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

by Jean G. Goodhind

  ‘Do you have the address of Karen’s friend – the one you had the fling with? I’d like to talk to her about Karen. We got on well. I’d like to just – you know,’ she said with a casual air. ‘Just clarify things in my mind.’

  ‘Like getting to know her better after the event?’ he asked.

  She nodded. ‘Something like that.’

  He looked around. ‘I’m going to make this place look better than you’re ever seen it before. A real luxury place offering top quality flats to well-heeled pensioners.’

  ‘Did you think I was a pensioner?’ She laid on the indignation big time.

  ‘No! No! Of course not. I was just saying, if you fancy having one …’

  She shook her head. ‘No thanks. I’m already spoken for – I think. But best of luck. You’ll probably need it’

  He nodded. ‘You could be right there, and thanks for not taking offence. The truth is it hasn’t been that easy a project. I couldn’t get the finance the first time round for this as well as the grounds. That’s how come the clinic bought it. I did try and persuade her ladyship – Carlotta Macrottie – to play ball, but she’d made her own plans. She was off to buy herself a nice little drum on the French Riviera.’

  The conversation was getting more and more interesting by the minute.

  ‘Lady Macrottie owned this?’

  He nodded. ‘All of it.’

  And was about to fly south to warmer climes. Honey was taken by surprise by the revelation and regretted the receptionist interrupting to say that Dr Dexter would see Mr Sheer right away.

  John Sheer didn’t leave without giving Honey his card after he’d scribbled an address on the back. She took it gladly, even though she knew he was anticipating a closer encounter than she had in mind when they next met.

  There was nothing to lose and a lot to gain. Sheer had told her plenty and with Doherty beside her might tell her a lot more.

  Her instinct kicked in again. Karen’s friend Magda came to mind, and when she checked the address on the back of the card she proved herself right. She wondered if she was acquiring psychic talents and felt quite pleased about it. It was possible, wasn’t it? Without John Sheer mentioning her name, she’d guessed it was Magda he’d had his little fling with.

  She made a snap decision. Magda first, then back here with Doherty. This was where it had all happened. She also made a mental note to check up on the vandalism that had occurred on the building site. There had to be police records. Perhaps someone had not wanted those houses built in the first place.

  There was still a big question hanging over Serena Sarabande’s evidence regarding the scruffy man. There was also the matter of the woman and the lesions; the promise that she would sue The Beauty Spot and her death in what appeared to be an accidental fire. But was it?

  Recalling her promise to appraise her mother’s wedding outfit, she took a detour to her apartment on her way back to the hotel. Her mother wasn’t there. Neither was she contactable on her mobile.

  No problem. She’d catch up with her later. At least she’d made the effort.

  The Japanese couple were hauling yet more of their dubious purchases into the hotel. A taxi driver was puffing and panting as he assisted them with a marble tabletop. The supports consisted of two Egyptian-style sphinxes complete with claws and wings.

  ‘Lindsey said we could put it in your garden. Our bedroom’s getting a bit full,’ Mrs Okinara confided.

  ‘Fine.’

  Honey nodded. Lindsey was in charge here. She was not going to interfere.

  Everything would probably have gone to plan if the taxi driver hadn’t keeled over, both hands grasping at his chest.

  Luckily for the Okinaras the table top was leaning against the wall, so it remained intact.

  ‘Sit him up,’ Mrs Okinara ordered.

  Honey phoned for the paramedics and an ambulance. In the meantime, the poor taxi driver, who had been sinking onto the pavement, was hauled up by the Japanese couple and perched on top of one of the sphinxes.

  They took charge of the whole situation, one either side of the poor man, telling him to keep calm as he gasped for breath and winced with pain.

  Hearing all the kerfuffle, Lindsey came out to see what it was all about, Mary Jane right behind her.

  ‘He doesn’t look good,’ Mary Jane said, shaking her head.

  The poor man heard her and groaned. If he’d looked like death before, he looked worse now thanks to Mary Jane.

  The paramedics came whizzing to a stop, double parked on the other side of the taxi and a laundry van.

  Honey left the taxi driver with the Okinaras.

  ‘The professionals are here. Let’s go inside,’ she said to Mary Jane, taking hold of her arm.

  ‘They won’t save him,’ sniffed Mary Jane.

  Honey exchanged a forbearing look with Lindsey.

  ‘I’ll arrange coffee in the conservatory. There’s something for you to look at out there,’ she said to her mother. ‘Gran brought it round. She wants your opinion.’

  Honey headed in that direction, still holding grimly on to Mary Jane’s arm. Mary Jane had a very laissez-faire attitude to ‘crossing over’. If you had to go you had to go. Unfortunately the poor taxi driver didn’t see things that way. Most people didn’t. Mary Jane was a one-off.

  The sight that met her in the conservatory was half expected. Gran had brought something round. There was only one thing it could be – her wedding outfit.

  Honey braced herself for the viewing.

  The outfit was hanging from a beam in the conservatory roof. The best thing about it was that it diverted Mary Jane’s attention away from the man having a heart attack. The Jane Austen influence was obvious; it was high waisted and low necked with puffed sleeves.

  Yuk to the puffed sleeves, but the colour was OK. The Jane Austen style she could leave well alone.

  ‘Peach is my favourite,’ drooled Mary Jane, her spidery hands passing the soft muslin between her fingers. ‘Do you think she’d let me have it once she’s finished with it?’

  ‘You’d have to ask her.’

  Honey didn’t have a clue what use Mary Jane would have for the dress. Surely she wasn’t thinking of wearing it? OK, her mother and Mary Jane were both slim, but the similarity stopped there. Mary Jane was at least six inches taller.

  ‘I could take the hem down or add some lace around it,’ said Mary Jane, as though reading Honey’s thoughts.

  Asking where Mary Jane was likely to wear such an outfit was like a trip wire in front of her tongue. The answer was bound to be something to do with Sir Cedric. She talked about him as though ghosts came for tea every day of the week. Honey had never shown her disbelief because she wasn’t sure that she disbelieved. Being neutral about guests’ beliefs and aspirations was part of an hotelier’s stock in trade. Same thing applied to shared secrets. Funny that people told the person behind the bar things they wouldn’t tell their best friend, their spouse, or their parents. As though they were inanimate or incapable of passing it on.

  Lindsey brought in coffee.

  ‘Smudger’s giving the Okinaras a hand.’

  ‘How’s the taxi driver?’

  ‘Dead.’

  ‘Sad.’

  ‘Told you so,’ said Mary Jane with a toss of her head. ‘I could virtually see his spirit crossing over.’

  Mary Jane and her premonitions made Honey nervous. An unknown future suited her fine. She turned the conversation back to the Regency-style dress and the matching bonnet. Regency and Romans. Nobody paid much attention to the settlement that had existed before Caesar and his cohorts tramped down into the valley, the first foreigners to visit the place. Before then the locals had painted themselves blue and worshipped at the hot springs. Not much was paid to the bit between the Roman and the Regency period. Not that there was much to report.

  But the wedding should be quite a spectacle.

  ‘I might see if I can wangle an invite,’ mused Mary Jane.

 
; Honey was thinking about Clint and his plans regarding a career in psychic development.

  ‘Mary Jane, do you mind telling me what happened at the psychic evening you took Clint to?’

  Mary Jane’s sharp blue eyes flashed with an odd otherworldliness. She was being asked a question relating to her favourite subject.

  ‘Ah, that’s because of Lionel and his waterworks.’

  ‘Yes.’ Honey nodded like one of those nodding donkeys in a Texas oilfield; not because she had any understanding of Lionel – she had no knowledge of him and his waterworks – but purely to signify that she’d like Mary Jane to continue.

  ‘Well, Lionel was about to give Clint a reading – Clint who was in disguise of course – when he had to dash to the bathroom. Lionel is having one hell of a problem with his bladder. The poor man can’t travel more than fifty feet from the nearest convenience – and even then that’s cutting it fine. He’s got an appointment with a specialist, but you know what men are – nervous of having their private bits investigated.’

  Honey had to agree with that. When a man catches a cold it’s flu, and when it’s flu he reckons it’s pneumonia. Men are not just natural hypochondriacs; they don’t like the thought of their private bits being subjected to medical examination. Just in case it’s serious and they have to have something lopped off.

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘Well!’ exclaimed Mary Jane. ‘A queue had begun to form and someone sat down in the chair opposite Clint. They thought Clint was the one doing the reading. So that’s what he did. He went down swell. Can you believe that?’

  ‘Amazing.’

  So that explained Clint’s newfound enthusiasm for becoming a psychic.

  ‘The man he did the reading for was very pleased.’

  ‘Great. So Clint’s palm was crossed with silver – he earned a big fee?’

  ‘Better than that. He got invited out on a date.’

  Mary Jane noticed Honey’s look of alarm.

  ‘No problem,’ she said with an exuberant wave of her hand. ‘I got him out of there before he could do too much damage.’

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Best to get Doherty on board. That was Honey’s decision with regard to Magda Church, Karen Pinker’s friend and house-share companion. Scruffy, the down-and-out Clint had mentioned, would be a different matter, having no real place that he could call home except for the one Clint had mentioned.

  He’d pointed her in the direction of a disused cellar beneath the railway arches. It was all that remained of a ruined house pulled down when the Victorians had gone railway mad and disposed of everything that might stand in the way of their new technology.

  The viaduct proceeded at a great height, parallel to the A4. The deep cellar and its entrance was still there, a refuge for those of no fixed abode.

  This, Clint had assured her, was the entrance to Scruffy’s home.

  ‘Don’t take him there,’ he’d warned her. She’d known he meant Doherty. His reasoning was understandable; abiding by the law of the land, Doherty would take note of the cellar’s location and bear it in mind as a possible bolthole for those of no fixed abode and questionable income.

  Magda would be far easier to locate. She had shared a mews house just off the main A4 with Karen Pinker.

  Following her phone call Doherty arrived at the hotel complete with a bouquet of red roses, dark orange dahlias, and fragile white gypsophila. He’d bought her flowers before in their relationship – her birthday, Christmas, and Valentine’s Day. Today was not special, so the bouquet was a total surprise.

  ‘Steve, you shouldn’t have. It’s not my birthday.’

  ‘Does there have to be a reason?’

  Funnily enough she couldn’t help thinking there was a reason. John Rees might very well be it.

  Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, she said to herself. It’s the thought that counts.

  But what was the thought?

  Giving herself a good inner talking to helped a little. It was the instinct thing again. She couldn’t help thinking there was a reason.

  After leaving the bouquet with Lindsey to put in water, they were off towards the mews house Karen Pinker had shared with Magda Church.

  Doherty had phoned first to make sure she was there. She was. She had a cold and had cancelled what modelling engagements she’d had.

  She sat wrapped up in a blanket. The heating was going full blast and a host of cold remedies sat on a small table beside her.

  ‘I’m always getting colds. My mother says that I don’t eat enough.’

  Honey barely stopped herself from grimacing and reporting that her mother reckoned she ate too much.

  ‘I appreciate you taking the time to see us,’ said Doherty.

  She didn’t seem to recall Honey from the supermarket so Honey didn’t enlighten her.

  ‘So what do you want to know?’ Magda asked. ‘Stuff about Karen, or stuff about the clinic?’

  ‘Both,’ said Doherty. ‘I understand that Karen Pinker had plastic surgery done in Venezuela.’

  Magda nodded. ‘She did.’

  Honey noticed the girl pull the blanket more tightly around her. There were two interpretations for that. Either she was experiencing chilly shivers or it was a kind of protective reflex; the blanket as a safety barrier between her and the questions.

  ‘I met her at the clinic. I thought she was truly sensational. In fact I christened her Miss Perfect,’ said Honey. She tried to sound cheerful. The girl needed putting at ease.

  Magda turned to look at her. A small frown line creased her head.

  ‘You were in the supermarket. She remembered you. She said you were polite. Not all her clients are polite.’

  ‘What a shame.’

  Doherty interrupted. ‘I understand that the plastic surgery was paid for by the clinic. Why was that?’

  Magda’s face was open, eyes wide and seemingly honest. ‘She was the up-front face of the clinic. Dr Dexter wanted someone working the reception desk who women could aspire to – especially older women aching to recapture their youth.’

  It was barely perceptible, but Honey noticed Magda glancing in her direction.

  ‘I am what I am,’ she blurted defensively.

  ‘Good for you. But the fact is that the advertising industry use young women – some no more than girls – to sell anti-ageing cream. I know of one cosmetic company who used a girl of thirteen shown in a television commercial rubbing anti-cellulite cream on her thighs.’

  The statement made Honey bristle. ‘So they think we’re stupid.’

  Magda gave a curt nod of her head. ‘Basically, yes.’

  ‘I’m never, ever going to buy that stuff again.’

  Magda laughed. ‘Stick to fat pants. You know it makes sense!’

  Honey detected sarcasm. She gritted her teeth. Along with a gradual dislike for the girl she couldn’t help thinking that she was not so nice beneath the surface.

  Doherty was making a face. The questioning was hardly going where he wanted it to go.

  ‘Ladies, unless anti-ageing creams were involved in either of these murders, can we stick to the facts?’

  Magda nodded and said yes.

  ‘Absolutely,’ echoed Honey.

  ‘Lady Macrottie. How did Karen feel about her murder?’

  She shrugged. ‘Shocked. Just like the rest of us.’

  Doherty kept his eyes fixed on this girl. There was something she wasn’t telling them.

  ‘It was Karen who administered the mudpack but you who found the body. Where was Karen?’

  Magda stiffened. ‘She had a call on her phone.’

  ‘Did she answer it then and there or did she go off to answer it?’ Honey asked, remembering that was what Karen had done when it was her having a mud treatment.

  ‘We weren’t allowed to have our phones with us when we were with clients. We had to leave our phones on the desk in the office. But we could hear them from the treatment rooms.’

  �
�She was gone for quite a long time. Any reason for that?’ asked Doherty.

  Magda shrugged. ‘Who knows?’

  Honey frowned. ‘Do you recall anything about the woman who was suing the clinic after suffering from skin lesions?’

  That shrug again. ‘Not really.’

  ‘She went to Venezuela too.’

  She shrugged again. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Did Karen have a boyfriend?’ Honey asked.

  ‘Not recently, at least, not as far as I’m aware.’

  Doherty kept his eyes open for reaction. Strange how a woman’s questions could beat a different path to a man’s. Honey was doing well.

  ‘How long since she had a boyfriend?’

  She shrugged again. ‘I couldn’t really say …’

  ‘Oh come on, Ms Church. Two women sharing the same house and you don’t know whether she had a boyfriend or not? You’re lying! Now come on. The truth please.’

  Doherty’s sudden outburst almost made Magda jump out of her blanket.

  ‘She was obsessed with Dr Dexter. I told her she was a fool, but she carried on anyway.’

  ‘She was seeing him?’

  ‘Not so much recently. He phoned and made arrangements – and they fooled around a bit at work too.’

  ‘Did he fool around with everybody?’

  Honey’s sudden question made Magda jerk her head round fast.

  ‘He’s an alpha male. Women flock to him. She was one of many.’

  ‘How about you? Are you one of many?’

  The question resulted in an angry scowl. ‘No. No, I am not!’

  ‘She was a little shivery,’ Honey remarked. ‘My gut instinct tells me it wasn’t just because she had a cold.’

  ‘I’d stake a dinner for two and a bottle of chateau wine that it was phone calls from Dr Dexter taking Ms Pinker from her work.’

  ‘I’m not taking your bet – not as a bet anyway. But dinner for two seems like a good idea.’

  ‘Right. I’ll see if I can get off …’

  ‘Not tonight. I’ve got something on tonight.’

  He eyed her questioningly.

  She met his gaze. ‘You should know by now that running a hotel is never straightforward.’

  ‘For a minute there I thought you might have a date.’