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

by Jean G. Goodhind

  Honey was agreeable. It was nice to see John again. ‘At least it won’t be eggs, and please can I ask you to fetch me a coffee?’

  He said that he would. They scraped their leftovers into a bin and piled the plates on a table.

  ‘Dawn,’ said John, his face turned to the east.

  ‘Are you going to be wearing britches?’ Honey asked him.

  He grinned. ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘They’re very tight.’

  His grin widened. ‘Is that so?’

  ‘I’ll look for you. By the way, do you know that Regency ladies never wore underwear?’

  ‘And the point is …?’

  ‘I’m keeping my tights on and a pair of leggings. Do you think anyone will notice?’

  Today was no warmer than yesterday. The sun was fighting a losing battle, trying to bust through the mist.

  The director’s second assistant came to fetch her.

  ‘Let me see your face,’ she demanded.

  Honey allowed her to stare into her face.

  ‘You’re not wearing any make-up?’

  ‘No. You told me not to.’

  ‘Good. You’re playing an apple woman. We wanted someone pudding-faced with a bad complexion, ruddy cheeks and all that. You’ll do just fine.’

  ‘How sweet,’ said Honey in a sarcastic tone. ‘Are you always this tactful?’

  The girl looked at her blankly. ‘Sorry?’

  Honey shook her head. ‘No worries. Just don’t ever get a job counselling the seriously depressed!’

  It was bad enough getting up early in the morning, though the chill air was refreshing. Being referred to as pudding-faced and having a bad complexion sent her spirits crashing.

  The interior of the trailer was warm and welcoming. Honey settled herself comfortably in a chair in front of a wall that was all mirror. A footrest also ran the full length, ending in a large locker at one end. The end of the bar forming the footrest was embedded in the locker – a neat trick to keep it level and stable.

  ‘Could you be a bit careful with your feet,’ said Courtney, the pink-faced make-up girl. ‘That locker’s a bit wobbly.’

  Glad to put her feet up, Honey wasn’t too careful. The locker wobbled.

  ‘Where’s Ms Parker-Henson?’ Honey asked.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Courtney’s hands were shaking. ‘But I wish she were here. I can’t do all this by myself.’

  ‘Was she out partying last night?’

  Honey already knew the answer, but wondered if the girl did.

  ‘She said she was going out with the crew. I didn’t go.’ The pinkness in Courtney’s cheeks intensified. ‘I had a date.’

  ‘Your eyes are sparkling. It looks as though you enjoyed it.’

  Her blush deepened. ‘I did. We’re getting engaged.’

  ‘Lovely. I bet you’re dying to tell your colleague. I wonder where she’s got to?’

  Courtney shrugged.

  Moving only her eyes, Honey glanced at her watch. Doherty was due to arrive. His intention was to question Scheherazade Parker-Henson. Had she noticed them last night and panicked? If so, that would mean that she had something to hide.

  Honey decided to press on.

  ‘Was she meeting anyone special besides the crew?’

  The little girl dabbing at her face was under pressure. The joy that had registered on her face at the mention of getting engaged vanished.

  ‘Not as far as I know, but then she doesn’t tell me anything really. We work together, but we aren’t friends as such.’

  ‘She had other women friends closer to her own age?’

  Courtney’s face turned from strawberry pink to crimson. ‘I suppose so,’ she mumbled.

  It didn’t take a genius to realize that Courtney knew that the senior make-up technician was keen on girls. She could see it in Courtney’s face.

  ‘Was she very close to Martyna Manderley?’

  There was no way Courtney could turn any redder or answer what was being asked. She merely nodded. Yes, Martyna Manderley and Scheherazade Parker-Henson had been friends. Obviously more than friends, thought Honey.

  The cold morning air came rushing in along with a guy called Deke, yet another assistant to Boris Morris.

  In his mid-twenties, he’d at some point demanded a number one cut from the hairdresser. Unfortunately for him, he had strong hair. It was growing back now, and was standing up like the bristles on a scrubbing brush. His eyes were black and a thin moustache adorned his upper lip. It occurred to Honey that this excuse for a moustache had been adopted to compensate for his close-cropped cut. Perhaps it was drawn on. She wouldn’t be surprised. Perhaps Courtney had drawn it on for him.

  ‘Courtney, darling, is the apple woman ready yet?’

  No, I’m not, Honey wanted to say.

  Under pressure, with only one pair of hands and queue of crossing sweepers, street vendors and handsome couples in silks, Courtney was on the point of megabyte flustering.

  ‘There’s only me here,’ she blurted in a wafer-thin voice. She sounded close to tears. ‘I’m doing my best, but I can’t manage it all by myself!’

  Honey noticed her hands start to shake.

  Deke the Dirtbag, as Honey had just christened him, rolled his eyes.

  ‘Speed up, sweetie. A bit of whitewash won’t show. They’re hardly centre stage.’

  His sharp flippancy only served to make the poor girl tremble even more. Honey felt sorry for her. OK, the guy had a job to do, but interpersonal skills didn’t rate too high on his resume.

  ‘Of course I knew it would happen,’ Deke said. ‘The time had to come when bloody Scheherazade Parker-Henson fell by the wayside. Too full of her own self-importance that one. Do you have any idea where she is, sweetie?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Courtney. Her brushes quivered like porcupine bristles in her hand. A thick rouge, the colour of brickyard clay, spilt from a box in her other hand.

  Honey kept her eyes wide open and fixed on her reflection. If things went wrong, she could end up looking like a pantomime dame with a bad case of measles. The wart glued to the end of her nose was particularly fetching, more Wicked Witch of the West than apple woman. In the meantime, this guy Deke was pissing her off and Courtney needed reassurance.

  ‘Look,’ she said addressing Deke at the same time as swiftly grabbing Courtney’s shaking mitt. ‘This girl is trying to achieve the impossible. She can’t do everything by herself. Don’t you think it would be a good idea if someone went to look for the other make-up artist? Perhaps her alarm didn’t go off.’

  Deke stared at her as though she’d just beamed down through the motorhome’s overhead hatch. Even to the lowest of production administration, the extras were persona non grata. Like kids of yore they were supposed to be seen and not heard.

  ‘I don’t need a common little extra telling me what to do!’

  ‘I’m not an extra. I’m a walk-on.’

  He jabbed her shoulder. ‘You are nothing on this set, lady. Just a fraction up from a big nothing!’

  Anger welled up inside her. The apple woman had become Lara Croft. Perhaps it was the make-up. Perhaps not.

  ‘Look here, you little snot …’

  Unfortunately, she was less than graceful and far too speedy getting up from the chair. The bar she’d been resting her feet on became dislodged. The locker into which the end slotted tilted, toppled and went crashing to the floor.

  Deke drew himself up to his full five feet six and three quarters, fists resting on his hips. ‘There!’ he said with an angry snort. ‘Now look what you’ve done. Well I’m not picking it up!’

  Honey couldn’t speak. She was vaguely aware of Courtney staring at the same thing she was staring at. Deke hadn’t noticed. Not the brightest star in the galaxy, Honey decided.

  A puddle of dark red liquid was seeping out from beneath the locker.

  She reminded herself that she was on a film set. It might not be what she thought it was. ‘I take it that�
��s not where you keep the tomato sauce or whatever it is you use.’

  ‘It’s blood,’ whispered Courtney.

  Her eyes fixed on the slowly spreading puddle, Honey slowly removed the make-up bib from around her neck.

  ‘That’s what I thought.’

  Then Courtney began to scream, the make-up brushes scattering all over the floor.

  Chapter Thirty

  Filming came to a standstill and no one was allowed to leave.

  Doherty stood giving instructions for protecting the murder scene and taking statements.

  ‘Who discovered the body?’

  He was standing outside the trailer looking around.

  ‘There were three of us,’ said Honey. ‘Myself, this young lady, and that man there.’

  She pointed out the other two.

  ‘I’ll need your names.’

  Doherty’s movements went into overdrive when attending a murder scene. They did now. He spun on his heel, was about to go off and bark orders to more of his team, when he stopped dead.

  There was disbelief in his eyes when he turned round.

  ‘Good God! Is that you, Honey Driver?’

  ‘It is.’

  He took cautious steps towards her.

  ‘You’re going to say something predictable,’ she said to him, her fists fixed on her hips, daring him, double dogging daring him to go on. ‘Go on. Say it. I would have recognized you anywhere.’

  For a split second he seemed to think about it, but declined.

  ‘Have you ever wondered what you’d look like in twenty or thirty years’ time?’

  ‘Neat make-up,’ said John Rees, who had appeared from somewhere behind her. ‘Didn’t have chance to take it off, huh?’

  She took hold of his arm and laid her head on his shoulder.

  ‘I’m so happy someone appreciates me.’

  She saw the look on Doherty’s face. He tried to hide it, but it was there. He was jealous.

  She smiled sweetly. One up to me.

  They left the trailer and stood out front while Scheherazade’s body was examined and finally brought out.

  ‘She’s dead,’ said the medical examiner.

  ‘So I noticed,’ said Doherty.

  It was a well-known fact that even if only a part of a body was found – even a finger – the medical examiner had to declare it dead. As if it could be anything else.

  Their attention was diverted.

  ‘This is ridiculous.’ Penelope Petrie strode past wearing blue silk shoes, her face like thunder.

  Deke, him of the lofty nose and unsympathetic disposition, was almost crawling along at her side. His latest job was keeping the hem of her long costume from trailing along the ground. In order to keep it bunched in his arms, he had no option but to crouch and keep pace with her, his head at bum level.

  A pair of woollen culottes flapped around the actress’s knees and a pair of leg warmers sat like thick sausage skins around her ankles.

  A comment was made by one who was observant by nature. ‘I see Lady Penelope came dressed for the weather.’

  The voice was imperious, not to mention downright sarcastic. Casper was on set again and not happy with the casting director and therefore the film as a whole.

  Casper St John Gervais, Chairman of Bath Hotels Association and owner of La Reine Rouge, one of the most luxurious and aesthetically inclined hostelries in Bath, was known as a man of impeccable taste.

  ‘You’re here again,’ said Honey, somewhat surprised. ‘I thought you weren’t coming back.’

  ‘I would not wish to let anyone down, though I had hoped to play a different part.’

  Unfortunately, the casting director didn’t give a hoot which extra played which part as long as the clothes fitted.

  Casper was of average size all over, a godsend for the harassed wardrobe department.

  Today they had kitted him out in a dirty jacket with torn sleeves, patched trousers, and a top hat with a broken brim.

  ‘The things I do for my home town,’ he said, seeing Honey’s expression.

  ‘Rather rakish,’ said Honey, who was doing her best to pick the wart off her nose. It was not going well.

  ‘Have they finished with us for now?’

  He nodded to where the police had added an incident tent in the park, next to the ones already erected by the production company. Blue tape fluttered around both the tent and what had been the make-up trailer. Scene of Crime and forensics could be there for a while and the medical examiner had been and gone.

  ‘Fancy a coffee?’ she asked Casper.

  ‘Is that what he calls it,’ Casper said glumly. Boasting that Harrison Ford loved your cottage pie would cut no ice with Casper. He had fastidious tastes and cottage pie wasn’t one of them.

  ‘Stop right there.’

  ‘What did I say?’

  ‘You were criticizing the coffee.’

  ‘Do you have a problem with that?’

  ‘No, but our friendly caterer does. He doesn’t take criticism about his cooking – and cooking includes coffee.’

  His eyebrows knotted into a disbelieving frown. ‘Can you give me a good reason why I shouldn’t tell him it’s not to my taste?’

  ‘This guy sees and hears everything worthwhile on this set. I need to keep him on board if this case is going to get solved,’ said Honey.

  ‘I suppose I could indulge in a bottle of Coca-Cola.’ He brightened up suddenly. ‘Do you suppose it likely yon caterer might have some freshly squeezed orange juice?’

  Honey let him down gently. ‘I heard from one of the other extras that he brings his own brand of fruit juice. I’m not sure exactly what’s in it, but he does have peculiar ideas about what constitutes top-notch cuisine. He also does the packet-style orange juice you can buy in any supermarket.’

  ‘I don’t shop in any supermarket.’

  ‘He reckons he’s catered for the brightest stars in Hollywood.’

  ‘Then Hollywood standards have dropped considerably,’ Casper muttered.

  Honey agreed that Hollywood wasn’t much of a yardstick to go by nowadays. It had certainly seen better days the last time she’d been there.

  A few pink-faced extras in bonnets and top hats were still gathered around Richard Richards’s chuck wagon. Most of them had collected hot drinks and food and were heading post-haste back to the double-decker bus. Few had yet managed to go home, though most had had their names and addresses taken in case of need.

  Casper stood glumly while Honey ordered for him.

  ‘Coffee for me, and …’ She glanced warily at Casper. He was standing with his hands clasped behind his back and not looking at her or Dick Richards.

  ‘Coffee for you, sir?’ asked Dick.

  Honey got a sinking feeling when Casper narrowed his eyes, fixing Dick with a studious stare.

  ‘I would rather drink my bath water!’

  This was not helpful. Casper was well known for being outspoken. So far as she knew, he’d never got biffed on the nose for offering his opinion. But there was always a first time. She just prayed that this wasn’t it.

  Honey froze. For a brief moment, so did Dick Richards. Then his face reddened. His eyes, brown as conkers, looked set to shoot out on stalks.

  ‘It’s been a difficult morning,’ she blurted. ‘What with there being another murder. And I can’t seem to get this wart off my nose. Do you have Coca-Cola?’

  She offered up a reassuring smile with the request. At least she hoped it was reassuring and that it would do the trick. The only thing she mustn’t admit to was that the Coca-Cola was to remove the pretend wart should it prove stubborn.

  Richard Richards dragged his angry glare away from Casper and back to her. Once he’d blinked a few times, the anger seemed to lessen. Then it was gone – thank God!

  She thanked him. He began doing some stretching exercises and rolling his shoulders. Bones cracked into place.

  ‘That’s better. Sean Bean told me how to roll my shoulders prope
rly to get rid of tension. Works every time.’

  Another fierce look flew like a dagger towards Casper – not that he noticed. He was pouring his drink into the plastic cup provided. Honey hoped and prayed that he wouldn’t pass comment on the cup.

  Throw a compliment. That was the way to engross Richard Richards.

  ‘Lovely smell!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘Steak and onions with pepper sauce,’ he proclaimed in a manner befitting a maître d’ at a top hotel. ‘There’s a skill to cooking a steak so that the juices still run. None of this bashing with a hammer before cooking. Let it hang, let it mature, and let it rest before you lay it on the griddle. No one can cook a steak like me. No one at all! I’m a master at it. A true master!’

  ‘I’m sure you’re the best,’ she said with a parting smile. ‘I look forward to lunch.’

  He called after her. ‘I’ll cook you something special. You just see if I don’t.’

  ‘I was afraid of that,’ she muttered.

  ‘My goodness. That man is cooking you something superior to the dross he dishes up to the rest of us?’ asked Casper.

  ‘Don’t excite yourself. You’re not missing anything. This morning his special recipe was black pudding and beetroot omelette.’

  Casper looked aghast. ‘Did you eat it?’

  ‘Do I look like a trash can?’

  ‘I don’t want you poisoned while on the case. You’re looking rather flushed and you’re coming out in warts. I think I’ll have a word with him.’

  ‘No! No need.’

  Taking a firm hold of Casper’s arm, she headed him towards the incident tent. ‘I think Doherty wants us.’

  It was an outright lie, but anything was better than dealing with Casper after he had been covered in fried onions. Neither could she have trusted herself not to argue about who cooked a mean steak. The party concerned could argue for himself. She made a mental note never, ever, ever to let her chef Smudger within ten feet of Dick Richards. Smaller things than chef rivalry had led to wars.

  Doherty saw them coming. He stayed on his side of the incident tape. Honey and Casper lingered on their side, sipping their drinks.

  Doherty swung his leg over the tape. ‘You didn’t see anything, did you, Casper?’

  ‘Nothing at all, my dear boy.’

  ‘In that case you’re free to go.’