‘Garçon, I am going to give you and this establishment the benefit of my experience of superior cuisine.’
Honey could tell the waiter wanted to tell Dick to bugger off. She’d felt the same on many occasions.
Dick was in full flow.
‘Many famous people have praised my culinary skills. I’ve catered to the best; Sydney Sidon, the quiz show host. He does like a sausage sandwich with relish on the side.’ Dick wagged a warning finger. ‘Wait there while I taste this.’
Honey watched as Dick, with a flourish of his meaty hand, lowered the spoon into the soup. A green spoonful came out with a flake of crabmeat in the middle.
‘Not bad on the eyes,’ said Dick. ‘People eat with their eyes,’ he informed Honey.
‘Really.’
She could have added that smell mattered too, but she didn’t wish to be drawn in to this conversation. She was here to talk about suspects and motives and how many people Dick had seen enter Martyna’s trailer.
Dick pursed his lips and made small sucking sounds. He looked up at the ceiling as he did so, then swallowed and gave his verdict.
‘Passable,’ he said with an air of majesty. ‘Give my compliments to the chef, and if ever he’s scratching his head for an idea, refer him to me. I’ve cooked for Costner, you know. And Michael Caine. He likes a good roast.’
The waiter looked relieved to go.
‘Now this Scheherazade,’ said Honey. ‘What motive would she have for killing Martyna?’
‘Simple,’ he said, wiping his mouth. ‘Martyna used to bully young Courtney something rotten. Schezzer used to pull her up about it.’ He grinned suddenly. ‘Scheherazade’s a bit of a mouthful. She’s Schezzer to her friends.’
Obviously Dick counted himself as one of them. Honey flicked the crumbs he’d sprayed off her notebook.
‘So there was bad blood between them?’
‘Martyna was good at creating bad blood,’ he said, setting down his spoon and making a face. ‘That’s enough for me. I don’t want to offend anybody, but I do have very high standards.’
‘How long was she in Martyna’s trailer?’
‘About ten minutes max.’
Honey stayed the pen. ‘That’s enough time to stab someone.’
Dick’s attention had already gone back to the chalkboard. ‘Their desserts look a bit unadventurous for my taste,’ he said. ‘I do a mean meringue, you know. My baked Alaska is to die for.’
‘Let’s hope not,’ said Honey. She badly wanted to ask him who else had entered Martyna’s trailer, but it was hard to get the subject matter away from food.
‘What was that?’ Here he was again, referring back to her comment with regard to his desserts.
‘Your baked Alaska. Wouldn’t want anyone to die on account of it.’ She laughed. ‘It was a joke.’
His face remained deadpan.
‘I don’t think it’s funny!’
He started to get to his feet.
‘Dick, it was only a joke. Look. Don’t go. I need your input. You’re the only person on the whole set who was in a position to study who went into Martyna’s trailer and who came out.’
‘Not today.’
‘I’ll give you my phone number. Phone me when you’re ready to talk again.’
He seemed to be thinking about it as he tucked his notebook and pen back into his pocket.
‘Humph!’ he said at last.
She pressed her phone number on him.
‘Any time, any place, anywhere. I’ve always got my phone with me.’
Eventually the hard lines of his face relaxed and drooped as befitting his age.
‘On one condition.’
‘Which is?’
‘Next time you take me to a better eating place than this one.’
Chapter Ten
‘So how did it go?’
Honey was propped up on the reception desk with her chin resting in her hand and her elbow resting on the desk. Doherty came in with a blast of cold air. He drew off the black scarf he was wearing around his neck. His look was sardonically sexy.
‘Don’t you ever shave?’
There was a familiar grating sound as he rubbed at his stubble with chunky fingers. He grinned. ‘Wrong time of year for shaving. It’s too cold. In fact I’m considering growing a beard.’
‘You’re not!’
‘Don’t you like beards?’
‘You’re not here to talk about beards. You’re here to take me out. Am I right?’
He grinned. ‘Nothing could stop me.’
‘Hey, Honey!’
Mary Jane flounced down the stairs and into reception. Doherty’s jaw dropped at the sight of her.
‘She’s just got back from a trip to Edinburgh,’ Honey explained.
‘Some tartan, Mary Jane,’ Doherty exclaimed with over-the-top enthusiasm.
Mary Jane’s face lit up. ‘Why, thank you, officer. It’s an antique, you know. The guy I bought it from reckoned it was worn at the Battle of Bannockburn.’
Doherty’s nostrils closed to tight slits.
The heavy tartan skirt Mary Jane was wearing reeked of camphor. It had probably been in mothballs for years, though not of course as far back as the Battle of Bannockburn. Even the best Harris tweed didn’t last that long.
Honey wanted to breathe again and the best way to do that was to assist Mary Jane so she would go away.
‘Can I help you, Mary Jane?’
‘I’m sure you can, dear. Sir Cedric suggested I get out and about a bit more. I’ve been snuggling up to the radiator and my chilblains are suffering on account of it. He suggests I get on to that film set. I don’t mind just a small part. I don’t want to be a star or anything. What do you think?’
Mary Jane’s bright expression was fighting a losing battle against a lifetime’s accumulation of wrinkles, though her eyes still twinkled.
‘I think filming’s at a standstill at the moment,’ Honey declared. ‘Did you hear the leading lady’s been murdered?’
‘Sure, but Hollywood stops for nobody. Contrary to what you say, I hear it’s back on again. Entertainment News says they’ve got a new star and they’ll be requiring more extras. I thought I’d put my name down real fast.’
Mary Jane addressed Doherty. ‘Derek, the guy who does the stuff with microphones, said they could use somebody like me. I’m tall, but I’m skinny.’
So Derek was the culprit!
Honey had been out earlier. She’d gone round to her mother’s to get her antique corset back, but Gloria had a very good reason for wanting to hold on to it.
‘I need to borrow it, Hannah my darling. There’s this cute little guy at the Conservative Club with a lot of potential, but he’s in need of something to fan his flames a little – if you know what I mean.’
Honey knew all right. Anyway, a little romance on her mother’s account meant she wouldn’t be attempting to fix her daughter up with a potential second husband.
‘I hear being skinny is a definite advantage,’ said Doherty. He threw Honey a sidelong grin. ‘The reason is, so I’m told, that the camera adds at least ten pounds to what you look like.’
‘That’s what I heard too,’ said Mary Jane, nodding like an electric donkey.
Honey rolled her eyes. ‘I don’t suppose Sir Cedric wants to be an extra too.’ She was being facetious, but Mary Jane took it very seriously.
‘I haven’t asked him,’ she said. ‘Anyway, I doubt the camera would catch him.’
This was all very true. Sir Cedric was the supposedly resident ghost at the Green River Hotel and everyone knew that ghosts were camera shy. Only Mary Jane ever saw him and for a very good reason. They were related – according to Mary Jane, who was an expert on such subjects. A professor of the paranormal, she had graduated from a college catering in that one subject, which was located in California – where else?
Doherty was looking concerned. He had a deep frown when he looked concerned. It was fetching and made Honey want to reach out an
d smooth it away.
‘They’re quick off the mark,’ muttered Doherty.
He was referring to the production company of course. Big money, big business, big interests. Poor old Martyna Manderley had barely settled into her ice-cold cubicle at the mortuary and here they were carrying on without her.
‘The show must go on,’ said Mary Jane. ‘I’ve got a call for tomorrow at six. How about you?’
She directed her question at Honey.
‘Sure,’ said Honey. ‘I’m up for that. Fix it with Derek for me, will you?’
Mary Jane said that she would and was gone. The smell of mothballs went with her.
Both Honey and Doherty took deep breaths.
‘What is she like?’ Honey asked.
‘Come on. Get your coat. Let’s go breathe in the smoke down at the Zodiac.’
‘Hmmm. Heaven,’ said Honey. ‘Beats camphor hands down.’
‘Is that what it was?’
‘Don’t tell me that you thought it was perfume?’
He gave a casual toss of his head. ‘Well, you know how these old girls are; lavender, camphor, syrup of figs.’
She looked at him and laughed out loud. ‘Syrup of figs?’
‘They go in for all that kind of thing,’ he responded defensively.
The Zodiac was busy, though not as busy as it would be closer to midnight when late-working hoteliers, publicans and guest-house proprietors flooded in to brood and brag about the relative advantages of their businesses as opposed to their compatriots. Or they just came and got drunk.
Clint – real name Rodney – Eastwood was on the door. The Zodiac was having another of its theme nights. Tonight it was cowboys and Indians. Clint was dressed as a Mohican-type Indian, which because of his hairstyle suited him very well.
‘Nice hairdo,’ said Doherty.
Clint ran both hands over the sides of his shaved head, despite the fact that he was carrying an axe in one of them. Honey presumed, indeed hoped, that it was made of rubber.
She added her own ounce of praise. ‘You certainly do look the part.’
The outfit basically consisted of a loincloth, a load of bead necklaces, and a powder horn on a leather strap. Red and yellow warpaint vied for attention with his proliferation of tattoos.
He beamed proudly. Despite his appearance, Clint wasn’t a bad lad deep down. On the surface he was a bit hit and miss, and not entirely honest, but he was good at washing dishes. Honey employed him when needed, that is when she couldn’t get anyone else and Clint needed the money.
‘Here,’ said Clint, beaming proudly. ‘I’ve only got a few of these to give out.’
He pinned a tin star on to Doherty’s chest.
‘Seeing as you are a sheriff – in a manner of speaking.’
He made some excuse about why Honey couldn’t have one.
‘It’s a well-known fact that cowboys are sexist,’ she countered.
Clint looked hurt. ‘I’m a Mohican!’
‘Very authentic hairstyle, Clint, but I don’t think the Mohicans dyed theirs lime green.’
Chapter Eleven
Miss Lavender Cleveley carefully unfolded the piece of paper she had secreted in her handbag. Phone numbers she needed to remember were mostly listed in a small notebook kept primarily for that purpose, such as the doctor, the dentist, and those few relatives who had not yet been scythed into eternity by the Grim Reaper.
This phone number was different. She didn’t want anyone knowing that she had it. Television cop shows portrayed too many murderers tripped up because they’d left secret phone numbers too visible. She had no intention of doing that.
Her mouth moved silently as she read the number. Once she was sure she’d got it right, she picked up the phone and dialled.
She heard it ring four times before it was picked up.
What sounded like a female voice answered.
‘Is he there?’ asked Miss Cleveley.
The woman hesitated.
She probably thinks I’m one of his women, Miss Cleveley mused. Hardly that, she thought, chuckling to herself.
It was easy to imagine what the woman was thinking and what kind of expression she wore. A slight frown, a pout coming to painted lips – they were all the same.
‘I’ll get him,’ said the faceless person on the other end.
The phone was abandoned.
Lavender Cleveley pursed her thin lips as she waited. Her chill eyes, which had been a brighter blue when she’d been younger, now narrowed as she contemplated what she would say.
‘Hello! Who is this?’
‘Mr Brett?’
‘Yes,’ he said gruffly. ‘What do you want?’
She wouldn’t tell him who she was, but she would certainly tell him what she wanted.
‘What you do and what you did are quite despicable. But I’ll have my revenge. You just see if I don’t.’
‘What are you talking about?’
His tone of voice altered, imperceptibly to most ears, but Miss Cleveley knew voices. She’d trained voices in her time. Oh, yes, indeed! Mr Brett had been thrown off balance.
She put the phone down. He’d check the number, but of course it wouldn’t mean anything. Thank God not all the red telephone boxes had been swept away with the coming of the mobile phone.
An elderly gentleman waiting outside heaved the door open for her.
‘Built these old things to last,’ he said jovially, and tipped his flat cap to her as he stood aside to let her pass.
‘A bit like me,’ she said, suddenly feeling as though she could walk on air.
The old man laughed and entered the phone box.
Miss Lavender Cleveley waltzed on home, singing quietly as she went.
Unnerved, but determined not to show it, Brett Coleridge went back to his friends. He was having a party, a men-only type of party. There were just four of them attending.
He needed a drink. The caller had rattled him and blighted the evening.
‘Everything all right, old boy?’
The question was asked by an ex-RAF chap called Nigel. He was thin, sandy-haired, and about six feet tall. He’d been trying on a pair of stiletto shoes. They were very pretty shoes: a combination of petrol blue and vivid snake green. The material shimmered and changed colour in the light.
Nigel didn’t see the warning look and wasn’t really one for sensing a change in atmosphere.
‘Just look at these little beauties,’ he said, pointing his right toe. The skirt he was wearing had a slit up the side. He held it so that more of his leg showed. He was wearing 15 denier tights.
Brett hated tights. He stared at the shoes, the leg, and the dress that so beautifully matched the shoes.
The shoes were a size ten and handmade. They had to be. Few women wore a size ten. Nigel was only pretending to be a woman. They all were.
Brett’s eyes turned the colour of cold steel. His stomach hurt. He felt sick. He wanted to destroy these men and in so doing destroy the part of himself that made him do these things.
‘You disgust me,’ he growled.
Nigel still hadn’t got it. ‘Brett, darling …’
A fist smashed into his face. The big man toppled and fell.
Brett laid into him with both feet, kicking his stomach, his ribs, and specifically aiming for his crotch. Nigel was wise enough to cover his private parts, and that wasn’t all.
‘Brett! Not my face!’
One hand on his privates, the other on his face.
By the time the others had pulled him off, Nigel was in a pretty bad way.
‘He needs an ambulance.’
Of course he did. But none of them wanted to call one. None of them wanted to be exposed.
Brett came to his senses. ‘We’ve got to get rid of him.’
‘Dressed like that?’
The man who asked was himself dressed in a red dress with white polka dots. His face was round and red.
‘That’s for him to explain, not us,’ said Brett. �
�Take care of number one. That’s my motto.’
Chapter Twelve
The extras were kept hanging around as crowd scenes and other scenes that didn’t need a leading lady were being shot.
Honey watched the comings and goings. Nothing of note was happening, as in nobody was getting killed. People – the extras that is – were just hanging around.
The guy sitting next to her was got up as some kind of workman. He told her that his name was Bernard and that he did this kind of work in between doing up old properties for renting.
‘I used to work near the Bank of England in the City of London. I was an actuary.’
‘A bit like a stockbroker?’
He shook his head. ‘No. It’s to do with banking and insurance. I assessed the probabilities and possibilities of underwritten bonds, insurance coverage et cetera – on a massive scale, of course. But I wanted a change. I enjoy getting my hands dirty with the houses, but need something completely different on occasion. I like to meet people. Besides, the food’s good.’
Food had been mentioned. Honey’s stomach rumbled. Nobody should diet in February.
With a piled-up paper plate in one hand and steaming coffee in the other, they headed for the bus on which the extras were based.
Downstairs was fully taken. Accompanied by Bernard, she went upstairs and found seating and a Formica-topped table free at the front.
‘Nice view,’ said Honey after setting down her goodies.
Bernard agreed. ‘Yes, you can see all the way to the other side of the green.’
He sounded quite impressed by the aspect. Honey was referring to the fact that they were looking down on Martyna Manderley’s trailer. Things were happening around it.
A low-loader truck had brought a new trailer for the use of Martyna’s replacement. A crew of brawny men were attempting to manoeuvre the new one into place.
Her companion’s attention had already shifted to his plate. Bernard rubbed his hands together, then attacked his steak and kidney pudding.
‘Very nice! Very nice indeed. Golden crust, prime steak, and thick gravy.’
Honey did the same. Not completely guiltless about veering away from a diet, she’d chosen risotto. The food was good. The plastic fork was small and flexible. Small portions only; anything else fell off the end.
Killing Jane Austen - A Honey Driver murder mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries) Page 6
