Walking with Ghosts - A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries)

by Jean G. Goodhind

  Setting aside her blue suede shoes with gold buttons on the side, she pulled on her green wellies. No gold buttons on these. Just mud-encrusted toes.

  ‘You can give them a quick brush over if you like,’ she said handing her shoes to Anna. Anna used to run reception full-time, but was now six months pregnant and didn’t fit behind the desk. She’d also cut her hours.

  She frowned at the shoes.

  ‘I don’t do cleaning shoes.’

  ‘Put them under the table.’

  The drain in question took the output from the kitchen. Smudger had told everyone to lay off doing anything that included water while she did her thing.

  At the same time as grabbing her boots, she’d also plucked her trusty plunger. Boots and plunger were virtually inseparable of late. Brandishing it aloft, she couldn’t help identifying with the Statue of Liberty. ‘Bring me your smelly drains.’ She went back to retrieve the garden fork before opening the back door.

  Wading through greasy water and floating carrot peel, she began prodding through with the fork. The prongs hit home, metal against metal clanging in the narrow space beneath the mucky grey stuff that passed as water. Just as she began to lift the drain cover, she became aware of a fine blue haze drifting around her head.

  Fire!

  She lunged for a fire bucket and was just about to jettison the sand it contained, when she glimpsed Mary Jane out of the corner of her eye.

  ‘I’ve come to rid this house of evil spirits …’ said Mary Jane in an eerie voice. Think flute – haunting but slightly out of tune.

  The bucket was heavy. The force needed to put on the brakes caused the sand to slop into the water. She swore. More solids to block the drain!

  Mary Jane was waving her skinny arms above her head. A flurry of blue smoke whirled and writhed in the air.

  ‘I’ve come to give you a hand sorting this out.’

  Honey gave her the once over. ‘I see no sign of a shovel or a drain-cleaning hose.’

  ‘With this,’ said Mary Jane.

  Honey ducked beneath the bunch of dried leaves Mary Jane was wafting around.

  ‘Indian sage,’ Mary Jane said as if that said it all. ‘Guaranteed to chase away evil spirits.’

  ‘I’d prefer a plumber.’

  ‘There’s a poltergeist come to stay,’ said Mary Jane. ‘It was him who blocked your drain.’

  ‘Didn’t see him check in.’

  Down to earth solutions didn’t rate high on Mary Jane’s agenda. At present she was out of this world, her head thrown back, her eyes closed. She was wearing an outsize pair of wellington boots; the heavy type with thick treads that workmen wear. Each leg looked like a small twig planted in an outsize pot. How she lifted her feet without stepping out of her boots was akin to the Indian rope trick.

  Honey stood with a silly smile on her face, watching as Mary Jane drifted back into the bar. She wondered if wafting Indian sage around could be construed as smoking in a public place. Visions of a £2000 fine now drifted before her eyes more vehemently than the smoke.

  ‘Mary Jane. Do you think you can do that elsewhere? In the garden maybe? I do remember you saying that there was activity around where the rose garden used to be.’

  Mary Jane stopped, pulled herself up to her full height and looked round. At first her face was implacable. Honey was about to apologise and say, ‘Hey, what the hell? Who cares about a little fine and customers coughing up their lungs? Carry on. Just watch the dried flower arrangements. They catch fire easily.’

  Squeezing her eyes shut, Mary Jane took a deep, chest heaving breath and started intoning the om sound. If it went on long enough it set your teeth on edge.

  ‘Right,’ said Mary Jane once that was done. ‘The nasty little sprite has gone back to sprite land.’ She paused. ‘I think you’ve got a point about the sundial. I’ll take a look at that PDQ. Shouldn’t take too much sage burning to sort out.’

  And the grass is damp so you can’t set it on fire!

  The sage had indeed had its uses, its smell having camouflaged the whiff of waste. Waste was like wine, thought Honey. The older it was, the more intense its bouquet.

  Once the dirty job was done, she tugged off her boots and slid her feet into her shoes. Different job, different shoes.

  There was no one behind the reception desk when she got there. She frowned. It was Lindsey’s shift. Where was she?

  Then she saw her, hovering just outside main doors talking to someone she couldn’t quite see.

  Half-turning, Lindsey spotted her. The other figure vanished. A smiling Lindsey swept back in.

  Honey jerked her chin at the door. ‘Anyone I know?’

  ‘No,’ returned Lindsey, suddenly turning into Miss Busy. ‘Just someone wanting directions.’

  Chapter Eight

  Reception smelled of beeswax and roses. The beeswax lent a golden glow to the rich mahogany of the reception desk. Cabbage roses in white and dusty pink were arranged with other flowers in a huge basin with ornate handles. The basin was of a deep Sèvres blue with gilded handles sticking out like elephants ears.

  A Japanese family was checking in. The parents were sleek and smart. Their children chewed gum incessantly and were into burgers and fast food big time, judging by the way their denim jeans were straining over their pot bellies.

  ‘Have a nice day,’ said Lindsey once the formalities were complete. She turned to her mother. ‘Worried?’

  Honey fiddled with a pen and the register. ‘She hasn’t shown up.’

  ‘Stop doing that. You’ll make a mess.’ Lindsey took charge of the register.

  ‘Well, it makes a change. Usually it’s the guest who gets to reception and reports lost baggage – not the other way round.’

  Honey watched as her daughter typed in the Japanese names on to the computer. Her eyes were on the screen, but her mind was elsewhere. Should she open the bag? Her fingers were in danger of doing that awful nervous tapping thing. Best to get them occupied, she decided. The outer rose petals on the cabbage roses looked in need of attention.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked Lindsey. She’d stopped typing and had that know-it-all look.

  ‘Just dead-heading the roses.’

  ‘Those are silk. Try the ones on the table.’

  ‘Ah!’

  The phone rang. Lindsey grabbed it more quickly than usual. ‘Oh! Hi!’

  Honey caught the tone of voice. Small words with a big message. Lindsey looked secretive, head bent over phone, hair veiling her eyes. She told the caller she’d ring back.

  Honey gave one of her knowing nods, the way only a mother with a daughter can.

  ‘So who is he?’

  Lindsey’s movements were swift and mechanical; register to laundry list in six simple moves. She was humming, pretending she hadn’t heard.

  Honey tried again. ‘You’ve got a boyfriend.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  Honey made a polishing movement along the counter top with her elbow. At the same time she rested her chin in her hand. ‘You’ve got that moony look.’

  Lindsey flicked at the sheets of paper comprising the laundry list. ‘He’s just a friend.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘A musician – of sorts.’

  This came as something of a relief. Knowing her daughter’s interest in all things medieval, she stated the obvious. ‘Tell me he plays the lute and wears tights. We could use him to entertain in the restaurant. Without the tights of course.’

  ‘He doesn’t wear tights,’ said Lindsey, studying the list of sheets, towels, pillowcases and tablecloths as though it formed the plot of a particularly thrilling novel. ‘And he doesn’t play the lute. He plays the bagpipes actually.’

  ‘And wears …?’

  ‘A kilt.’

  The obvious question trembled on the tip of her tongue. Was it true that Scotsmen went commando beneath their kilt?

  She daren’t! She daren’t!

  Her facial movements – t
he chewing of her lip, the sucking in of her cheeks, gave her away.

  Lindsey glared.

  ‘And before you ask, I haven’t asked.’

  Honey was curious. ‘Are you keen?’

  Lindsey made a so-so shake of her head. ‘He’s cool. He’s good company.’

  Honey glanced at the old school clock hanging on the wall immediately opposite the entrance. A sudden question occurred to her. ‘Does he ride a motorbike?’

  Lindsey stopped flicking the pages of laundry list and frowned. ‘What makes you say that?’

  Not wishing to appear nosy, Honey shrugged. ‘I need to get going.’ But she’d love to know more. Mustn’t pry, she thought. Lindsey was an adult.

  ‘I’m off out. Lady Whatsit-whatsit hasn’t turned up. If she wants her bag she can go to Manvers Street Police Station. I’ll take it now while I’m in the mood.’

  ‘Give Steve my love,’ said Lindsey.

  ‘Not that kind of mood.’

  ‘It’s time you two were an item.’

  ‘I prefer being single – but don’t tell your grandmother that.’

  Lindsey’s grin lit up her face. ‘If you don’t make it obvious that your pet policeman is still on the scene, Grandmother will push forward a consolation prize.’

  Honey made a choking sound. ‘A booby prize more like!’

  As Honey had noted earlier, her mother was one of the few people who insisted on calling her given name Hannah. Everyone else called her Honey, a nickname bestowed on her by her father. Her father was long deceased, having absconding from his marriage to Gloria with an exotic dancer less than half his age. Evidence of the fact that age and youth are not always compatible, he’d snuffed it on his wedding night – much to his former wife’s delight.

  Like mother, like daughter: her own marriage hadn’t made it long-term or even halfway come to that. A keen sailor, Carl had drowned in the middle of the Atlantic. Her mother had made it her mission to find a replacement. ‘Someone ordinary and steady, who doesn’t go sailing off with an all-female crew!’

  Her mother’s interpretation of someone unadventurous meant an accountant or a dentist. Honey preferred Detective Inspector Doherty. He was the bonus she acquired when landing the job of Crime Liaison Officer. He was far from perfect; just like her.

  Chapter Nine

  Bath’s elegant crescents and quaint alleys attracted tourists from all over the world. Tourists were welcome. Crime was not. The Hotels Association insisted in keeping a lid on it. That lid answered to the name of Honey Driver, Crime Liaison Officer.

  Detective Inspector Steve Doherty was divorced, jaded, stubble-chinned, blue-eyed, dark-haired, and far from perfect. In short he was the typically flawed man that every woman fell for despite her better instincts. He wasn’t so much new man as caveman with clothes on. Most of the policewomen he worked with preferred him with his clothes off. Honey hadn’t got to that point … yet. It might happen. It might not. She wasn’t going to push it.

  Getting it together had been threatening ever since they’d met. Like making a soup, it was just a case of being fairly liberal when throwing the ingredients into the pot but being particular about the seasoning.

  With Lady Templeton-Jones’s bag slung over her left shoulder, her own slung over her left, she set off to Doherty’s den – otherwise known as Manvers Street Police Station.

  An overnight breeze had chased away the leaden sky of the night before. Spring flowers were budding from displays proliferating all over the city. Tourists and locals alike were carrying raincoats and windcheaters over their arms, brave souls who believed the sun had come to stay. The pavements were glistening and a rainbow outshone Pulteney Bridge.

  Honey meandered through the busy traffic of Manvers Street with a spring in her step. Losing those pounds had felt good. A taxi driver tooted his horn and winked at her as she crossed a zebra crossing. She pretended to be coy. How was that for a woman of forty-five-ish? Her springy steps sprang higher as she gingerly avoided the wheel of a black motorcycle that had ventured too far on to the crossing. He revved his engine as though warning her to get out of his way. Well, she was feeling cheeky too so gave him the finger.

  The smell of flowery air freshener wafted out through the door of the central police station. Before entering she checked the car park. There was no sign of Doherty’s low-sprung sports car. Never mind, she told herself. If he’d started jogging regularly, he probably walked to work on nice days. Her jaw stiffened. Perhaps the blonde Amazon that jogged with him at night walked with him by day.

  She smiled at the desk sergeant. He was male, thank goodness. Female desk sergeants switched on the ‘she’s competition for Doherty’ antenna the moment they spotted her.

  Older male police officers weren’t so observant. Working behind the desk was the last post before hanging up their helmet and doing voluntary work for Help the Aged.

  Close to retirement age, the desk sergeant had iron-grey hair and droopy eyes. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘I’ve brought in this.’ Honey brought the bag up on to the desk and started to explain.

  He made a sucking sound. ‘Ooow. It’s not officially lost property; not if the owner indicated her intention that she was coming to stay at your hotel. In effect she has tendered it to your safe-keeping.’

  Honey was only half listening, her neck swivelling round every time a door behind her opened and closed. It was never Steve. She played for more time. ‘But it’ll have all her things in it. Perhaps even her hotel keys.’

  He raised his grey eyebrows. ‘You haven’t looked?’ This sounded strange coming from a copper – surely it was illegal to open someone else’s property and nose around?

  ‘Certainly not!’

  What was he thinking of? Not that she hadn’t considered it of course, but bringing it in as lost property had seemed the right thing to do. Now it didn’t seem so clever.

  ‘Look, dear,’ he said in that condescending manner usually reserved for ladies of mature years – very mature years. ‘Give it a bit longer. She may have meant for you to take care of the bag until she got to you. Tell you what, you give me her name and I’ll make a note of it. If she comes in asking for her property, then I’ll point her in your direction. How does that suit?’

  She eyed the bland smile, the pale, watery eyes. A queue was building up behind her. Her eyes travelled to the door leading to Steve’s domain, wishing it would open and he’d offer her coffee.

  ‘Is Steve Doherty in?’

  ‘No. He’s out on a case at present. Now if you’ll just give me that name …’

  He indicated the queue with an impatient jerk of his chin.

  ‘Lady Templeton-Jones.’

  He wrote it down.

  ‘And the last place you saw her?’

  ‘Near the Assembly Rooms.’

  He wrote that down too.

  ‘Were you attending the Assembly Rooms for any particular reason?’

  ‘Yes. It was part of a ghost walk. She was on the ghost walk too.’

  ‘Oh! Right.’ He sounded as though he didn’t have much truck with ghost walkers; that he thought they should be committed to a custodial sentence, along with shoplifters and willy-wagglers. ‘I’ll let you know if she comes in asking about it.’ He drew a line beneath what he’d written. ‘Next?’

  Dismissed and still carrying the brown leather handbag, she left the queue and the desk sergeant to their own devices. Outside, she paused and breathed a huge sigh of relief. The heat inside the police station was oppressive; no wonder they all worked in shirtsleeves.

  The fresh air perked her up. A day to walk, she thought. Her feet reached the same conclusion and began to amble in the direction of Bath’s premier auction house.

  Collectables were her thing; collectable underwear, stockings, garters, and sometimes gloves, shoes, reticules, and parasols; the pretty, small and less noticeable particulars of historical wardrobes. For big frocks and hats fetched big prices. She left those to the big money.
/>
  Chapter Ten

  Today’s auction sale was not to her taste: General Household Effects.

  Honey made a screwed-up face that betrayed her distaste. A host of second-hand furniture dealers would be sitting on chairs, waiting to bid on enough items to fill a pantechnicon for shipment to North America.

  She wandered in for no other reason than to prove her point. And to say ‘hello’ to the auction clerk.

  Red-bearded and big enough to fill a large space himself, Alistair was in his usual spot behind the counter where bills were settled.

  ‘Not your day, hen.’ His voice was as big as his body, almost drowning out the auctioneer’s methodical rant.

  ‘No. When’s the next collectables?’

  His pursed lips slipped out from between the red hair that forested his chin and upper lip.

  ‘There’s one coming up, though not exactly in your sphere of interest. No naughty knickers or lace trimmed garters. No buxom braziers either.’ He smirked, an obvious reference to a pair of Büstenhalter she’d bought some time back. ‘Marine connotations,’ he added with a smacking of lips and a far away look in his eyes. ‘Big bucks stuff. Really big from what I’m hearing.’

  ‘Really?’ Her eyebrows rose in puzzled interest. When Alistair spoke like that, it meant international.

  ‘Some of it. There’s some of that blue and white Chinese ware that went down on a Dutch ship sometime in the seventeenth century. That should make a packet. Then there’s the really valuable stuff of world renown.’

  ‘What sort of stuff?’ she asked in a hushed voice, her eyes standing on stalks. Even if she herself wasn’t interested in buying, her curiosity rose to number seven on the Richter scale.

  A slow smile made Alistair’s beard appear to double in size as it spread across his face. He tapped the side of his nose. ‘Nothing’s confirmed yet. It’s a secret, hen. For me to know and you to only guess at.’

  ‘Spoilsport!’

  She flounced off but lingered by the door.

  ‘Are you sure …?’

  Alistair shook his head and made a sucking sound. ‘Can’t tell ye, hen. More than my job’s worth. Anyway, you’ll only get overexcited.’