Murder By Mudpack: A Honey Driver Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries)

by Jean G. Goodhind

  ‘You sound as though you favour Venezuela.’

  ‘It is very vibrant,’ she responded, in a voice that was about as far from vibrant as a frost-bitten bottom.

  Overall Serena Sarabande was an iceberg in human form; cold and best avoided if you didn’t want to get sunk before you got anywhere.

  After he’d gone, Serena Sarabande phoned Dr Roger Dexter, the resident consultant.

  ‘The police have been again.’

  ‘And you told them nothing, of course.’

  ‘Of course not.’ Her breath caught in her throat. ‘Of course not,’ she said again, her voice far softer, far more affectionate than the one she’d used for Doherty.

  Chapter Three

  Steve had not moved in with Honey. She had her place and he had his. Every so often they stayed together, depending on shift patterns and whether the dishwasher at the Green River Hotel hadn’t broken down. If it had and Clint (né Rodney) Eastwood wasn’t available, then she was it; an evening spent wearing a pair of pink rubber gloves – or yellow – scrubbing pots and pans. Waitress shifts also intervened on occasion. On Doherty’s part so did police work, though Steve had been lucky of late.

  They were lying in his bed in his flat on Camden Crescent. They were on their second bottle of wine when he told her about his interview with Serena Sarabande.

  ‘Cold fish,’ he said.

  Honey looked up at him from the crook of his arm.

  ‘I bet you’re just saying that. I bet she’s absolutely gorgeous. People who work in those places usually are.’

  ‘Depends what you mean by gorgeous. I mean, an iceberg is gorgeous. A snow-topped mountain peak is gorgeous. So’s Baked Alaska …’

  ‘Hold it right there!’ Honey’s hand slapped on his chest. ‘Every word you’ve used to describe her is pretty cold, so I get the picture. She’s gorgeous but not cute.’

  Steve sighed. ‘I think you’ll be safe enough.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t I be? I’m only going there for treatment, not to ask questions.’

  ‘But you will snoop? You won’t just lie around and enjoy it?’

  Honey gave him a withering look through narrowed eyes. ‘Are you having me on?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Are you expecting me to wander around covered in mud and surviving on a diet of carrot juice and vitamins in the faint hope of finding something useful without adequate victuals?’

  ‘I didn’t say they’d only feed you carrot juice.’

  ‘Will my bag get searched on the way in?’

  He eyed her with suspicious misgivings.

  ‘Are you telling me that you’re going to smuggle in forbidden supplies?’

  ‘Smoked salmon and feta cheese would be good, followed by a whole box of Battenberg fancies from that cut-price German supermarket chain.’

  ‘I know the way to your heart, Hannah Driver.’

  ‘Marzipan R Us – with chocolate edging. Those Battenberg fancies are orgasmic!’

  ‘Really? More so than me?’

  He looked crestfallen when she took her time thinking about it.

  ‘It’s a close run thing,’ she finally said.

  ‘You’ll be fine. It’s only for a short time. You won’t starve.’

  She sighed. ‘The things I do for love.’

  ‘Sweetie! How can I ever replay you?’

  ‘Don’t you mean repay?’

  ‘No. Replay. Let’s play with each other again.’

  Honey stroked his bristly chin. ‘There you are. I need to keep up my energy levels. You wouldn’t want me to lose my concentration through lack of suitable sustenance, would you? You’d be terribly disappointed.’

  ‘Very likely,’ he murmured, his head between her breasts.

  Honey sighed, closed her eyes, and enjoyed. ‘Nothing nasty can happen in such a short time. And they won’t kill me for supplementing their meagre rations now, will they?’

  ‘Only if you don’t share and share alike with the other inmates – sorry – clients.’ He looked up at her from between her breasts. His look had turned serious. ‘Be careful and keep your eyes open.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘So,’ he said, resuming where he’d left off. ‘When are you telling your mother and daughter that we’re sleeping together?’

  ‘Lindsey isn’t stupid.’

  ‘And your mother?’

  ‘I’m building up to it.’

  Chapter Four

  ‘I think the rest will do me good,’ Honey declared as she sifted through her top drawer, trying to decide what sort of underwear might be appropriate. ‘Besides, it’s only for a few days. Do you think you can manage?’

  Honey and her daughter, Lindsey, shared the converted coach house at the end of the garden. The front of the coach house faced the back of the hotel – an easy distance between home and work.

  Lindsey appeared to be searching out her badminton racquet. She was quite a girl for exercise and fitness; Honey was at a loss to guess where she’d got that from.

  ‘I’ll come fetch you if anything comes unstuck – like Gran poking her nose into the kitchen,’ said Lindsey.

  Honey spun round. ‘Whatever you do, you are not – NOT – to let my mother into the kitchen. Not under any circumstances. Is that clear?’

  Lindsey grinned. ‘Only joking.’

  Gloria Cross had difficulty accepting that chefs can be dangerous if you stray into their territory. Honey had warned her that chefs had sharp knives and meat mallets. It wasn’t wise to upset them.

  The fact that only the head chef oversaw the hotel kitchen took some time sinking in. On one or two occasions she’d strayed in there, poking at a pudding, stirring a simmering sauce, oblivious to the fact that Smudger the chef had picked up his meat cleaver and was sharpening it with a Freddy Krueger craziness in his eyes.

  ‘There,’ said Honey as she patted a pair of towelling mules into the top of her bag. ‘I think that should do it.

  ‘What?’ she said in response to her daughter’s questioning expression. ‘Have I forgotten something?’

  Lindsey narrowed her eyes. ‘Yes. You’ve forgotten that you and healthy living don’t mix.’

  ‘I’m going for the beauty treatments.’

  ‘When was the last time you bought a facial mask or waxed your legs?’

  ‘Quite recently.’

  ‘You’re lying.’

  She hid her expression, looking busy by stuffing a pair of antique stays into her bag.

  ‘My legs are fine. As smooth as a baby’s bum.’

  ‘You’re wearing jeans.’

  ‘I like wearing jeans.’

  ‘And you won’t need these.’

  Lindsey took out the pair of antique stays. They were stiff with whalebone, starched linen, and lace.

  On reflection it wouldn’t have hurt to wax her legs. OK, she could get it done at The Beauty Spot, but shouldn’t she have made the effort? With hindsight perhaps it was a good idea to give the impression that she kept a strict beauty treatment regime. The hotel trade meant long hours spent pampering guests, not herself. Staff needed pampering too. Staff were by nature demanding. When it came to pampering she was bottom of the list. When it came to hours to spare for any kind of rest and relaxation, sharing a bath tub with Steve Doherty won every time. The mudpack and the deep skin cleansing could go to hell in a bucket!

  ‘It’s just a little time to myself.’

  She’d agreed with Doherty not to divulge where she was going. The bush drums of Bath could blow her cover. Secrecy was paramount.

  Lindsey’s expression was unchanged. ‘You’re up to something.’

  ‘Just because I want some time to myself?’

  ‘It’s something to do with Steve Doherty. I can smell it.’

  ‘No. That’s my deodorant. See you in a few days,’ she said, grabbing the bag and bowling out of the coach house on comfortably attired feet. Trainers today. It added to the aura of a seeker after health and fitness.

&nb
sp; On the other hand she felt like James Bond – without the licence to kill, of course.

  Lindsey was curious but despite her youth she was up for the responsibility of running the Green River Hotel. According to her mother, Lindsey had been born efficient. Administration, paperwork, accounts – she took the lot in her stride. She could even cope with difficult guests.

  She had more difficulty coping with guests who considered England was some kind of Disney set-up – a place where everything was green, fairies still lived at the bottom of the garden, and nicely spoken people were as honest as the day was long.

  Mr and Mrs Okinara had been stuffed. That was the first thing to strike Lindsey as they proudly showed her an item they’d bought at an antiques market.

  ‘It is very interesting, don’t you think?’

  Mr Okinara shone with enthusiasm as he showed her the contents of a long wooden box. Inside was a contraption of rubber hose and a few other sundry gadgets that she had no trouble in recognizing. Mr Okinara had bought himself a Victorian enema kit.

  ‘Yes. Very interesting,’ she responded, unsure what else to say. Did Mr Okinara know what it was, or had some heavyweight salesman told him it was for watering his bonsai or something?

  This was one of those times when she would have to tread carefully, she decided. On occasions like this it was wise not to confirm the identity of the object.

  ‘We collect such objects as well as more decorative items which we sell on to our corporate clients. Corporate clients pay very well for unusual things,’ said Mrs Okinara, a smartly dressed little woman with a blue-black bob and impeccable taste in clothes.

  To Lindsey’s ears it sounded as though they knew what they were about, but she had no chance to talk further. One half of the double reception doors swung open. Accompanied by the smell of Chanel perfume and the fluttering of a long shot-silk coat in a fetching shade of fuchsia, her grandmother sailed into Reception.

  ‘I was just passing,’ she said, nodding at the two Japanese people who were closing their wooden box before going to lunch.

  ‘Can you put it behind your desk for now?’ asked Mrs Okinara. ‘It will save us going up to our room.’

  Lindsey said that she would. Mr and Mrs Okinara thanked her and said they would see her after lunch.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Gloria Cross, wrinkling her well powdered nose at the grubby, ancient casing.

  ‘Something you don’t want to know about. Now, Gloria, what can I do for you?’

  Her grandmother swelled with satisfaction. She loved it when her granddaughter talked to her as an equal – calling her by her given name. She hated being reminded that she was a grandmother. It didn’t suit her image of herself.

  ‘Is your mother here?’

  ‘No,’ Lindsey said slowly and frowned. ‘She’s gone away for a few days to a health and beauty spa.’

  Gloria raised her eyebrows. ‘Your mother – my daughter – has gone to a health and beauty spa?’ The eyebrows fell back into a frown. ‘I don’t believe it. What’s she up to?’

  Lindsey chewed the inside of her mouth. Like her grandmother she had the gut feeling that something was going on that her mother didn’t want her to know about.

  ‘I don’t know, but I do think she’s up to something. She wouldn’t even tell me which health spa she was going to.’

  Gloria’s eyebrows rose higher. ‘Which makes you think what?’

  Lindsey shrugged. ‘She’s up to something that she doesn’t want us to know about. Perhaps it’s very personal – you know – something to do with a man.’

  ‘A man? She doesn’t know any men,’ her grandmother exclaimed.

  ‘How about Doherty?’

  Her grandmother’s jaw dropped. ‘But he’s a policeman. What in this whole starry universe does he have to offer her?’

  ‘They hang around a lot together.’

  Gloria didn’t believe in frowning or narrowing her eyes too much. To her mind it was the main cause of wrinkles.

  ‘Do you think she’s considering getting married?’

  Lindsey prided herself on her patience, but her grandmother really was the limit at times. She slammed both hands on the highly polished reception desk, palms down. ‘Of course not. She’d tell us if she was.’

  Gloria looked at her in disbelief. ‘I hope there’s nothing going on there. I hope that it’s purely a professional arrangement.’

  ‘No it isn’t. They’ve been sleeping together for a while – mostly at Doherty’s, I think. But they did sleep in the coach house when I had that week in Malaga the week before last. And when I had those days at Wimbledon. Then she’s been having the odd night away. Best of luck to her I say.’ She said the last words under her breath.

  ‘She told me she was staying with Mary – and sometimes with Dee. It avoids drinking and driving, though Mary Jane did offer to pick her up after a night out.’

  ‘I don’t think having Mary Jane pick her up was an acceptable option – though on second thoughts it would sober her up pretty damned quick.’

  Mary Jane was their resident professor of the paranormal who had landed some time earlier from California and had made the Green River her home. She’d stated she was destined to live there, seeing as some long-dead relative haunted the room she lived in.

  Lindsey went on putting forward her opinion.

  ‘I reckon that when he’s not been sleeping here, she’s been sleeping at his place.’

  ‘But they’re not married!’

  Her grandmother – not coy when it came to interesting liaisons and a well-primed sex life – sounded appalled.

  ‘I know. But do you think they’re going to be?’

  Gloria tapped the reception counter with red-painted fingernails. Diamonds flashed from her fingers.

  ‘I’m going to find out where she is and ask her.’

  ‘She won’t be pleased.’

  ‘I don’t care. I’m her mother. I’ve got a right to know what’s going on.’

  Now it was Lindsey who raised an eyebrow. Her mother was on the wrong side of forty and old enough to make up her own mind. But Gloria Cross was a doting mother. She couldn’t help but interfere.

  Lindsey thought on her feet. Sidetrack her, otherwise her grandmother would be running on the same rails at Christmas.

  ‘When’s Enid getting married?’

  It was definitely the right thing to say. Her grandmother beamed.

  ‘Three weeks’ time. I’m so looking forward to it,’ she said, hands clasped, eyes shining. ‘It’s so romantic. Cuthbert swept her off her feet, you know. He cuts such a dash. Of course, being a celebrity helps with his attraction.’

  ‘A celebrity? I didn’t know he was on television.’

  ‘He’s not. Not all celebrities are on television. He’s a columnist for Mature Times. We all read it and we all had a crush on him at some stage.’

  Hope springs eternal, thought Lindsey. Her grandmother sounded like a seventeen-year-old groupie.

  The ringing of the phone and the appearance of Mary Jane cut the conversation dead. Gloria Cross was off to take tea and natter with Mary Jane.

  Relieved and still feeling that she was in charge, Lindsey picked up the phone.

  ‘Hello? Is that you, Lindsey? It’s me,’ hissed the voice on the other end.

  Despite it being just above a whisper, Lindsey recognized Clint’s voice. Their casual washer-up, paid in cash, was relatively reliable but had a rather shadowy lifestyle.

  ‘It’s me.’

  ‘Look, Lindz. Sorry, mate, but I’m in a spot of bother. I won’t be able to make it tonight.’

  ‘Sore throat?’

  ‘What?’

  She was referring to the hissing tone. She could barely hear him.

  ‘Do you have a sore throat?’

  ‘No. No. Wish I did. I’ve got a problem. A fucking big problem.’

  ‘Oh really. How big?’

  ‘Somebody’s out to kill me.’

  ‘That’s pretty big.�
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  ‘Shit.’

  The connection was cut.

  ‘Well,’ she said, emphatically replacing the receiver. ‘Here endeth the first day – and aren’t I doing well!’

  Chapter Five

  The Beauty Spot Health and Beauty Clinic was housed in an elegant pile built by a sugar merchant back in the eighteenth century. At one time it had been surrounded by green grass and approached through an avenue of elm trees. Thanks to Dutch elm disease back in the seventies there were no longer any elms. The building was now approached through an avenue of houses. Like the slavery the owner’s wealth had been built on, the park surrounding the house was no more. The grassland had been divided up into convenient plots on which ‘executive-style’ four-bedroom homes had been built. Kids’ scooters and tricycles now skidded where red and fallow deer had once grazed, while Land Cruisers and BMWs had replaced a coach and four. Phases one and two of the development were completed and occupied. Phase three was still being constructed.

  Like a dowager duchess, the grand old house remained, its presence dominating and aloof from the square boxes with their plastic windows and manicured lawns. The Old Manor House had survived over two centuries and looked good for its age. The soft Bath stone glowed like clotted cream, the windows were big and brave and neat little mulberry trees sat in square green pots on either side of the door. In short it suited its present purpose. Like the clientele it catered for, the old house was refurbished anew every now and again, the ravages of time treated to an in-depth makeover.

  Gathering up her trusty bag in which she’d secreted a few necessities required to sustain her energy levels – her favourite cakes, half a pound of Cheddar cheese, and sundry nibbles – Honey headed for the door.

  ‘Here goes,’ she muttered, patting the spot in her bag where the smuggled goodies lay hidden, wrapped tightly in two new pairs of Marks and Spencer plus-size pants.

  She couldn’t quite get to grips with why she was so nervous; yes, she was here to snoop a little. As Steve had said to her, ‘Women talking facials and fat busting can go more places here than my enquiries are ever likely to.’

  The fat-busting quip had gained him a quick slap, but basically she’d known what he was getting at. Woman to woman gossip could go further than coppers sticking their noses in.