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

by Jean G. Goodhind

  Honey had made up her mind that the last thing she wanted to do was dine with somebody who looked as though they ate just one tomato a day. Worse still, Clarissa probably sliced it into quarters.

  Honey looked at her and grinned. ‘I’m pulling your leg.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m pulling your leg about knowing royals. Nearest I’ve got to knowing anyone with royal connections were the people who ran the Royal Hotel before they raided their nest egg and moved to Malaga.’

  She might just as well have said that she had bubonic plague. The woman’s chin dropped to basement level before she turned tail, her tight little buttocks rolling beneath a sheath skirt designed and made for someone half her age.

  It was no big deal to be left standing alone. The venue was great, the cocktails excellent, and the nibbles quite delicious. She spotted Casper St John Gervais, chairman of Bath Hotels Association. He saw her and nodded briefly in her direction before positively fawning over an actor dressed in black leather trousers and a pure silk shirt.

  ‘Come here often?’

  The voice was immediately familiar. John Rees was a head taller than her, his shadow slimly athletic. This was the guy she sometimes fantasised about. So far their relationship was that of mild flirtation. The serious stuff was reserved for DCI Doherty, though they still gave each other space. He had his career and she had her business. They hadn’t needed to discuss the matter in great depth, just laid it out and took it as read. Even if she did go for the country house hotel, he would continue with his career. That was the way they were; easy with each other.

  She smiled and turned to face John.

  ‘That’s an old chat-up line.’

  ‘It’s the only one I know, but I figured there was only one gal in the whole place who I fancied, so one old line would be enough. Do I stand a chance?’

  Honey made the pretence of looking around too. ‘There are a lot of good-looking guys here. You may have to join the queue.’

  John looked around about and over her head. ‘No sign of your policeman lover. Does he know you’re out and weighing up the beef on offer?’

  Honey grinned. ‘Steve is on duty, and just because I’m on a diet doesn’t mean I can’t still study the menu.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. If I stick around long enough, maybe you’ll give in to temptation and gorge yourself.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ The possibilities were the stuff of fantasy, though so far she’d resisted temptation. They were friends for now, pure and simple. Sometimes she dropped into his bookshop, sometimes she just waved as she passed by. The shop windows were curved and glossy. Through them she could see John Rees and his customers moving against a backdrop of book-filled shelves and old maps in ebony frames.

  The shop was situated in a narrow alley connecting Upper Borough Walls to Milsom Street. The alley had an air of mystery about it – just like John himself. Rumour had it that John Rees was ex-military. He certainly looked as though he could look after himself – or anyone connected with him. He looked good and he smelled good – a kind of fir tree freshness and not a whiff of musty books.

  There had been a time when John Rees could well have been on the menu. Instead she’d fallen for Doherty’s edgier sex appeal. And all thanks to becoming Crime Liaison Officer for Bath Hotels Association.

  From the very start, Steve had been her liaison on the police side of things.

  ‘Can I get you a drink?’

  She hid her half full glass behind her back. ‘You certainly can.’

  With nifty sleight of hand, she edged the hidden wineglass onto a handy table while John Rees selected a bluish cocktail that had to contain Curacao; had to contain vodka too.

  ‘A blue lagoon,’ she gushed cupping the glass with both hands. ‘My favourite. I’d come here more often for one of these.’

  She took a sip. The taste was sweet on her tongue and sent a nice fuzzy tingle to her brain.

  On her list of desirable traits in a man John Rees ticked all the right boxes. He was tall and athletic rather than muscular. Perhaps his face was a tad too long, something to do with his beard, but in a positive way, giving him a wise, bookish look, The twinkle in his eyes seemed to be a permanent fixture

  ‘Gee. I was hoping you were going to say you’d come here more often if I was here,’ he said.

  ‘That would be another reason,’ she conceded.

  ‘Nice.’

  ‘You haven’t been around much lately.’

  He shook his head. He was drinking wine.

  ‘I’ve been travelling all over the place, buying rare books and maps, and even paintings.’

  ‘Branching out?’

  He shrugged. ‘Just interested.’

  John had the independent look of a man who worked for himself. Even tonight, when most of the men present were dressed in a tuxedo or a lounge suit, John had managed to get in wearing dark blue corduroys and a denim shirt. Both were old, a bit like his books, and just like his books, they had character.

  She dived straight in and asked him. ‘So how come you got invited to this? I wouldn’t have thought it was your kind of thing.’

  ‘One of those things.’

  There was something in his tone and something in the way that he looked abruptly away that made her think there was more to it.

  ‘Another drink?’

  She looked down into her empty glass. ‘My God, am I that bored? Not with you, John,’ she said quickly on seeing his raised eyebrows. Heaven forbid. ‘It’s just that when someone here does speak to me only to find I’m not famous, they wander off to pastures new’

  ‘They don’t know what they’re missing.’

  His voice was deep. His hand was gentle as he tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ears. It felt good and she felt mushy as she watched him ease through the crowds to fetch another drink. Out of the corner of her eye she saw another woman watching him; a blonde who seemed vaguely familiar. On seeing that she in turn was being watched, the woman glared, flashed her eyes and looked away.

  John came back and pressed another blue lagoon into her hand.

  Honey thanked him, smiled and chanced another question. ‘So how come you’re here?’

  He nodded to where the same blonde she’d seen eyeing him was holding court.

  ‘I’m a friend of her husband. He used to be a property developer.’

  It seemed an odd reason for being invited at all. This gathering was about people who could afford sprawling piles and had the material trimmings to go with it. On reflection, she didn’t quite fit the profile herself, and John certainly didn’t.

  ‘And you? How come you’re here?’ he asked.

  ‘Town mouse is thinking of becoming country mouse. I’m considering escaping the city and developing an old mansion into a country hotel – away from the maddening crowd.’

  ‘Madding crowd if you’re referring to Thomas Hardy.’

  ‘Maddening. Hardy never had to deal with a one-way traffic system and droves of shoppers intent on spending their plastic. She looks expensive,’ she added, jerking her chin in the direction of the pink-and-white-clad woman. ‘A definite designer diva.’

  The woman was dressed in a slinky white dress with buttons up the sleeves all the way to the elbows. From there the sleeve split showing tanned upper arms. Her looped earrings looked to be very high carat and her beige blonde bob was held back by a pink Alice band that matched a pair of mules with five-inch heels. Honey thought the night was a bit warm for the pink chiffon scarf around her neck, but there was no accounting for personal taste.

  She trawled through the mental files of people she had known – some only very vaguely. People came in and out of the Green River Hotel all the time: guests, diners and staff. It was a shifting scene.

  ‘Do I know her from somewhere?’

  ‘I expect so. Arabella Rolfe. You may remember her as Arabella Neville. She used to be a television presenter.’

  ‘Oh! Her!’

  Laughter lines f
anned out from the corners of John’s eyes when he grinned.

  ‘Most women say that when her name is mentioned.’

  ‘Only most women? How about men? At one point I thought she was trapped inside my TV. She used to present just about everything.’

  ‘Until …’

  Honey’s eyes met his. Now she had it. ‘Until she came between a man, his wife, and his family. A very public affair if I remember rightly.’

  ‘Full marks for recollection,’ said John his glass meeting hers in a toast. ‘She had a very public affair with a married man. His ex-wife paraded their kids and his shabby treatment in front of the media. The public were turned off and their TV sets got turned off too. The ratings for her show plummeted to earth like an express lift.’

  ‘So where is her husband?’ Honey asked.

  ‘Adam Rolfe? Oh, I would say that they’re going through a bad patch. They’ve had quite a few.’ He sighed. ‘Knowing poor Adam, he’s keeping out of her way.’

  ‘Any particular reason for that?’

  ‘They’ve just moved from a big house to a smaller place and she’s not happy about it. She doesn’t do small and inconspicuous.’

  ‘A stressful time – moving house.’

  The savoury smell of food, the tinkling of wine glasses and fiery torches set against the ancient stones, the statues and the rectangle of overhead sky, plus John Rees – what more could she want?

  She told herself that the cocktails were the reason that their hands kept brushing, but deep down knew it wasn’t strictly true.

  The lovely evening couldn’t go on – and it didn’t. Her phone rang.

  ‘The hotel,’ she said apologetically as she flicked her phone open.

  Any problems, ring me immediately.

  Those were her instructions though she’d stressed emergencies only. Hopefully the hotel hadn’t burned down and the chef hadn’t murdered a diner who had requested a bottle of ketchup with his meal.

  Keen to keep John Rees in her sights, she answered automatically without checking who was calling – then wished she’d checked.

  ‘Hannah. I’ve decided I wouldn’t be able to visit if you move to the country. You know I’m a martyr to hay fever. And I hate the smell of cow muck. It steams in the heat. And it attracts flies. And I hate wasps. You know I’m allergic to wasps, don’t you? And what will Lindsey do in the country? They don’t have Starbucks. They don’t have nightclubs either.’

  Honey rolled her eyes. ‘Mother. Nothing’s set in stone. I’ll get back to you.’

  ‘I think we should speak now. What if I pop round and gatecrash this little party? I could say I was with you and you’ve got my ticket?’

  The thought of her mother arriving and cramping her style was far from welcome.

  ‘I’m with someone.’

  ‘The policeman?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That’s good news. Who are you with? Tell me and I’ll tell you if I approve. In fact, I can do better than that. Mavis has taken to the Tarot cards. Mary Jane showed her how. She can read them for you and let you know might happen.’

  ‘I know what might happen.’ Of course she did. A mild flirtation. That’s all. Well, perhaps not too mild. ‘I’ll get back to you.’

  She quickly terminated the conversation citing a need to visit the bathroom and adding the lie that her phone needed charging.

  ‘The battery’s running out.’

  Teetering on high heels over paving slabs dating back nearly two thousand years was not easy. The bathroom came as something of a relief in more ways than one, being of modern design and having a flat floor. Gratefully she incarcerated herself in a cubicle and sat there, head held in hands, eyes closed.

  She might have dozed if it hadn’t been for the sudden slamming of the main door two or three times. The slamming was followed by raised female voices.

  ‘Arabella Rolfe, nee Neville! Darling, how is the sugar plum fairy? Still trying to get her career back on track and finding she’s gone a bit past her sell-by date?’

  There was no doubting the acrimony in that voice. Honey’s eyes blinked open. The woman in the pink Alice band was outside.

  ‘Quality and sheer professionalism will win through. The less gifted never stand the course.’

  The answering voice was equally acrimonious and it was easy to imagine the painted fingernails of the pair of them curling like claws.

  ‘Well there’s new blood on the block, baby. I’ve stolen your thunder. In fact your thunder’s clapped out – just like you!’

  ‘You flatter yourself.’

  ‘And you’re kidding yourself. You’re through, Arabella. As they say, darling, every dog has its day. And you’re one hell of a dog. I’d have you put down if you were mine.’

  The woman addressed as Arabella responded quickly. ‘If I’m a dog, then you’re a bitch on heat!’

  ‘That’s rich coming from you, darling. Still paying that gallery manager to hang those atrocious paintings? I hear that in return you massage his ego – and other things. Does Adam know? Do you think I should give him a call, darling? Perhaps even give him a little sympathy – and anything else he might care to have.’

  The chirp of a cell phone being engaged was followed by a clattering sound.

  Honey guessed someone’s phone had been snatched and sent skimming across the quarry tiled floor. She was all ears. This was real life drama, far more fun than a soap opera.

  ‘I’m going to kill you, Arabella Rolfe!’ The voice was a screech.

  ‘You haven’t got the guts.’ This one was a growl.

  ‘But I do have the money to get the job done. I can pay. You know I can pay!’ A more focused screech, an octave lower and charged with menace.

  This, Honey decided, is the moment to butt in. ‘Nobody’s going to be murdered tonight,’ she declared loudly.

  Whatever else might have occurred was terminated the moment she pulled the flush.

  The main door exiting on to the stone walkway back to the party slammed behind the pair of them. Neither woman wanted to be identified, though one was definitely Arabella Rolfe. The other just wanted her dead.

  Chapter Three

  Coffee untouched, Adam Rolfe looked across at his eldest child, Dominic, and felt instant regret.

  ‘I’m sorry I haven’t been there for you …’

  ‘You don’t say.’

  Dominic’s tone dripped like acid and his hair was overlong. Even after tossing it back from his face his fringe, long, silky, and flicking up at the edges, failed to hide the look of contempt in his eyes.

  Adam was unnerved. He stared down into his now cold coffee and uneaten meal; the noise of Cafe Rouge in Milsom Street was all around them, people chatting over chilled wine, hot meals or steaming coffee; waiters darting between tables, scribbling on little pads, smiling and being pleasant.

  Despite being surrounded by this bustle, all these people and all this noise, Adam Rolfe felt terribly alone and guilty as hell.

  His eldest son was eighteen and had possibly been hit the hardest by Adam leaving his mother for the glitzy, glamorous Arabella.

  His guilt had grown of late, possibly because the flames of passion between him and his second wife weren’t quite what they had been. Basically, she was a selfish bitch.

  Deep down he loved his son and felt compelled to try again to win him round in any way he could.

  He adopted a bright smile. ‘But I can visit you at uni – if you want me to.’

  Even to his own ears the offer sounded weak and dependent on how much force Arabella applied when she learned of his offer. She hated him going anywhere without her – especially family things, events she usually persuaded him to steer clear of. If she couldn’t or wouldn’t go, then he didn’t get to go either.

  Dominic looked at him, eyes dark with accusation and a maturity Adam had never noticed before.

  ‘If she allows it. Let’s face it, Dad, she’s the one wearing the trousers. She can’t stand having us around
. On the rare occasions Her Majesty does allow us to visit it’s by appointment only and booked three weeks in advance. Can you recall the last time we spent Christmas together?’

  Adam flinched. The dark eyes in a pale face reminded him of the look Susan had given him when he’d told her he was leaving her and the kids for television’s golden girl.

  Arabella was warned that her career could be affected, her sugary, girl-next-door image tarnished for ever. Arabella would have none of it, convinced that she could have it all – anything she wanted – and that included him. At the time he’d been flattered to think that she was risking everything for love – for him.

  When the affair became public knowledge, the television company told her to end it pronto. Full of her own self-importance, Arabella had refused to listen, citing her viewing figures and the tons of fan mail she received each week.

  Hopelessly beguiled, Adam had deserted his children and divorced his wife. The wedding photographs had spread over two full pages of a celebrity magazine for which a hefty fee had been paid, both from the magazine and the purveyors of an upmarket ice-cream brand.

  That centre spread had been the height of their relationship, though neither of them had grasped that at the time. They should have seen the warning signs, the vitriolic letters from outraged viewers calling her a marriage-wrecker, a slut with no scruples and no heart.

  The ‘have it all’ couple had experienced the big wedding, the big publicity bash, and a tasty cheque to match. After that it was downhill all the way. The television company dropped her. Her career suffered and so had their relationship. Arabella insisted that the children make an appointment to visit. ‘In case their presence clashes with my career and our personal arrangements.’

  Even now he found himself making excuses for her.

  ‘She gets very nervous around children …’

  Dominic’s jaw stiffened. ‘Dad, it may have slipped your notice, but I’m three inches taller than you and am not a child any longer. She wants to keep us apart. The selfish cow wants you to forget we exist.’

  ‘Perhaps once we’re settled at the new place …’

  ‘Get real!’