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

by Jean G. Goodhind

  Honey frowned. She’d presumed Candy followed a similar line of work to Zoe. Had she got it that wrong? Perhaps Candy was the type of actress whose films were definitely way beyond the nine o’clock watershed – or not fit for mainstream viewing at all. But she couldn’t ask outright.

  ‘So,’ she said slowly. ‘Are you and Zoe in the same line of work?’

  ‘Not quite,’ said Candy in a high-pitched voice. ‘I did try it for a time, but I didn’t like it. I didn’t feel loved. Not cosily loved. And it was all so businesslike; not much socializing, you know? And I do like to be part of the in-scene.’

  Honey nodded as though she understood, when in fact she hadn’t been part of it for years.

  Candy plucked another pink and white candy from the box and popped it into her mouth.’

  ‘So I decided to diversify,’ she said breathily, her little head perkily swapping from one side to another on her alabaster neck.

  Honey tried to get a handle on where this was going. Was she on the game or wasn’t she?

  There was nothing for it but to ask her outright. ‘So what exactly … How did you diversify?’

  Candy’s pretty pout widened into a smile. ‘I’m a gossip girl! That’s the name for it. I get seen in all the right places and with all the right people. And all for money. Lots of money. Eventually.’

  Honey felt her jaw dropping further and further as Candy explained what she did. Basically she was one of a bunch of girls hired to trap the rich and famous. Honeytraps. Tabloid tarts.

  Candy seemed to read her mind. ‘It’s all business and it leads to other things. For instance, I’ve done a few glamour shots for some top newspapers. We’re like …’ She paused as her eyes rolled in the act of thinking. ‘We’re playmates. We’re not tarts.’

  ‘Of course you’re not,’ said Honey, not really sure they could be anything else, but swayed by Candy’s niceness. ‘Does it pay well?’

  ‘Excellent. We “bump into” the object of our assignment by accident, though of course it isn’t an accident at all. It’s all arranged beforehand, though the man involved doesn’t know that. Rich and powerful men are very arrogant. They think they can have everything they see, and they go all out to get it.’

  Candy’s cynicism made Honey feel quite uncomfortable. There was more than a passing resemblance to the pink and white candy she was eating. The wrappers looked pretty and innocent enough. The calories on the inside were downright dangerous.

  ‘So what else besides money do you get from this?’ She was thinking jewellery, property and perhaps a nice little sports car. The latter appealed. She’d like one herself.

  Jaw still working hard, Candy more or less repeated what she’d already said. ‘We further our careers in the process. We become overnight celebrities and once everyone knows your name then the sky’s the limit. People want to make you an even bigger star than what you are.’

  Candy offered Honey another sweetie. Honey declined.

  ‘I’m on a diet.’

  ‘I’m not,’ said Candy with childish charm. ‘I’m never on a diet. I couldn’t do it. I just love candies! That’s why I’m called Candy. See?

  Too right. She was living up to her name. She was also kidding herself. How long would the bimbo body last, Honey wondered. Candy could be heading for a career change if she didn’t slow down. Barbie dolls were as meaty as scraped-clean chicken bones. Candy could end up as round and full of suet as a roly-poly pudding.

  Pink, green, and lemon candies winked provocatively from the open box. Irresistible!

  ‘Go on. Have another.’

  Candy wafted the box beneath Honey’s nose.

  Her fingers disobeyed her brain and she took one.

  ‘So what’s the score? How does it work, this being a girl that people suddenly see splashed all over the tabloid press?’

  She didn’t add ‘with some rich and famous old guy in tow’. Somehow that might sound sarcastic.

  Pink lips pouted. The blue eyes rolled and flecks of black fluttered from caked mascara as Candy considered.

  ‘I get a phone call from the agency. Date, time, and place. I make contact. Mr North does the rest.’

  ‘Any time?’

  ‘Depends where I’m supposed to meet and impress him. Depends on the event and where it takes place.’

  ‘What sort of places?’

  The blue eyes rolled around her head again. No doubt in search of profound thoughts.

  ‘Well – you know,’ she said in her Tweety Pie voice, ‘something to do with their professions or hobbies. I have to do a bit of homework beforehand, of course. Take golf. Mr North paid for the very best professional golf instructor he could find. He said I took to golf like a fish takes to water. Isn’t that something?’

  ‘Wonderful.’

  ‘I’ve got quite a good golf swing so I’ve been told. Wanna see it?’

  ‘I’ll take a rain check on that. So what happens then?’

  ‘Well!’ Candy swung her fingers over the remaining array of handmade chocolates and candies – available only from Harrods. ‘I get them in the right room at the right time and usually without their clothes on – or at least in a very exposed position. Mr North does the rest. His photographer pretends to be room service – and there you have it. Photographs and an expose from yours truly. Sex sells newspapers, so they say.’

  Honey couldn’t argue with that. As Candy talked a thought crossed her mind. Would I have the guts to do something like that? Nah! A bit late now to be bimbo material; still, different men, different tastes. Some guys liked older women. There was one fly in the ointment she couldn’t quite get out of her mind. Her mother would kill her. So what about Candy’s mother?

  ‘Does your family know what you do?’

  Throwing back her head and exposing her long white neck, Candy expelled a deep and throaty laugh.

  ‘My mother thinks it’s the best job I’ve ever had. I’m one of the new wave of celebrities – a nobody who was gutsy enough to become a somebody. I get asked on to a whole range of reality shows and parties. I’ve been invited on to a reality TV show. That should help my career some. My mum thinks I don’t need to worry about being famous. She’s convinced that I’ll end up marrying a millionaire. I suppose it’s likely. I don’t mind if it doesn’t last as long as I get a good divorce settlement.’

  ‘Yes. I guess you would.’

  In her mind, Honey was comparing Candy with Lindsey. They had to be around the same age. How would she feel if her daughter was a professional ‘honeypot’, a lure to the rich and famous?

  ‘Did it take much getting used to – after all, you had a pretty ordinary background and a job in a chemist shop, I understand.’

  Acting like pincers, long finger nails of passion pink studded with sparkly bits neatly lifted another candy – almond-topped this time.

  ‘Yes, I did have a pretty ordinary life before all this happened and it was strange to start with. First, you kind of miss being boracic lint – purse empty, credit cards up to the limit. Then wham! You’ve got money in the bank.’ She smiled sweetly. ‘But I manage.’

  ‘So Perdita Moody stayed here for a while.’

  ‘Three days. She went out every day to the agencies. She brought back copies of The Stage and other news rags advertising small bit parts and chorus lines.’ She shrugged. ‘I don’t do that any more myself. They pay peanuts. Play my cards right and I get coconuts.’

  ‘Did she find a job?’

  Candy’s brow developed more creases. Honey surmised that deep thinking was in progress.

  ‘She says she found a job in the paper, and then she had a phone call. Could have been from the job in the paper. I think it was. She wrote down the directions and the name of who she had to meet.’

  ‘No idea who it was with and where she was going?’

  There was a rattle of paper as Candy lifted the empty top layer from the candy box. The first candy from the second layer bit the dust, sucked between Candy’s Betty Boop lips
.

  The pink and white girl with the extra-long legs pondered as she chewed, or at least that was how Honey interpreted the vacant look.

  ‘Nope,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Can’t remember.’ Suddenly her complexion lit up like a hundred-watt bulb. ‘Tell you what. I’ve still got the newspaper. She circled the more interesting ads with a pen. It’s in the rubbish bag. Out in the kitchen.’

  She pointed.

  Honey sat. So did Candy. Neither of them moved.

  ‘You’ll find it in the rubbish bag,’ Candy repeated. Her eyes and her fingers were fixed on the ever-decreasing candy layer. ‘In the kitchen.’

  Honey got the message. There was no way that those finely honed fingernails were delving around in cold pizza, limp lettuce, and wet newsprint.

  ‘Thanks,’ murmured Honey.

  There was no cold pizza, limp lettuce, or much of anything else in Candy’s rubbish bag. Her kitchen was as modern and shiny as the rest of her apartment. The black granite worktops and glossy white units reflected Honey and her surroundings. There were no tell-tale food smells, no containers marked tea, coffee, and sugar – no electrical appliances of any sort. If they did exist they were behind closed doors. This, Honey decided, was far from being a working kitchen. This was a model kitchen, something to grace the pages of Hello! or OK!; one of them would do an ‘at home’ feature of Candy at some time in the future.

  She smiled. Smudger would laugh at the fact that the cooker hob had never been switched on. He’d term it a kitchen to be photographed, not to be used. One hour in a decent kitchen and he’d have everything turned on, pots and pans on and off the hob with lightning speed.

  There was no sign of a trash can. Honey proceeded to open and close the doors of the shiny, unused units. There was crockery, glassware and cutlery, but no food. Eventually she found the bin neatly hidden behind a false set of drawers. Thankfully, all it contained were newspapers. She guessed they’d all belonged to Perdita. Candy might appear in newspapers, but she wasn’t the sort to read one. She wasn’t the sort to read anything.

  It felt deliciously wicked to spread the grubby news sheets out on the virgin surfaces of Candy’s pristine kitchen. She flicked swiftly through the pages looking for marked adverts. There were plenty of adverts, but none circled with biro. Not until she got to the very last page, just before the football section, did she find what she was looking for. She read the advertisement.

  GIRLS WILL BE BOYS

  AND BOYS WILL BE GIRLS!

  Over six feet tall?

  Best in a dress?

  You could be exactly what we are looking for.

  New dance troupe being formed.

  Contact Miss Lampton at:-

  A telephone number followed. Honey fetched out her phone and called the number.

  Voicemail referred her to an agency specializing in nightclub variety acts. A crisp female voice answered. ‘Can I help you?’

  Honey explained who she was looking for and why. ‘An aunt in Bath is worried because she hasn’t been in touch. Can you help?’

  ‘I’ll check our files.’

  Candy never came out to enquire if she’d found anything. Honey wondered if she’d ever entered the kitchen at all, except perhaps for a glass of water.

  The woman on the end of the phone came back.

  ‘She is on our books.’

  Honey breathed a sigh of relief. This was good news indeed.

  ‘Can you tell me where she is?’

  ‘I certainly can. She’s in Swindon rehearsing with a newly formed dance troupe. They’ll be specializing in nightclub work.’

  Honey got the instant impression that the woman didn’t believe her story about the aunt in Bath. She asked for the address where she could find them.

  ‘The Goats’ Cheese Nightclub.’ It was given along with a smarmy remark. ‘They’ve filled the vacancies,’ she said imperiously. ‘They won’t want anybody else. I must admit to being quite surprised. There’s more around of that sort than I gave credit for.’

  The phone went dead.

  Honey didn’t have a clue what she meant. But never mind. Swindon was on the way home. She headed for Paddington. It might very well be midnight by the time she got back to Bath, but she didn’t care. She was solving this case by herself, if you could call it that. Diminutive Miss Cleveley had needed her help and it had turned out that Perdita had met the dead actress’s fiancé – who just happened to be a sneaky, two-timing, son of a bitch … Let it be! After finding Perdita and checking her out, it was back to finding out who had killed Jane Austen – or more accurately Martyna Manderley. Hopefully it would turn out to be Brett Coleridge. OK, she admitted to herself, she might be biased.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  The train from Paddington Station to Bristol, calling in at Reading, Swindon, and Bath Spa, was packed. Honey was squashed like a sardine among work-weary people with big bodies and questionable hygiene.

  The crowd thinned a bit at Reading, enough for the air to get sweeter plus it gave her the chance to slump into a spare seat.

  The train pulled into Swindon railway station on time. Piles of people fell like a tidal wave on to the platform. Honey piled out with them.

  The Goats’ Cheese Nightclub was in SwindonOldTown, an area boasting less of its old heritage than its name implied. Swindon had been a railway town where huge workshops had once employed thousands of people. Steam had given way to diesel and the railway had been superseded by roads, tailbacks and articulated trucks. The once proud Victorian buildings had been turned into designer outlets, a museum and trendy offices. And, of course, a nightclub!

  Honey considered the name. Goats’ Cheese? Someone must have been totally paralytic when they’d chosen that one. Hey ho! There was no accounting for taste when under the influence.

  Strapped for time, she took a taxi.

  The nightclub took up two floors of the old warehouse-style building. It was too early to be open. The door was solid oak and had no knocker, but it did have a door bell and an intercom panel.

  She pressed the button. After she repeated the action, a woman answered.

  ‘I’ve come to see Perdita Moody on behalf of her aunt.’

  The female voice on the other end asked her to wait. After a few minutes’ wait, she was back.

  ‘She’s not sure she believes you. Can you give me her aunt’s name?’

  ‘Miss Cleveley, but sometimes Jane Austen.’

  ‘Hold it.’

  Silence for a few more minutes before Honey heard the buzz of electric as one side of the double doors clicked open and a moon-faced woman peered out.

  Thick black eyelashes fluttered suspiciously as the woman gave her the once-over.

  ‘I’m here in peace,’ Honey said. ‘Honestly.’

  Humour was lost on the woman. Or perhaps it was just that she always had a hangdog expression – the corners of her mouth pulled down by heavy jowls. Her cheeks were rouged a less than fetching ox-tongue pink.

  She opened the door a bit wider; obviously her invitation to come in.

  In turn, Honey gave her the once-over. She was wearing a teal-coloured suit. The collar of a purple satin blouse put paid to the high-powered look she might have had. So did the pearl choker and heavily made-up face.

  ‘I’m Clara Beaumont, the Dollyboys’ manager,’ she said in a deep husky voice. ‘The troupe’s rehearsing so you’ll have to wait till they’ve finished. You can watch from the wings if you like.’

  Honey said that she would like. Clara led her along a crimson-carpeted dimly lit corridor. She eventually found herself in the wings with an excellent view of the stage.

  ‘You can wait here,’ said Clara. ‘I won’t be long.’

  ‘Should I …?’

  She’d been about to ask her host whether she could make herself known to Perdita right away or wait until the dancing and singing routine were over.

  She started to say it, but Clara was already taking strides towards a sign saying Bathr
oom – Gents (right) and Ladies (left). She took a right into the gents. Well, anyone can make a mistake.

  Honey’s attention snapped back to the stage. A troupe of about ten very tall women was just reaching the end of a number from Chess, the musical. Something about a night in Bangkok. Very suggestive.

  A tall, slender man she perceived to be the choreographer was snapping his fingers.

  ‘One more time, ladyboys. Take your positions.’

  He was wearing a pink chiffon scarf around his neck teamed with a pale grey sweater and matching pants.

  The performers were all wearing sparkly, spangly outfits in varying shades of violet, purple and indigo.

  In her youth she’d toyed with the idea of going on the stage, singing her heart out, and kicking up her legs. Unfortunately her singing voice wasn’t up to much and her legs were a bit on the short side. On top of that, the wages and prospects hadn’t appealed. Performing was a precarious career unless you had luck on your side – or a private income – or no other option!

  She recognized Perdita from the photos. The dress was something else. It clung to her slender frame and was slit to the thigh on the right-hand side. Sequins set into her tights sparkled like stars all up her leg and on to her hip, terminating at waist height.

  The choreographer checked Perdita’s pose using his own to show her what he wanted.

  The music restarted. Honey tapped her foot in time to the beat. She began to mutter the few words she remembered.

  Flash! There it was. Everything coming together. Wasn’t there something about hes being shes? Just like the ad in the newspaper. Girls will be boys, and boys will be girls.

  ‘Shit!’

  Her eyes were open.

  Clara’s deep voice might have been acceptable as a woman if she hadn’t gone into the gents’ bathroom.

  Honey’s eyes wandered. Seeking the ominous bulges at the front of feminine costumes seemed an innocuous thing to do. She couldn’t help it. Yes, they were moving elegantly and sexily in their glamorous gowns. To the uninformed onlooker, they were just gloriously tall, athletically built girls. But if you looked more carefully …