Killing Jane Austen - A Honey Driver murder mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries)

by Jean G. Goodhind

  Tired out by chasing her food around the plate, she watched as the new trailer was hoisted into place. The old one was still bound around with scene of crime tape like a very large birthday parcel.

  Bernard shook his head. ‘I bet the insurance company are getting jittery about this film.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ agreed Honey. ‘I suppose they have to cover the costs of lost production.’

  ‘More than that. Production to final stages is insured. It’s been known for insurance companies to pay out millions if something happens to stop production, you know, like the star getting injured or suing for wrongful dismissal. But it isn’t always a bona fide injury or death. Sometimes it’s a case of the production company deciding the film’s a turkey and contriving to get a fat pay out.’

  ‘They’re covered for most eventualities?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Like a top-rate superstar being rubbed out?’

  ‘No doubt they were insured against that actuality for a very reasonable fee. I mean, it’s very unlikely for a star to die during production, unless they’re terribly old of course.’

  ‘So the premium was small, but the payout was large?’

  ‘You bet it was!’

  Despite the fact that Bernard was less than dazzling as a lunchtime companion, what he said was interesting and gave rise to some very disturbing thoughts. Potential accidents were all around, just waiting to happen. Murder too, though not so frequently.

  She eyed her sorry forkful of risotto and wondered how dangerous it was. What was the chance of it sticking in her throat and choking her? What was the chance of her falling down the stairs when she ventured to take her paper plate and plastic fork to the bin?

  At the sound of shouted orders, her gaze moved back to the action outside.

  The trailer was being hauled upwards. So far it was only a few feet. ‘How about if a trailer hanging from a crane suddenly crashes on to a bus load of extras filling their faces? Would the insurance cover that?’

  ‘Simple, straightforward public liability. Your family would be paid out in the event of your death.’

  ‘That’s very reassuring. My daughter would probably buy herself a museum, and my mother would very likely move into one.’

  No matter how hard she concentrated on what Bernard was saying – and it was pretty sensible stuff – the scene outside the window was getting scary. The crane had hauled the trailer up to roof height. It was swaying and turning on the end of the wire.

  Bernard noticed her attention had strayed. ‘I expect you’re wondering if it’s going to fall. In the light of what I’ve told you, you are now considering the possibilities.’ He fed and chewed as he spoke. He was a noisy eater.

  Honey kept her attention fixed on the trailer.

  ‘It had occurred to me.’

  Bernard paused between finishing his steak and kidney pudding and starting on the heaped bowl of trifle he’d fetched himself.

  ‘It looks to be a pretty precarious operation. Quite worrying in fact.’

  ‘It is?’ This was not what she wanted to hear. This was a guy who knew about possibilities and probabilities. She forced her mind to return to questions regarding the case. ‘I can’t believe that anyone would murder purely for money. I must be naive. Would a production company get that desperate?’

  ‘Depends on the fiscal health of Banana Productions Ltd,’ Bernard explained between mouthfuls.

  Honey was losing her appetite. Bernard was coming out with some pretty unpalatable stuff. The trailer wasn’t helping. It hung in the air, throwing a long, dark shadow that made her nervous. A sudden gust of wind sent it spinning slightly. The men on the ground looked upwards, shoving their bright yellow hard hats further back on their heads. They looked nervous. Someone shouted something.

  ‘I guess I don’t fancy trifle,’ said Honey, already getting to her feet.

  ‘Umm …’ Bernard seemed loath to leave his dessert.

  The shadow of the trailer fell over them.

  The men in hard hats cried out a warning. The trailer swayed some more. The bus was plunged into darkness. A vibration rattled through it as the side of the trailer scraped along the roof of the bus.

  Honey headed for the stairs. Bernard was right behind her. They could make it – couldn’t they?

  She punched the button that operated the automatic door. Sluggishly, it opened the first few inches. She tugged it the rest of the way, surprised at her own strength. Electric motor versus woman in jeopardy was no contest!

  ‘It can’t fall that far,’ said Bernard.

  She decided he was a wimp. She also decided he knew nothing about the dynamics of what goes up must come down; even when suspended on the end of a high-tensile steel wire.

  The trailer crashed to the ground.

  Everyone stared open-mouthed – except for the guys in the hard hats. They christened the trailer’s earthbound arrival with a few well-chosen words, none of which were likely to be included in a family-orientated film script.

  Bernard stated the obvious. ‘I don’t think anyone’s hurt. It just landed heavily.’

  ‘So I noticed. Heavily enough to send the bus swaying on its wheels.’

  Having delivered a glancing blow, the scene-of-crime trailer rolled on its axles before settling sedately.

  Suddenly the door of Martyna’s trailer banged open. The scene-of-crime tape was ripped as a figure swathed in warm woollies bolted out and hurtled down the steps.

  ‘Who the hell’s that?’

  Bernard shrugged.

  Basically she was speaking to herself, but that wasn’t a bad thing. Her mind stayed focused. Someone was where they shouldn’t be. Nobody should be in that trailer.

  ‘There should be a policeman on duty. Where is he?’ she murmured.

  Bernard was under the impression she was addressing him.

  ‘Perhaps nature called?’ he offered, in what she could only describe as a boringly affable voice.

  ‘Steve Doherty will kill him! Hold that!’

  For some reason she’d brought the plate and the remains of her risotto with her. She banged it hard against Bernard’s gut. Risotto and plastic cutlery flew everywhere.

  Needs must when a girl has a job to do. She was off in hot pursuit.

  There was no sign of the figure.

  Think positively. That’s what she did as she ran. If you were going to escape this little lot, you’d head for one of the three roads dissecting the ranks of houses.

  But which one?

  There were few people around. After feeding their faces for free at the catering truck, a large number of extras and crew had decamped to the Salamander, a small pub with a big atmosphere.

  Everybody she asked said the same: sure they saw someone running past, but they’d been watching the trailer drop. Did you see that? Did you?

  ‘I’m not built for this,’ Honey muttered to herself as she ran. ‘And I’m not wearing a sports bra!’

  Boobs jiggling up and down, breath laboured, she loped along at something less than a gallop but more than a trot. Not quite a canter either. A lollop?

  She collided head-on with Boris Morris, the pissed-off director of this movie. She didn’t need anyone to tell her how he felt; he had pissed off written all over his face. Though at this moment in time he was trying to make the best of it. No doubt this was due to the company he was in. She was blonde, slender, and had bumps in all the right places – not too many bumps and not too big.

  Palms fixed on boobs, Honey slid to a breathless halt. ‘Did you see someone run past here?’

  As she waited for his answer, she leaned sideways so she could see round him. Whoever had come out of the trailer couldn’t have got that far.

  ‘I don’t know. I might have. It happens all the time – people breaking in to pinch mementoes of Martyna. Autograph hunters and such like. Look. Can we move on from here?’

  Boris Morris sounded irritable, as though the murder of Martyna Manderley was done and dusted an
d he didn’t want to be reminded of it.

  Honey turned to his companion. ‘Did you see anything, miss?’

  ‘I believe I saw somebody running in that direction.’

  ‘Male or female?’

  The woman shrugged. ‘No idea.’

  Honey thanked her. That was when she recognized Penelope Petrie, the movie star.

  ‘Welcome to the set, Miss Petrie.’

  ‘Thank you. I’m glad to be here.’

  As she headed in the direction suggested, Honey pondered on why Penelope Petrie had been chosen for the role of Jane Austen. Her accent was far from being plummy English – more Atlanta, Georgia.

  She asked a few more people about the well-wrapped-up figure she’d seen emerging from the fatal trailer.

  ‘Did you see anyone?’

  Nobody had. No matter how much she asked them to think very carefully, their eyes had a faraway look, mostly fixed on the director’s second assistant, who was gathering people for the next scene.

  The curly-haired young woman was wearing a multi-striped muffler. ‘We need three people over there, and three over there.’ She pointed to a trash can fixed to a lamp post and a parking meter. Both needed screening from the camera.

  All the world’s a stage and everyone wants to be on it. ‘Even if it’s only to hide a trash can,’ Honey muttered to herself.

  The policeman who should have been on guard outside the trailer emerged from the on-site lavatory services.

  Honey didn’t spare the tongue lashing. ‘Steve Doherty is going to make mincemeat out of you!’

  ‘Who says so?’

  ‘Doherty and I have a thing going.’

  He paled. A wife or girlfriend snitching to a superior was a big no-no.

  He made the obvious excuse. ‘I had to pee.’

  ‘Why didn’t you call for someone to relieve you before you relieved yourself?’

  ‘It’s only a trailer.’

  ‘Well, somebody popped in while you popped out, very likely nicking a memento of the great star’s life and trampling over the evidence in the process. Forensics are going to be real pleased.’

  His face drained of colour. ‘Christ!’

  Tunic flapping and holding on to his cap, he dashed off.

  Honey didn’t have the heart to tell him that his flies were undone, but then again, he deserved to have his nether regions frozen.

  ‘Wow,’ said Bernard, who had followed her over. ‘Care to talk to me like that?’

  She threw him a withering look. ‘No, I do not care to talk to you like that.’

  She called Doherty on her mobile phone and explained what had happened.

  ‘Did you see who it was?’

  ‘No.’

  That was the trouble with February. Everyone was in disguise. The weather dictated it that way.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Someone had dropped a mobile phone in room sixteen. If they’d dropped it somewhere in the bedroom, retrieving it would not have presented a problem. Ditto if they’d dropped it in the bathroom – even in the bath. No. They’d dropped it down the lavatory and the flush had been pulled. Said phone had jammed in the U-bend and the water was backing up.

  The culprit was a pint-sized three-year-old named Joel. His parents called him their pride and joy. Biting hard on a conciliatory smile, Honey was mentally calling him something else.

  The plumber promised to come as soon as possible, but was not at all sure when that would be.

  In the meantime, he suggested somebody try and fish it out with a wire coat hanger. ‘Someone with long fingers,’ he added.

  Honey felt the finger of fate point in her direction. The buck stops here, she thought to herself.

  In the absence of other volunteers, she got the coat hanger and the rubber gloves, but it meant she was late meeting Doherty as they’d arranged the night before.

  Breath steaming in the cold air, she raced along to the Petite Chasseur coffee shop. It was situated down a narrow lane just off

  Quiet Street

  . The cobbles were slippery with condensation. Slate grey figures moved around in the mist. Given a vivid imagination, it would be easy to believe that some of them were ghosts. Honey tried not to believe in ghosts. It wasn’t easy seeing as Mary Jane firmly believed that the spirit of her dead ancestor haunted the Green River Hotel.

  Such thoughts were set aside. She pushed open the door to the welcoming smell of freshly percolated coffee.

  Doherty was already there. As she settled on a spindly bentwood chair, he smiled his crooked smile, only one side of his mouth lifting. He made a clicking sound with his tongue.

  ‘Of all the joints, in all the world …’

  The clingy smell of rubber gloves tickled Honey’s nostrils. ‘Not now, Steve. I’ve spent the morning with my hand down a lavatory.’

  He wrinkled his nose. ‘Too much information for a guy trying to be Prince Charming.’

  ‘Sorry. I can only think rubber gloves and not glass slippers.’

  ‘The day can only improve.’

  She pulled a face. ‘I’m not sure about that. I’ve got a WI event this evening.’

  His eyebrows almost went into orbit. ‘You?’

  ‘I’m not a member of it or anything. Though the Women’s Institute is a very worthy organization. Their profile went into orbit after they posed naked for that charity calendar, and their home-made jam and Victoria sponges are said to be out of this world. However, I’m not tempted to join their happy band. I don’t make jam like they do, but I do have to go back to the Green River and stuff a few vol-au-vents this afternoon.’

  He nodded with sarcastic sympathy. ‘Stuffing is a task close to my own heart.’

  She didn’t respond to the sexual innuendo. It just wasn’t in her this morning.

  He got the message. ‘I’ve ordered cappuccinos.’

  Firstly, she told him about what Boring Bernard had told her. She’d only recently added the prefix to Bernard’s name. Bernard was a name that naturally attracted a ‘boring’ alliteration.

  ‘Money is always a prime motive,’ said Doherty.

  Secondly, they went over the question of why anyone would break into the empty trailer.

  ‘Who the hell was it?’

  Honey licked the foam from her lips. ‘It could have been Frosty the Snowman for all I know. He or she was certainly wrapped up against the cold.’

  ‘There was nothing missing. We checked.’

  Honey frowned. ‘There had to be some reason.’

  The lazy way Doherty shrugged his shoulders captured Honey’s attention. He had a mean look about him when he shrugged – hints of Philip Marlowe. For a moment she forgot the lavatory and the rubber gloves.

  ‘What about height?’ he asked, lounging back in his chair as she tried to remember. It was difficult to concentrate when he looked at her like that. There was no alternative but to imagine she was having a cold shower. It worked.

  ‘Tall. Quite tall. It could have been a man.’

  ‘Or a very tall woman.’

  ‘Scheherazade Parker-Henson is quite a tall person.’

  ‘She needs to be with a name like that.’

  ‘So’s Danny Byrne, the sound technician. So’s Boris Morris, and Graham who operates the clapperboard, and –’

  ‘Sounds like a shopping list.’

  ‘Listing works for me.’

  Doherty rubbed at his eyes with finger and thumb. ‘I’m sorry. All work and no play makes Steve a dull boy.’ He abruptly stopped rubbing his eyes and looked deeply into hers. ‘Fancy coming out to play tonight?’

  She shook her head.

  He put up his hand, palm facing her. ‘Don’t tell me. You’ve got the Women’s Institute coming to dine and they all want stuffed vol-au-vents.’ He looked both amused and disappointed.

  ‘No …’ she said slowly, smiling with her eyes seeing as the joke wasn’t entirely lost on her. ‘I’ll do my best to make room for you. But I can’t promise. Anyway, there’s so
mething else.’ She leaned across the table, savouring the smell of his aftershave. ‘And if you’re a good boy I’ll tell you something really exciting.’

  He too leaned closer. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Women didn’t wear hatpins in their bonnets in the late-eighteenth and early-nineteenth centuries.’

  Doherty looked at her blankly. Then the penny dropped. ‘So our leading lady didn’t necessarily take the pin from her bonnet.’

  ‘Or if it was there, it was transferred from hat to throat in one easy jab.’

  ‘Or the perpetrator was wearing it.’

  ‘Possibly. Oh, and Richard Richards saw the senior make-up artist go into Martyna’s trailer shortly before she was found. I think he saw other people, but he’s being awkward. He likes to think that he’s important enough to bestow rather than give information.’

  Doherty frowned. ‘Is that so? Well, we’ve already got a note of that piece of info. He gave us a few other names; all members of the crew. Why did he tell you the same stuff?’

  She thought about it. ‘One reason could be that he wanted to implicate that particular person. On the other hand, he likes other people buying him lunch. I also praised his cooking. He especially likes that.’

  ‘Sad sack.’

  ‘Me or him?’

  ‘Him of course.’

  Honey scooped the chocolate from the frothy coffee and scraped it on to the side of the cup. The flaky bits were barely a mouthful, but still a load of calories she could do without.

  Doherty scooped a finger into the chocolate chips she’d discarded and sucked them into his mouth. ‘Normally, the first port of call would be her fiancé – but he was in mid-air over the Atlantic, so I’ve been told.’

  ‘That would have made life easier.’

  ‘Darn right it would. So what motives do we have?’

  Honey frowned. ‘I vote for professional jealousy.’

  Doherty thought about it. The playful cop mask hardened when he turned serious about the job. ‘Suspects galore. Fifty per cent were honest about not liking her and fifty per cent tried to hide the fact.’

  ‘Any favourites?’

  He made a sound between a ‘mew’ and an ‘um’. ‘About six.’ He began counting them off on his fingers. ‘Two make-up artists, the understudy, the wardrobe mistress, the sound technician and the director. I would have included the scriptwriter, but he’s never on set – or not much of the time. I discounted the seventh suspect, the person who found the script, on the grounds that she’d never met the deceased before the day of the murder.’