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

by Jean G. Goodhind

  Gloria was having none of it. ‘I can’t believe that. Your father was always on the ball. A powerhouse of a man. I can’t believe he’s gone downhill so fast. I only saw him a month or two ago.’

  Honey was sure she detected a tightening of Cameron Wallace’s jaw.

  ‘I believe I know my father better than you. He’s not well. He hasn’t been for some time. I think only his family would know that.’

  The last thing Honey wanted was for this to get ugly and have her mother storm out. The thought of the trio of seniors taking over the defunct hairdressers just around the corner loomed large in her mind. She waded in.

  ‘Look, is there any other shop you happen to own on which a lease is available? Second-hand Sheila raises money for charity and my mother’s been involved in the venture for a very long time. It gives her an interest and Second-hand Sheila is very successful.’

  His eyes pierced her. ‘Your mother? I thought you were her lawyer.’

  ‘Your receptionist was a little …’

  ‘Stiff?’

  ‘As a broom handle. My name’s Hannah Driver. My friends call me Honey.’

  He smiled. She decided that he was just a little too sure of himself.

  ‘Honey or Hannah, they’re both nice names. I was about to suggest I find your mother another shop,’ he said. ‘Give me a few days and I’ll see what I can come up with. Rest assured, ladies, we will have something – I guarantee it.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you.’

  He moved towards her as he came out from behind his desk and was close – inches behind her back – all the way to the door. She could feel the heat of his body.

  ‘I’m sorry about your shop,’ he said to Honey.

  ‘It’s my mother’s shop. I only came along for the ride.’

  ‘Your mother’s very lucky to have a daughter like you.’

  ‘I agree.’

  Once out on the landing, her mother glanced about her. ‘Is there a powder room?’

  ‘Just there.’ He bobbed his head at the brushed steel effigy of a woman embedded in an American oak door.

  ‘It’s a hobby of hers,’ said Honey, once the powder-room door was closed. ‘Checking powder rooms, that is.’

  An amused frown creased Cameron Wallace’s noble brow. He stood with legs slightly parted, hands in pockets and head held to one side, eyeing her with interest.

  ‘So! What do you do for a living?’

  ‘I have a hotel. The Green River.’

  She went on to say how important tourism was to Bath’s economy, and that led to outlining her role as Crime Liaison Officer for Bath Hotels Association.

  ‘No hobbies?’

  ‘Running a hotel doesn’t leave much time for hobbies, but I guess you could call me an antique collector.’

  ‘Your field?’

  She felt her face growing hot. ‘Lacy things. Victorian mostly. And foundation garments.’

  ‘Women’s underwear?’

  Her blush deepened. ‘Well … yes …’

  He didn’t seem to notice. It was as though her comment had unlocked a secret door.

  He looked enthused; eyes shining, face aglow.

  ‘I collect a little too. Auctions and collecting are like iron in the blood; one can so easily get carried away and bid far above the true value of an item.’

  ‘You can indeed.’

  The sound of water flushing preceded the reappearance of her mother. She beamed broadly at Cameron and thanked him again for his courtesy.

  ‘Nice powder room,’ she added. ‘Though I’d have preferred pure white soap to turquoise. Turquoise soap is flashy. White is classy.’

  ‘My receptionist chose it.’

  ‘That figures,’ Gloria muttered.

  ‘Keep in touch,’ he said, and shook their hands.

  On the way down in the lift, her mother fixed Honey with a knowing eye. ‘Clickety-click.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Aw, come on. You’re on the menu.’

  ‘Can’t be,’ she said with a toss of her head. ‘I didn’t give him my phone number.’ OK, she’d told him the name of her hotel, but that didn’t count in the great scheme of things. It was information. Giving him her phone number would be invitation.

  ‘I did,’ said her mother with a furtive uplifting of eyebrows. ‘I palmed it when I shook his hand.’ She made a clicking sound. ‘I always was a dab hand with a deck of cards.’

  Honey was mortified. ‘That is so embarrassing!’

  ‘You’re not forward enough.’

  ‘Am too!’

  The argument might have continued, but her phone interrupted. It was Steve. ‘Hey. Where are you?’

  ‘I’ve just been to see this very rich, handsome guy called Cameron Wallace. At Wallace and Gates.’

  Steve paused before he spoke. ‘The owner of the murder scene.’

  ‘That’s a very macabre tone, Steve.’

  ‘It’s a macabre subject. How about we meet up at the Zodiac tonight? I’ll tell you what transpires.’

  ‘I wish I could.’

  ‘You’ve got a date?’

  ‘I’ve got a date in the restaurant tonight. The Dentists Association are having their annual jamboree.’

  He laughed. ‘Well, that’s a jaw-breaking event.’

  Her mother had been listening and was ready with sound advice. ‘Don’t give them anything too chewy. It’s a known fact that dentists don’t look after their teeth – only other people’s.’

  Honey poked her head out of the car window, craning her neck back so she could see all the way to the penthouse.

  ‘What price coincidence,’ she murmured as she considered all that Doherty had told her.

  Her mother heard. ‘Some people think there’s no such thing as coincidence.’

  ‘They could be right,’ said Honey, hauling her head back inside. ‘They just could be right.’

  Chapter Thirty

  Life amused Cameron Wallace. Some people are born into money, some are blessed with good looks, and some are very clever. Cameron Wallace was one of the lucky sods who’d got the trinity. He’d always had money, always had the looks, and always outsmarted the next guy – even his father.

  He also had a secret. Some might call it a weakness, others an obsession.

  He locked the door after his visitors, turned and smiled at the glass panel. Like a priest he stood reverently before it. A light press of his finger and, hey presto, the glass panel opened. A series of downlighters targeted his favourite items. Some of them gleamed in the light. Others were not of the sort of material that gleamed. Some items were just too old, too stained, and too scruffy. Yet they were all valuable. Some of the shabbier items were more valuable than others. This was his personal treasure trove and a very admirable one. And yet it was not entirely complete. There was one other item he coveted to make his collection absolute. One item he would kill for. If only that bloody American woman had stuck to her word. His jaw hardened at the thought of her. Stupid bloody cow!

  Every day he opened this panel, relishing the sight and smell, the look of his collection. The items contained were approaching or past a hundred years old. One look was enough. He closed the door. This part of the day was over.

  He eyed the details on the card Mrs Cross had palmed him. Her daughter interested him. Hadn’t she told him she was a collector? Underwear. Not quite his area, but interesting to some. His interest in Honey Driver faded once he was back behind his desk and more weighty matters pressed for his attention.

  He tapped his password and security number into his computer. The company logo came up above a row of headings. He clicked into ‘legal’ and scrolled down. The freehold and leasehold details of a number of properties came up. The company legal department had been tardy in reassigning some of these. They were a month overdue, and in the meantime someone had stepped in and snatched the options to renew from under their noses. Someone with knowledge. Someone on the inside. He wasn’t happy. H
e’d spent a few years building up a portfolio of property in the city. Wallace & Gates Holdings had grown considerably under his tenure and he was proud of his achievements.

  Holding the card between finger and thumb, he flicked it against his teeth. Honey Driver was a little older than he liked. Younger women were less complicated; they enjoyed the high life he could offer, and were freer and easier than the older generation. All the same he had his own reasons for wanting to see her again. He phoned her at six when the office was quiet and bereft of staff.

  ‘Can I tempt you?’ he asked her.

  She sounded surprised, flattered even. Well, that was par for the course. He wasn’t surprised. She made excuses about being busy, but he persuaded her. He was good at that.

  ‘I’ll pick you up at seven thirty. I’ll drive.’

  ‘I can’t. Not tonight. I’ve got a big function on.’

  Her hesitation was surprising, but then she was a businesswoman. She did have chores to perform. No guy, though. He was pretty certain of that.

  ‘What time do you finish?’

  ‘Late.’

  ‘Do you have a bar?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ll call in for a drink. Ten-ish?’

  She didn’t decline.

  At five minutes past six Debbie, the bronzed babe from reception, padded across the creamy-coloured carpet. She was carrying her shoes in her right hand. Her blouse was open to the waist and she was playing with her skirt so that it skidded up over her thighs, bunching there like a parcel waiting to be opened.

  He smiled. ‘You’re coming undone.’

  Smiling and smelling of high-street perfume, she wriggled between him and his desk. ‘So are you,’ she whispered huskily. Her fingers wandered down his trouser front.

  Cameron clasped his hands behind his head, closed his eyes and leaned back. He let Debbie take over. Not that she was really taking over at all. She was doing exactly what he wanted her to do. He was good at that. Good at being in charge. An older woman like Honey Driver should be a pushover.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Somewhere around teatime Honey fetched out the auction catalogue and phoned Alistair. She asked if he’d found out anything about the lot numbers. Had he any idea of what the lots constituted?

  ‘I did a quick search, hen. Let me get the details.’

  She heard the turning of papers.

  ‘Something photographic. Camera, photographic paraphernalia maybe. Perhaps even photographs or film of the old-fashioned variety.’

  She wondered if Cameron Wallace collected photographic equipment. He hadn’t been specific.

  It was all hands to the pumps in the restaurant, but the coffees had already been served, the speeches commenced and the staff could take a breather.

  Honey was scraping dishes in the kitchen. Rodney Eastwood, their casual washer-upper known by all as Clint, had got himself into a spot of bother. When he wasn’t washing dishes at the Green River Hotel, he was doorman at the Zodiac. Right now, though, Clint was serving a little time at Her Majesty’s pleasure. Word was that he’d picked up a bird in the Curfew, a pub just off the London Road. After getting well and truly pickled on best bitter, he’d offered to walk her home. Kissing had been followed by fondling. His hand had sneaked up her skirt – and discovered something most women definitely don’t have.

  A man! And while his hand was up there … Anyway, the result was that Clint was on remand for actual bodily harm, hence Honey had landed the job of loading and unloading their very temperamental dishwasher.

  The automatic dishwasher at the Green River let off steam now and again. A lot of steam. Loading it was a nightmare. Who needed a sauna when you had this spitting monster?

  ‘Mum. There’s a man at the bar asking for you.’

  Lindsey said this just as Honey was half-immersed in the hissing contraption in pursuit of a spoon that had fallen through the cutlery container. She backed out, face red, hair limp and plastered to her scalp. Panic set in.

  ‘I can’t see him. Look at me.’

  Lindsey looked. ‘You look terrible.’

  ‘I knew I could count on you to stroke my ego.’

  ‘I’ll tell him you’re out on a date.’

  ‘Yes!’ Wait a minute. She remembered telling him about the gathering of dentists. ‘No!’ She entered panic mode and tried fluffing up her hair. It refused to be fluffed and remained determinedly flat.

  ‘You’ve got a headache,’ said Lindsey, who had watched her mother’s efforts in silence.

  ‘In other words you’re saying he’ll run a mile if he sees me like this.’

  ‘You look a fright.’

  ‘Do you want to be specific?’

  Lindsey shook her head. ‘I don’t think you’d like it. In fact you might want to crawl into the dishwasher and not get out.’

  ‘Damn it. I’ve got to keep the dishes going through this washer. Keep him occupied, will you darling?’

  Lindsey went off to make excuses. She came back looking slightly amused. Not that Honey could see her. Only her butt was visible to the outside world. The rest of her was stuffed in the machine.

  Lindsey tapped her on her back. ‘He says he’s got a surprise for you. He’s waiting outside.’

  Honey backed out, banging her head on the way.

  ‘Bloody Nora!’

  She stood looking panic-stricken, spreading her hands helplessly.

  ‘What do I do?’

  With computers, Lindsey was a Merlin the Magician amongst teenagers. Honey often blessed the day her one and only daughter had declined a university place.

  Her daughter’s advice was usually good. ‘Your cheeks are so crimson!’

  ‘We need camouflage.’

  ‘White flour?’

  Lindsey mugged Smudger Smith of the red kerchief he wore around his neck.

  ‘Emergency,’ she said in response to his surprised expression. ‘You won’t regret it.’

  Smudger smiled. Lindsey never riled him. Affection hovered between them though Honey had never dared suggest it.

  ‘Here,’ said Lindsey, shaking the white spotted kerchief into its natural square. ‘Wear it like this.’

  She twisted the kerchief into a thin sausage shape; fatter in the middle then wound it ‘Alice band’ style around her mother’s head. She tied the ends into a bow.

  ‘Voila! La crème de la custard!’

  Honey eyed herself in the polished chrome of a refrigerator. The redness of the kerchief outdid that of her cheeks. ‘Not bad.’

  Cameron Wallace was waiting in the foyer between front of house and the ‘engine room’ – the accepted term for the kitchen. He was standing with his back to her, his hands in his pockets. His stance was self-assured – too self-assured for her taste. A sudden thought struck her.

  ‘Tell him I won’t be long,’ she whispered to Lindsey, and dived into a closet.

  The closet was opposite the kitchen. It contained disposables – paper napkins, toothpicks, tablets of soap, and toilet paper.

  She got out her phone and dialled Doherty’s number. He answered fast. He always did.

  ‘It’s me,’ she hissed.

  ‘Are you in a cave? You sound kind of hollow.’

  ‘No. I’m in a closet.’

  ‘Did someone lock you in?’

  ‘No. I just wanted to speak to you in private.’

  ‘I see.’

  It was obvious from the tone of his voice that he didn’t see.

  ‘Cameron Wallace is here and wants to speak to me. I wanted to speak to you first. I need to know how you got on when you went to see him.’

  ‘Nothing much to report except that he owns all the shops in that rank. Four in total. Three are let out. One – the one in which the victim was found – is empty. He was going to sell it, but he changed his mind. Up until then there’d been a lot of surveyors and builders going in and out on behalf of interested purchasers.’

  ‘OK. I’ll bear that in mind.’

  �
�How about making an A.S.S. of yourself tomorrow?’

  He emphasised each letter of ASS. Honey got the drift.

  ‘I’ll try. I’ll ring you back.’

  Cameron Wallace smiled when he saw her. White teeth flashed like a beacon on a dark night.

  Honey reckoned that she looked like the winner of ‘Mrs Grunge 1956’, but he gave no sign that she did.

  She smiled right back. ‘Sorry, but the bar has a dress code.’ As she said it she indicated her chef’s whites and butcher’s striped apron.

  ‘Another time perhaps. Never mind. I’ve come to make you an offer.’

  He passed her a folder. ‘It’s the lease of a shop I own, one suitable for Second-hand Sheila. I trust your mother and her friends will approve.’

  Somehow Honey had expected him to ask for a date though she much preferred him offering her mother a shop.

  ‘Ring me when you can.’ He sauntered off.

  Honey stood and stared. This was good news! She rang her mother first. Her response was much the same.

  ‘Come with me to view.’

  ‘Yes!’

  She rang Casper to give him an update on the murder case. She told him that Doherty had invited her to accompany him to Trowbridge to take a look at Associated Security Shredding.

  ‘Go!’

  She started to explain about her mother and the offer of the shop.

  His tone turned cold. ‘I’ve had an enquiry from a coach party for rooms next February. Are you able to take the booking?’ A carrot to keep her on board this crime liaison thing. Normally, trying to let rooms in February was like setting sail in a colander. Disastrous!

  ‘Yes. I can catch up with my mother at teatime.’

  ‘Good girl.’

  Things were good and getting better. Capturing Lady Templeton-Jones’s murderer would be the icing on the cake. Solving this case above all others would be like laying a ghost to rest.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Doherty was in good form. As they motored along with the roof down, he filled her in on the details of the case. ‘Her nephew informed the police in Ohio that she’d bought the title. She reckoned it gave her kudos and had always fancied being titled. At first she’d been happy about it. An article she read then cast doubts on it. She began to think she’d been duped.’