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

by Jean G. Goodhind

  There they were, the two newlyweds, posing in front of this fountain for one of their wedding photos holding a tub of the sponsor’s ice cream.

  Dining room, library, conservatory, drawing room? There were so many it was difficult to keep track. And they were large. Adam and Arabella had once entertained on a large scale. Their world had indeed diminished, she thought, overwhelmed by the emptiness of it all.

  The doorways were wide and deep on account of the thickness of the walls. The windows brimmed with light. The library lent itself to converting to a bar – or remaining as a library. Some people would appreciate it. The dining room and drawing room would have to form two halves of the restaurant/dining room. The guests she envisaged staying here would demand plenty of space.

  Plans on colours and furnishings came and went. The dining room was nice, the drawing room nicer. From there she retraced her steps, then back in there again. There was so much to take in, so many plans to make.

  Wandering from one room to another brought her back to where she’d started. Glenwood Halley’s voice weaved its ways through the empty rooms like a stone rattling inside a tin can.

  It was the sort of voice best heard from a distance. She could do without him wittering on and on about the attributes of the house and Arabella Rolfe. No matter how often she hinted that the bank were the vendors, he continued to refer to Mr and Mrs Rolfe as the owners. It was as though he simply could not accept that the rich and famous sometimes made mistakes and had feet of clay, vulnerable to the same vagaries of business as anyone else.

  Glenwood grated. Retreating from his voice, she came across the servants’ staircase. The old staircase had been painted white. The walls were white, the treads covered in carpeting referred to in the trade as seagrass. It was tough, rough to bare feet but very fashionable. Up she went.

  Like the ground-floor rooms she had left behind, everything on the first floor was painted white, or pale mauve in the odd recess she came across.

  It seemed that when it came to colour, Arabella was not at all adventurous. In fact, she thought to herself, she was downright conservative, even dull.

  Never believe what you read, she thought to herself. The magazine had portrayed her as a capable interior designer.

  Arabella Has a Cool Head for Colour. That’s what it had said – well something like that. But where was the colour? Nowhere.

  Proceeding back to the front of the house, she found herself on the wide gallery overlooking the spacious reception hall. This would form the reception area should she buy this place. Half closing her eyes, she imagined how it would be, crisply white curtains draped at the windows, vast sofas of pale blue brocade, lamps with shades the size of buckets sitting on white marble tables, the unhurried ticking of an immense long case clock, and streams of blue light rising up from recesses hidden at ground level.

  She sighed. What a wonderful hotel, people would say. The Cobden Manor Hotel is the best place to stay in the whole area. A brilliant hotel.

  Hotel! There it was. The actual word formed in her brain, and if that had happened, surely the whole physical thing would happen. Wouldn’t it?

  Suddenly Glenwood appeared at the bottom of the stairs, the light from the cupola shining on his upturned face.

  ‘Do you require my input?’ he asked almost plaintively. His white teeth flashed into a smile. His face was too shiny, too perfect, a bit like the head of a wooden puppet.

  ‘I’m fine. I’ve seen everything up here.’ She folded the brochure into a manageable portion and tucked her briefcase more securely beneath her arm. She had no intention of rejoining his little tour. She raised the folded up brochure to eye level.

  ‘It says in the particulars that there are various outbuildings including an untouched annexe suitable for a variety of purposes – subject to planning consent.’ She looked up from the brochure she was reading and eyed him enquiringly. ‘Where is this annexe?’

  A pensive stillness froze his carved features and his skin didn’t look as shiny as it had done. ‘You wouldn’t want to go in there,’ he said shaking his head. ‘It’s not really up to standard.’

  Honey surmised what he was thinking. The vendors had stressed that all prospective purchasers should be accompanied. On the one hand he wanted to adhere to their wishes. On the other he was naturally wary of alienating a buyer.

  ‘I won’t run off with the silver,’ she said.

  His face cracked into a flashy-toothed smile – designer teeth, too bright, white, and straight to be natural.

  ‘Of course not. I can see just by looking at you that you are a very trustworthy person. It’s just that there’s really not that much to see out there …’

  ‘Because Mr and Mrs Rolfe have stripped the place bare?’

  ‘No. No. Of course not. It’s empty and kept locked. You’ll need the key, and I’m afraid I don’t know where it is.’

  ‘Why should I buy something I haven’t seen?’

  ‘Well, of course, if you insist, I can search for the key, and dependent on me finding it we can all go together.’

  ‘No need. I’ll find it.’

  He didn’t look too pleased at her peeling away from his guided tour, but she went anyway.

  Being an hotelier, she had a penchant for finding lost things. Guests lost things all the time, anything from expensive jewellery, to false teeth, family photos, and misplaced underwear.

  The underwear was usually the easiest to find. Some was merely tucked down at the foot of the bed, flung off during a burst of passion. False teeth were misplaced as a result of memory loss, though a pair had once been found at the foot of someone else’s bed in an adjoining bedroom. Sleepwalking was a common excuse.

  At the back of the kitchen was a utility room. To the right of the utility room door was a cupboard and inside that cupboard a bunch of old keys hung from a wooden rack.

  The biggest key was about five inches long, made of iron, and big enough to use as a lethal weapon if need be. The size of it and the fact that it was forged from solid iron was slightly alarming, though not surprising. Only places that hadn’t been used for years retained keys like this. The other two keys on the ring were similar in style though not nearly as big. There was more than one outhouse.

  The group of outbuildings was located across the yard at the back between the main house and the stables. Like her private quarters back at the Green River Hotel, the annexe had once housed the coach itself plus room for the horses. What was now pleasant living accommodation had smelled like a cesspit. The builder had told her it was a tip and that she’d never get it in order. Would this be a tip too? She stopped to toss a coin.

  ‘Heads it will be an irreversible wreck, tails it will lend itself to be the best conversion ever.’

  Tails won, but she went on anyway. Only a shrinking violet would turn back. She was more of a Valkyrie.

  Chapter Seven

  The biggest of the buildings was the most intact, though moss almost obliterated the clay-coloured roof tiles and a forest of cobwebs clouded the dirty windows.

  Neither the door nor the window frames had been painted in years. Patches of dull blue flaked like dried skin. Mostly there was only bare wood weathered to silver and rough to the touch.

  She sniffed and wrinkled her nose. Something smelled bad, possibly the drains. On the whole this place had nothing going for it. The rest of the house was top notch crash pad. This old place had woodworm and giant spiders’ webs written all over it. Still, since when had she been scared of spiders?

  Taking a deep breath she tapped the big key against the palm of her hand. Gut instinct told her that this was the one that would open the door. The thing was, did she want to go in?

  Her feelings were mixed and confused. All that work of renovating somewhere to live. What was she doing here? Did she really intend buying it and creating a country hotel? Would she miss city life? Would the spiders really be that big, and would there be mice? She eyed the key pensively. It was big enough to bash
spiders aside, no problem!

  The key clunked into place. The door creaked open. The smell of dirt, dust, and general neglectful mustiness wafted over her; it was like being smothered with a dirty old blanket, one a dog used to sleep on – and had died on.

  Swallowing a mouthful of dusty breath, she stepped inside.

  Just as she’d suspected this was mission control for spiders. Their cobwebs were everywhere; some hanging like small hammocks across the windows, clustered in corners, and all twitching with nearly dead flies writhing in shrouds of semi white gauze. It occurred to her that the flies should have seen the traps. Surely the nearly dead flies should have signalled warning; keep away. Were flies that stupid? Obviously they were.

  The smell of something nasty was stronger inside than out. This place was grim. For all its luxury attributes, Cobden Manor itself would need some serious capital expenditure if she were to turn it into a hotel. This place, this so called annexe, was in serious need of being knocked down.

  Think positive, she told herself. This place can be sorted and Cobden Manor does have some definite attributes. For goodness sake, there was a panic room complete with air conditioning and a fully stocked fridge.

  Not in working order.

  Ah yes. Instinct was kicking in. Take the blurb in glossy brochures with a large pinch of salt.

  She kicked at a clump of nettles that had made the bad decision to grow indoors, the seed probably dropped there by some burrowing vermin. The nettles were stunted and whitish in colour.

  The main house was liveable. This place, glibly described as an annexe, was like something out of a Hammer horror film.

  There were cobwebs inside the windows, and cobwebs outside. They were the reason for the interior of the annexe being so dim, the cobwebs like blinds blanking out the daylight.

  She found an old broom and attacked them while muttering, ‘Let there be light.’

  Once that was done, she brushed something creepy off her shoulder, and took a look around.

  At one time the building might have been used as a big old prep room complete with Victorian pine dresser, huge cook’s table and pot/meat hooks hanging from the ceiling. This was where the butchering and butter making would have been done before being transferred in smaller containers into the kitchen proper. The far wall was taken up by a huge inglenook fireplace complete with oak Bessemer and a few dusty logs looking lonely in one corner.

  She checked the agents’ particulars. ‘The adjoining annexe is untouched and retains a great deal of character.’

  ‘Along with the dust and cobwebs,’ she added, flicking at a spider that appeared to be doing a trapeze act from an overhead beam.

  The floor of red clay tiles was uneven and not high-heel friendly. Should have worn your driving slippers, she thought. You shouldn’t have been so vain.

  The fact was she’d wanted to look as though she could really afford this place. And she could! Couldn’t she? The final decision lay with her bank manager – once she’d brought Lindsey along for a look before taking the leap. Lindsey had already voiced doubts. They gnawed at the back of her mind.

  ‘What about the shops? What about your social life?’ And what about Doherty, her own voice added.

  She sighed and told herself again that no decision had yet been made. So let your imagination run riot. Take a good look round and do your research.

  The inglenook fireplace was a big draw. She’d always wanted a place with an inglenook fireplace, a place of blazing logs in winter and a voluptuous flower display in summer. Its dark void cried out for closer inspection.

  Her footsteps left smudged imprints in the dirty floor and sent beetles scurrying for cover as she made her way across the room. Something bigger than a spider scuttled beneath the dresser.

  Mouse? Rat?

  She didn’t like vermin, full stop. Even gerbils. Hamsters too.

  For a moment she held her breath and waited for the scuttling creature to show itself. Nothing. Hopefully the little critters would keep out of sight while she was around.

  Another rustling sound came from behind her. She recalled a pile of old rotting feed sacks.

  Mouse! Rat!

  As hyped-up as a sprinter ready for the off, she pivoted like a ballerina, though in her case she wasn’t wearing ballet pumps. Moss and general dampness had made the floor slippery and uneven. The heel of her high-fashion heels snapped off between two uneven tiles.

  She looked down at the floor. ‘I do not believe it!’

  Her foot was still in the main part of her shoe. The heel was stubbornly stuck between the tiles, sticking up like a lop-sided mushroom.

  There was no way she could balance on one leg indefinitely. She had two legs, and at her age she needed to use them both. Balancing on one leg was for ballerinas and skateboarders. There was also the price of the shoes to be taken into consideration. Heels could be glued back on, and at the price she’d paid for these babies, she sure as hell was up for that.

  There was nothing for it but to get down and get that heel out. The floor was filthy but the price of the shoes kept her focused. Dirt washed off. She got down and tugged too hard and tumbled backwards, hands, heels, and bottom connecting with moss and dirt.

  ‘Sod!’

  Her shout and sudden movement sent whatever had been hiding beneath the rotting feed sacks heading for the fireplace.

  Normally she would have rubbed the dirt off her hands and heaved herself to her feet, but something had caught her eye. Her heart began to race. Her stomach cleaved to her spine.

  She sucked in her breath and remained on all fours. If she’d been standing she wouldn’t have seen anything. Sprawled across the floor she could see a little way above the heavy beam that held up the stonework.

  An expensive shoe hung level with the Bessemer of the old fireplace. To see a shoe hanging there would have been odd, but this was worse than odd. There was a foot in the shoe, and where there was a leg there was bound to be a body.

  And there was.

  Chapter Eight

  Honey was shivering. Like the estate agent standing next to her, she watched as the body of Arabella Neville was ferried from the dusty building and into the meat wagon.

  Strange the other things she noticed; like the medical examiner taking a tissue from a box beneath his arm and giving his nose a good blow. Police incident tape was fluttering everywhere, like bunting at a village fete.

  The ebullient Glenwood Halley had fallen to silence. His carven features reminded Honey of the stone statues of Easter Island. Since the moment the body had been found, he’d either simply stared ahead or asked questions of anyone who would listen.

  ‘Who is it?’ He’d asked the same question of Honey three times. She’d answered three times that it was Arabella Neville.

  ‘No,’ he’d said, shaking his head. ‘It can’t be.’

  Just like her comments coming up here in the car, the responses were not sinking in.

  Friendly fingers gripped her shoulder and gave her a gentle shake.

  ’You OK?’

  Doherty was grim-faced and wore a purposeful expression.

  Honey shivered and took a very deep breath. ‘I’ve never found a dead body before – not a murdered one anyway.’

  He smiled – only a half-smile but she appreciated its warmth.

  ‘Take it easy. Think calming thoughts. Think about anything except her. Think of me if you like. I don’t mind.’

  His sentiment hit the right spot though her smile was weak. ‘That might help.’

  ‘Only might?’

  His grin was swift though reassuring. His tone turned sombre.

  ‘You’ll need to come into the station to give a statement. Are you up to that right now? If you’re not, we can leave it till the morning.’

  Shaking her head, she ran her fingers through her hair and gripped the blanket some thoughtful soul had put round her. She’d never known that shock could be so chilling.

  ‘I’ll be OK. I suppose you�
�ll be making a statement too.’

  He nodded. ‘Under the circumstances, yes. Him too.’ He jerked his chin in the direction of Glenwood Halley who was now looking more lost than lofty. He had left Honey’s side and was now loitering around the area between his car and the place where the incident tape was fluttering, and blue lights flashing. He couldn’t take his eyes off the vehicle taking Arabella away from the scene.

  It had been some hours since the body was discovered. Honey had phoned Lindsey to tell her what had happened. Most noticeably, Glenwood had phoned nobody. He seemed in a state of shock of the kind usually suffered by the nearest and dearest of the deceased.

  Suddenly he spotted Doherty and rushing over. ‘You’re a policeman. I’ve been told you’re a policeman. I’m sick at heart, Mr Doherty. Sick at heart. She was a lovely person. That’s all I’m saying.’

  Doherty shifted position. Unless you knew him you wouldn’t really notice that his stance had changed, that he was studying you carefully. But Honey noticed. Honey knew him well.

  ‘How close were you to her?’ His tone was enquiring though not piercingly so.

  Halley never wavered. ‘Very close. But she was married.’

  Doherty looked at him then looked away. ‘She had a husband. It’s usually the husband that did it.’

  ‘Is that true?’

  It was difficult to tell whether Glenwood Halley looked surprised or intrigued. Either would have sufficed.

  ‘It is. We weren’t expecting quite such a surprise,’ said Doherty. ‘I hope wasn’t down to you. I hope you didn’t lay it on especially on my account.’

  It was a joke and although the incident was a serious one, in his experience Doherty believed a little humour helped lighten the load. Glenwood Halley took it the wrong way.

  ‘I didn’t know she was there!’ he said angrily.

  ‘Never mind. We’ll be speaking to everyone we need to speak to. In the meantime I would appreciate you calling into Manvers Street to give a statement.’

  Glenwood’s chin firmed up. ‘Yes. Of course.’