Death of a Diva: A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries Book 9)

by Jean G. Goodhind

  DEATH OF A DIVA

  A Honey Driver Mystery

  Jean G Goodhind

  Death of a Diva

  A Honey Driver Mystery

  Published by Accent Press Ltd – 2014

  ISBN 9781909520332

  Copyright © Jean G Goodhind 2014

  The right of Jean G Goodhind to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  The story contained within this book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publishers: Accent Press Ltd, Ty Cynon House, Navigation Park, Abercynon, CF45 4SN

  Printed and bound in the UK

  Cover design by Joelle Brindley

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty one

  Chapter Twenty two

  Chapter Twenty three

  Chapter Twenty four

  Chapter Twenty five

  Chapter Twenty six

  Chapter Twenty seven

  Chapter Twenty eight

  Chapter Twenty nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty one

  Chapter Thirty two

  Chapter Thirty three

  Chapter Thirty four

  Chapter Thirty five

  Chapter Thirty six

  Chapter Thirty seven

  Chapter Thirty eight

  Chapter One

  Honey Driver, Bath hotelier and the Hotel Association’s Crime Liaison Officer, was naked and wrapped in a sheet when Detective Inspector Steve Doherty, he of the three-day stubble and iron-hard abs asked her a pertinent question.

  ‘Are you coming to watch me train or what? You’ll enjoy the view. I’ll be wearing shorts.’

  Although the thought of Steve Doherty wearing shorts was an obvious attraction, Honey was as keen on sport as she was on Brussels sprouts, herbal tea, and early-morning jogs.

  She wrapped her arms more tightly around the sheet. It was Doherty’s sheet. Doherty’s bed.

  ‘Ah! There could be a problem with that.’ She said this while her mind searched frantically for a suitable problem on which to base the excuse.

  He fixed her with the kind of look that stripped off her clothes. The problem with that look was that it was kind of like an X-ray – it saw what lay beneath – not just physically. Mentally too.

  ‘I thought you said things were quiet at the Green River Hotel.’

  ‘Ah, yes, but when business is quiet, I can do stock takes – count bedding, count toilet rolls … That sort of thing.’

  ‘Not interesting things.’

  ‘No, but hey, how about I meet you at the Zodiac afterwards – once you've finished running around a muddy rugby ground?’

  The Zodiac was their favourite bar. It was situated in an old cellar beneath North Parade, was dark, atmospheric and rich with the smells of sizzling steak and garlic prawns. OK, there was the risk of coming out smelling of grilled steak and fried onions, but the ambience was worth it. The smell made you think you had eaten; saved a lot of calories that way.

  ‘I’ve just told you, I’m in training for the police rugby team. No drinking – well, only within reason and after the game.’

  ‘The second team. You're playing for the second team.’

  ‘OK, the second team. But we’re keen,’ he said, gently stabbing the dip between her breasts with the tip of his finger.

  Bless, she thought, her eyes all soft and gentle as she took in the keenness on his face. What was it about team sports and big boys who should know better?

  ‘I have to admit, the thought of all those hard naked thighs is pretty tempting. But the game itself? Hmmm …I’m not keen on ball games.

  Her reference to ball games brought a grin to his face that had nothing to do with rugby.

  ‘I might have one drink with you afterwards.’

  ‘If you’ve got any energy left.’

  ‘Honey, you know better than that. I’m an energetic guy.’

  Then it came to her. The mother of all excuses, one she’d totally overlooked. Smack went her palm on her forehead.

  ‘I totally forgot. I’ve got an invitation to the Roman Baths. Cocktails by torchlight thanks to that estate agent I’ve been talking to.’

  ‘On account of this country hotel idea? They must think you’re loaded.’

  ‘I wish. Dependent on the sale of the Green River, I’ve got enough to buy something. And I think it’s a good idea. Don’t you?’

  The truth was that up until now her enthusiasm for attending the Bath Property event had been muted. She consoled herself that there were free drinks on offer and no freezing her rear off watching men bash into each other in a muddy field.

  The idea of moving to the country had been mooching around in her head for some time. She’d made enquiries of local agents, had brochures sent to her, spoken to builders and her bank manager, and asked her daughter Lindsey for her opinion. Lindsey had looked at her blankly, possibly because she was in the throes of polishing a Roman helmet. The helmet belonged to Emmett, her latest boyfriend. Emmett belonged to a group who dressed up in Roman uniforms at weekends and re-enacted ancient battles at agricultural shows. Despite the risks, he occasionally did a stint as tour guide at the Roman Baths. The risks came from older women who couldn’t resist men in leather skirts. Emmett blamed Russell Crowe in Gladiator.

  ‘You’re dead-set on this country house hotel idea?’ said Doherty.

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘You don’t sound too sure.’

  ‘Yes and no.’

  ‘That’s indecisive.’

  ‘I’m taking a leaf out of Mary Jane’s book. I’m waiting for a sign.’

  ‘Ah-huh!’ He nodded sagely, though a quirky smile lifted one side of his mouth. ‘Do what you have to,’ he said, kissing her on the forehead. ‘In the meantime, how about a little encouragement for the prop forward?’

  That sexy look was all-consuming – and his reference to ‘the prop forward’ could be taken two ways.

  Should she stay, should she go? Honey considered the alternative. The Green River Hotel had been hers for a while; the staff were loyal, called her by her first name, and never took anything that they didn’t think was their due. Today being Monday, the laundry man would arrive to collect the soiled linen and leave the freshly laundered. The binmen would also clatter and bang their way among the rubbish, and it was Smudger the chef’s day off. Rooms and restaurant would be fairly quiet, Anna was manning reception, and Lindsey was in charge. What could go wrong?

  ‘I take it the prop forward has finished sitting
on the sidelines and is ready to rejoin the game,’ she said, head held to one side.

  A smiling Doherty hooked his fingers into the sheet. It fell off her in folds.

  ‘Correct.’

  Chapter Two

  There was something deliciously decadent about cocktails sipped by torchlight, doubly so when the venue was the Roman Baths.

  The combination of flaming torches and the sulphurous miasma suited the occasion. Tonight this place, where top totty Romans had once been plucked, pummelled, and pomaded (and a few other things besides, things that a good girl wouldn’t mention to her mother), was hosting a party. High-class local estate agents were footing the bill. Not just any old high-class estate agents, mark you, but top-notch estate agents, gold plated with knobs on.

  These purveyors of property and land deals in and around the famous World Heritage Site that was the City of Bath were top drawer. Rarely did they sink so low as to offer anything for sale below the half a million mark, and then only if the vendor was trading up to something more sumptuous, or had bought it for a student son or daughter who had since gone on to a trading job in London.

  Prime properties were the name of the game; stately homes complete with helicopter pads, tennis courts, and stables were top of the tree. So too were properties where the air conditioning and heating could be controlled by a flick of a switch on the owner’s Mediterranean super-yacht.

  Honey wasn’t looking for something quite that grand. For a start, she couldn’t afford the price tag, and secondly she’d only just mastered the TV remote control, so any kind of complicated satellite-fed device was best avoided.

  No. What she was looking for was a stately pile suitable for turning into a country house hotel. Due to financial constraints, it needed to be ripe for conversion. An established hotel would cost too much.

  Basically, she was flirting with change, this at the same time as doing a lot more than flirting with Doherty. Oh, and sometimes she flirted with John Rees, late of Los Angeles and currently Bath second-hand bookshop owner, too.

  Tonight she’d turned up without a male escort; Doherty was off to rugby training. She smiled at the thought of it, wondering whether he’d the energy left for playing games with the boys after the time spent playing with her.

  ‘Who’ll be there?’ asked her mother when she found out where she was going.

  ‘A lot of people sipping Champagne.’

  ‘No names?’

  Her mother was all attention, her sharp eyes as blue as the business suit she wore. Her mother, Gloria Cross, had taken to wearing a business suit just after buying herself a laptop computer. The laptop nestled in a Louis Vuitton carrying case and she took it everywhere.

  Her mother’s views and use of technology had soared since launching her online dating website for the over-sixties. The site was called Snow on the Roof. Gloria Cross had declared her intention to stoke up a few old boilers when contacting the Bath Chronicle, insisting they write a feature-length article on her endeavours.

  ‘People need something to do when they retire,’ she’d declared to the baby-faced reporter who’d shown up armed with voice recorder and preconceived ideas about the over sixties. Her mother had strutted around like a media mogul – until she saw the headline: NEW FOR OLD

  The fresh-faced reporter had taken the angle of new venture for old lady. Her mother had not been impressed – in fact she’d been furious, marching round to the Chronicle and leaving the editor in no doubt how she felt, and insisting on a dressing-down for the reporter. The latter was nowhere to be seen, quite possibly hiding out until the coast was clear.

  ‘Make sure you take your mobile phone and get a picture of everyone who’s famous. Only the most famous, mind you. No minor celebrities from local radio stations and such like.’

  ‘I don’t think I should … …’

  ‘Oh my!’ cried her mother, her excitement sparkling like chipped diamonds in her eyes. ‘I wonder who’ll be there. Are you sure you can’t get me a ticket?’

  Honey assured her that she could not. Quite frankly, she didn’t know for sure, but she was going to treat this seriously.

  ‘Mother, you know I’m not into the cult of celebrity. I won’t be taking photos. I don’t want to take photos.’

  And here she was. Not taking photos, but she was looking around, alighting on faces she knew. The result was quite surprising. Everyone who was anyone in Bath was there plus a few gatecrashers who knew someone already there who could get them in. She found herself smiling at people she’d only seen photographs of in celebrity magazines, in film or on television, or – wonder of wonders, one of the lesser royals.

  A well-known Hollywood actor nodded in her direction as though presuming that he knew her. His smile was familiar. On deciding he’d made a mistake, he looked away.

  She tried to place where she’d seen him before. Didn’t he used to be Captain Corelli (real name Nicolas Cage?) Didn’t he live in a mock castle somewhere near Bath? On second thoughts, she decided she might have seen him at the Zodiac Club, where the folk of the hospitality trade gathered in the small hours, to chill out and voice their opinion of the general public. The Zodiac had a smoky, secretive ambience, its dark corners appealing to a wide cross-section of people judging by how many tried to get in and how many were refused admission.

  Yes, even a Hollywood star would want to gain entry, she mused, and looked elsewhere.

  Another American actor with a warm smile and a lot less of the blond hair that he used to have sauntered by.

  Honey recognised him as one half of the seventies hit cop show, Starsky and Hutch.

  ‘Hi,’ he said, and raised his hand.

  Honey responded with a handful of wiggly fingers. ‘Hi to you too.’

  He was saying ‘hi’ to everyone, and people were smiling.

  The famous women in attendance seemed less sociable. Some were from old money and old families. This lot wore blank looks, as if not quite sure what they were doing there mixing with show business types.

  Honey recognised one or two as having come into the hotel to dine and knew their circumstances. Bath was like that when it came to gossip. The fact was that, thanks to taxes and family commitments, estates that had passed from father to son since Henry VIII was a boy were now up for sale, along with the history, the rising damp, and the dry rot.

  There was a marked division between the two types of women attending. Newer money was blatantly brasher, the women sporting fixed Botoxed smiles, their firm boobs spilling from plunging necklines – the firmness thanks to silicone technology, all at a price. Never mind diamonds, firm boobs were the way to go. It helped if a girl married a plastic surgeon, as some there had. The rest had raided the piggy bank.

  Honey weighed up the cost of the designer clothes they were wearing and decided she would still plump for a new bathroom suite for the coach house. That’s if the hotel didn’t sell. She couldn’t buy a country house hotel unless she sold the Green River. Still, it was early days. There were still doubts, but after her run-in with the man who kept model trains in his attic, they were melting away. A certain agent had advised her that he had just the right place.

  ‘The right place and the right price, though bits of it need a little tender loving care.’

  She had a limited budget and so as long as the place he was offering had four walls and a roof, she had to take a look.

  ‘So time is on our side,’ she’d said to Lindsey, her daughter.

  Lindsey had been pretty non-committal. ‘Your life. Your choice.’

  ‘I’m Clarissa Crump. Who are you?’

  The woman who’d suddenly sprung at her was famous for having been married to a very rich man from whom she’d received a very generous divorce settlement. Her third husband, if Honey remembered rightly, and before that there had already been two very nice settlements. They’d all lived and met in Bath. When it came to relationships, Bath was like one of those old-fashioned dances with an inner ring and an outer ring. One ring
goes one way, one the other, and when the music stops – bingo – you’ve acquired a new partner.

  She eyed the woman’s stick-thin frame, bejewelled fingers, and bullet-firm boobs. No food and a surgeon’s knife.

  Not for me, thought Honey, shivering at the thought of it. I love food and I’m terrified of knives.

  The woman’s features tightened as she waited for an answer. Tighten a bit more and the stitches would give.

  ‘I don’t think I can give you my name. It’s top secret. Let’s just say I’m on familiar terms with some royal people ,’ said Honey, lowering her voice.

  It was a lie, but it struck her as funny. If she didn’t have some fun here, she might as well be watching Doherty running around a rugby pitch.

  ‘Oh, really? Tell me, my dear; is it true they inspect the muscles of their bodyguards before hiring them?’

  ‘Personal inspections. In their underwear.’

  ‘Oh my!’ The face of the skinny woman with big boobs lit up like a Christmas tree. ‘Oh, really. Darling, I wonder … I’m having a little gathering shortly … for charity … I wonder if you could introduce me to one of these royal acquaintances of yours. I would be so grateful,’ gushed Clarissa.

  It was no more than Honey had expected and made her feel deliciously naughty. No matter how high up the social scale and drowning in money, mention of a royal changed people’s attitude; wealth and celebrity could be achieved, but royalty was something you were born into.

  Honey shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. I don’t think they could spare the time.’

  If she had slapped the woman’s cheeks with a pair of kippers, her look of sheer surprise, almost outright desolation, wouldn’t have been anything as dire as it was now.

  ‘Oh, my dear! If you could bring pressure to bear, I would be eternally grateful.’

  Honey shook her head again. ‘No can do, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Oh!’ The woman looked totally dejected. One red-painted nail gleamed against her lips.

  ‘Tell me, do you ever come up to town? Perhaps we could do lunch,’ she asked, the skin around her eyes taut with interest – though it could have been an effect of the plastic surgery.