way he would admit to himself that he was jealous – but he was.

  ‘So she was travelling light,’ he called back. ‘I think that under the circumstances we can stop worrying that she may have been abducted. Nobody abducts an old lady then takes her toothpaste and brush. If they were being that considerate, they would provide her with that kind of thing – which isn’t likely. Abductors and kidnappers aren’t known for being considerate. They tend to concentrate on the money, and that’s the other thing; what would be the point of abducting her?’

  He shut the door of the bathroom cabinet, leaving his handprint on the shiny mirror.

  Honey had to agree with him that the parcel must have been delivered and no harm had come to the old lady.

  ‘She must have gone away without telling anyone.’

  ‘I think that’s about right,’ stated Doherty while testing the bedsprings with one hand. ‘Very comfortable, these old beds. Makes you want to dive in and give it a test run.’

  ‘And more cats.’ Honey nodded at the two felines portrayed stretched out. In the middle of them was a small vase. Doherty looked at each ornament in turn, pausing at the vase.

  ‘No flowers. Just water.’

  ‘There was one in the downstairs window ledge too. And one in the main bedroom.’

  She frowned. There was something significant about that, something she should know.

  ‘Just a minute.’

  She went back into the main bedroom.

  ‘Just a bowl of water?’ asked Doherty.

  She nodded, teetering on the edge of thoughts inspired by past conversations with Mary Jane. Feng Shui set a lot of store by having a bowl of water in a room. Even her central heating engineer had suggested doing so from a health perspective.

  ‘Come on. There’s nothing else in here to interest us.’

  ‘Except for him,’ said Honey, pointing at the glass globe containing the ugly goblin.

  Doherty picked it up. ‘A crystal ball. Perhaps Mrs Hicks does a bit of fortune telling on the side …’

  ‘A crystal ball?’

  Doherty tossed what she’d thought was a paperweight from one hand to the other. ‘Looks like one – except for the bare-arsed cheeky little chap inside …’

  ‘Shhh. I heard something.’

  Doherty looked out of the front window then drew abruptly back. ‘Uh oh! We have a problem. Mrs Hicks has come home.’

  They stood at the top of the stairs looking down. Mrs Hicks was standing there with the door half open, her key still in the lock, a small overnight bag on the floor next to her feet along with a wickerwork cat carrier.

  ‘What are you doing in my house?’ Her voice was high-pitched, her face pink and angry.

  Doherty, feeling distinctly awkward, told her he was a police officer.

  ‘Proof of identity! I must see proof of identity.’

  Her voice had turned more strident.

  Doherty showed her his warrant card and explained they’d been worried about her whereabouts.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Crook over at the guest house were murdered,’ Doherty explained. ‘We were also told that you never went anywhere. The postman was worried.’

  ‘Silly fool.’

  Her tone was surprising seeing as it seemed they were friends.

  Honey butted in. ‘I – we – were wondering if you’d seen anything; perhaps a car on the night of the party arriving after everyone else.’

  ‘They were murdered, you say? Please. Let me get this door closed and my coat off, and you can tell me all about it.’

  They told her everything over a cup of tea and buttered crumpets. The cat lay the centre of the room, eyeing them with its bright orange eyes.

  Doherty took his time asking questions between dabbing at the melted butter running down his chin.

  ‘Did you get to deliver the parcel the postman left with you, Mrs Hicks?’

  ‘Most certainly.’

  ‘At what time was that?’

  ‘About seven thirty. It was dark and they always come out at around seven thirty.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. That’s how I knew it was seven thirty. The church clock used to chime the half hour but it doesn’t do that any more – either that or my hearing has got worse. I have to depend on the bats.’

  Honey refrained from the urge to exchange a sly glance with Doherty. Bats as a clock.

  ‘How did they seem?’

  ‘Seem?’

  ‘Mr and Mrs Crook. Were they composed? Nervous?’

  ‘Scared?’ Honey added.

  ‘Nothing specific,’ replied Mrs Hicks, offering them more crumpets.

  ‘Was it Mr Crook who answered, or Mrs Crook?’ Honey asked while Doherty munched.

  ‘It was Mrs Crook. She thanked me for my trouble in a very polite manner. I told her the weather was about to turn unseasonably warm. She told me that the weather forecast hadn’t said as much. But there you are. I was right. They were wrong.’

  ‘And how did she seem?’

  Mrs Hicks looked up at the ceiling as she gathered her thoughts.

  ‘Vague. Yes. I think that’s the best way to describe how she was. Vague. As though her mind was on something else.’

  ‘Do you recall anyone arriving late for the Hallowe’en party?’

  ‘Oh no. I wasn’t here you see. It’s that time of year. I had a convention to attend. It was Hallowe’en after all.’

  ‘Where was this convention,’ Doherty began.

  Honey placed a hand on his arm.

  ‘Mrs Hicks is a witch, Detective Chief Inspector. Isn’t that right, Mrs Hicks?’

  The pink-cheeked face glowed with secretive pride. ‘How did you guess?’

  ‘Certain things. The water-filled dishes on the window ledges, the cats, the corn dollies – oh – and the crystal ball – complete with guardian spirit.’

  Mrs Hicks screeched with laughter. ‘Oh, him! Isn’t he just the naughtiest little goblin you’ve ever seen?’

  ‘Wicked,’ Honey responded, laughing.

  On their way out Doherty asked Mrs Hicks if she wanted him to return her spare key to Gavin Whitmore, the postman.

  ‘No. I think I’d better take care of it, at least for the time being. Poor Gavin. He has an overactive imagination. Fancy thinking I’d been abducted. The silly boy. He even got it into his head that the people at the guest house were vampires! Fancy that! I don’t think those people were totally up front, but they certainly weren’t vampires!’

  ‘Why do you think they weren’t up front, Mrs Hicks,’ Doherty asked.

  ‘They had dealings with strange people. I saw a big man over there. He didn’t belong.’

  ‘Can you describe him?’

  Mrs H
icks closed her eyes. ‘Big, broad, and black. It was dark. And he had a smell. Most people do. But his was different. And the other men. They came in a car. They didn’t go inside the house, though. They sat in their car at the top of School Lane, watching the house. Just sitting there. Watching. And before you ask me about the make of the car or the registration number, I don’t know. I know and care little about cars. I don’t like them.’

  ‘And the men? What were they like?’

  ‘Dangerous,’ she said. ‘Very dangerous. I didn’t see their looks. I only detected their auras.’

  Once they were outside, Honey explained the evidence that pointed to Mrs Hicks being a witch.

  ‘Water-filled dishes placed on the window ledges – so evil spirits would trip over the rim, fall in, and drown. Cats of course, the witch’s close companion. Corn dollies on the mantelpiece, a crystal ball – you got it right. I kept thinking it was a paperweight. I should have known better. Mary Jane taught me better than that.’

  ‘Not your mother?’ Doherty asked grimly.

  ‘I’ll ignore that remark.’

  ‘She seems quite a nice old girl. Bit of a surprise really. I thought witches wore pointed hats, rode broomsticks, and had warts and big noses.’

  Honey pulled her coat sleeve down so that her fingers wouldn’t leave marks on the car door handle.

  ‘No. Some of them are bewitching – gorgeous. And a taxi is far more convenient.’

  ‘Right. And plastic surgery on warts is better than ever.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  Clint was wearing blue checked trousers, a clean white tunic, and a crisp white apron. In short, he looked everything a good washer up should, right down to his plastic clogs.

  Honey was checking the meat order with Smudger. Lindsey was perusing the kitchen staff rota for the following week.

  All three of them were in collusion, though Clint wouldn’t know that.

  Suddenly there was the clatter of a dropped pencil.

  ‘Blow it. I seem to be all fingers and thumbs today,’ Honey muttered, bending down to capture the rolling pencil. ‘That poor receptionist out there. I did promise a cup of coffee. Poor thing …’

  ‘Leave it with me!’

  Clint leapt into action, spreading a lace doily over a stainless steel tray, adding a coffee pot, sugar basin, cream jug, and finally a cup and saucer.

  Lindsey surveyed his work with an aura of surprise.

  ‘Are there no mugs washed?’

  Honey kept her head down so Clint wouldn’t see her smile.

  Clint adopted the pose of a maitre d’, certainly not a run of the mill washer up.

  ‘The Green River Hotel extends a warm welcome to our new receptionist,’ he declared. ‘Start as you mean to go on; that’s what I always say.’

  Folding a fresh tea towel over his arm, he grabbed the tray and headed for Reception.

  Honey, Lindsey, and Smudger dropped what they were doing, heading on tip toe for the door that opened onto the hallway that in turn opened into Reception.

  The receptionist was not in sight, still ploughing through the employee particulars that needed filling in.

  Clint’s palm hit the brass bell fixed to the counter.

  ‘Coffee is served, fair lady …’

  His voice fell away as Eugene, a svelte figure in tight trousers and a neat waistcoat, appeared from the back office.

  ‘How very kind,’ he said, his slim hands reaching for the tray. ‘You must be Clint, but I will call you Rodney. You may call me Gene. Pleased to meet you, Rodney,’ he said, apparently unaware that Clint’s hand was as limp as a melted packet of peas. ‘I know we will be the best of friends. As friendly as you were with Anna, my predecessor, perhaps?’

  Clint coloured up. ‘Right, mate. Right.’

  He hightailed it back to the kitchen.

  ‘Ha, bloody ha,’ muttered Clint, scowling as he pushed past them en route to his saucepans and the spluttering, steaming dishwasher.

  Clint had had more than a friendly relationship with Anna, their last receptionist. To say it had been fruitful was an understatement. As it turned out, Anna was more of a free spirit than any of them had realised. Planning to invest her earnings in a roadside café with letting rooms, she’d taken the children and moved back to her home town in Poland where, rumour had it, a brand new road was going to be built – courtesy of European development funding.

  ‘Call me Gene’ was settling in nicely. He was quick on his feet, highly efficient, and as sleek and neat as a Siamese cat.

  ‘He’s gay,’ Clint muttered to her, up to his arms in soap suds.

  Honey was in no doubt that Gene’s sexual orientation had nothing to do with Clint’s dislike. What he really meant was that Gene was not female.

  Lindsey was standing next to Gene in Reception, going through the booking in system when an angry looking woman with what looked to be the beginnings of a toothbrush moustache banged through the swing doors into Reception.

  She was wrapped warmly against the winter weather, held a walking stick in one hand, and a large shopping bag in the other. Her hat was big and beige and had a very large brim. The hat coupled with the predominant colour of her outfit made her look like a large mushroom.

  ‘Young man!’

  Her voice was as loud as a sergeant major calling a battalion to attention.

  Neither Lindsey nor the new receptionist had time to open their mouths.

  ‘I wish to speak to this Driver person. I have a little job that needs sorting out. Now come along. I don’t have all day. Go and tell her that I’m here. Right now!’

  ‘Of course, madam. Who shall I say requires her presence?’ Gene asked, his vowels rippling with a soft French accent.

  Lindsey was impressed.

  ‘My name is Mrs Gertrude Nobbs. Perhaps you would be so kind as to tell her that I have been referred to her with reference to a crime that has been orchestrated upon my person.’

  Lindsey thought about asking her whether she didn’t think the police would be more helpful than a hotel owner, but somehow she knew that wouldn’t get anywhere.

  ‘If you’d like to take a seat, Mrs Nobbs, Eugene here will give you a cup of coffee while I fetch my mother. I think it’s my mother you’re looking for,’ Lindsey said.

  Mrs Nobbs bottom lip shuddered as though she were blowing a half raspberry. Fixing her watery blue eyes on Lindsey, she nodded and said that she would forego the coffee but would take a seat while she was waiting.

  ‘I don’t think I know her,’ said Honey after thinking about it, peering through an inch gap in the office door. ‘Did she say who referred her?’

  ‘No. All she said was that it was to do with a crime.’

  Honey frowned and put down the cup of coffee she’d been drinking and popped the last smidgeon of chocolate digestive into her mouth.

  ‘Bring her in.’

  In the privacy of Honey’s office, Mrs Nobbs settled herself down into the best armchair without being invited and told Honey to do the same.

  ‘I don’t speak to people who are standing up. I like to face people eye to eye.’ Accordingly she fixed Honey with eyes that were only just holding onto a hint of colour.

  ‘I live in Lansdown Crescent. Have done for some years.’

  ‘Very nice,’ said Honey adopting her warmest smile and looking suitably impressed because people who lived in Lansdown Crescent expected non-residents of Lansdown Crescent to be impressed.

  However, her intuition, in the form of a nervous fluttering in her stomach, told her she was about to be asked to do something she might not wish to do. Still, she was cornered. It seemed there was nothing to be done except to pull up a chair.

  ‘Before you tell me I should go to the police, I have already done so and was given short shrift. Do you know what that means, young woman? Short shrift?’

  Honey opened her mouth to respond that she did, but Mrs Nobbs was too quick for her.

  ‘They more or less told me that they di
dn’t have time to provide a round the clock vigil over my property. It wasn’t high enough priority. Poppycock! I cannot express it strongly enough. Poppycock!’

  Poppycock was hardly that strong, but given that Mrs Nobbs was of a certain background and a certain era, Honey supposed it was as strong as it got.

  ‘This policeman you saw …’

  ‘Rough-looking sort, though no doubt attractive to a certain kind of woman. The sort with loose morals whose blood runs hot at the sight of such a rough diamond.’

  The description of Doherty was spot on. Honey refrained from blushing at the thought of being the possessor of loose morals. She also wondered at what Mr Nobbs might have been like and entertained the sudden thought that the pair of them had never undressed in front of each other – well, not with the light on. Hence, Mrs Nobbs’ morals had never hung loose at the sight of a man like Doherty.

  ‘And the crime that has been perpetrated against you?’

  ‘My boys! They have been attacked and most badly disfigured. Just one or two of them at first, now half a dozen or more occurrences.’

  It was like a little bell was suddenly ringing in Honey’s head. Either this woman was nuts, grossly exaggerating or Honey herself had grabbed the wrong end of the stick.

  Crossing her hands neatly in her lap in an effort to both feel and appear calm, she asked, ‘Can you explain the nature of these attacks, the extent of injuries and when and where they occurred?’

  ‘I can do better than that!,’ exclaimed Mrs Nobbs, her bag landing with a thump on the floor. ‘I’ve brought the latest casualty with me, or at least, what’s left of him. I can’t bend down to get him out. You’ll have to do it.’

  This, decided Honey, is one of those quirky days that will have you and your dinner guests laughing over the cheeseboard. Either that or one of those horrific scenes like the boiling bunny from Fatal Attraction will have you running screaming from the building.

  She eyed the back with cold anticipation.

  Please don’t let there be bloody doggy or kitty parts in there.

  First there was a head, then a torso, followed by lower limbs: all made of plastic. Mrs Nobbs was reporting a crime against her gnomes.