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

by Jean G. Goodhind

  Honey lugged the footbath to the Zodiac Club where the old couple were to have their reception. Doherty was there waiting for her. Once the footbath was safely stowed with the other wedding presents, she popped onto a bar stool.

  ‘Here,’ said Doherty. ‘Let’s drink to success.’

  ‘The case is solved?’

  ‘Hardly. We’ve spoken to other investors. It’s not easy,’ he said. ‘Some of them are very private people with lots of money. They don’t like being taken for fools.’

  His blue eyes were dark with busy thoughts. Honey knew that look and took a stab at what he was thinking.

  ‘They could afford to have their revenge – kill them – both Arabella and Adam.’

  Doherty nodded and cradled his drink. ‘We’re thinking that Adam may be a victim too. Murdered elsewhere. Hidden elsewhere. Perhaps he was killed first, his wife interrupted the killer, and he didn’t hide her as well as he’s hidden the husband.’

  ‘Is that possible?’

  ‘Anything’s possible.’

  Honey rested her chin on her hand. ‘I’d like to be that rich. Not that I’d pay to have somebody bumped off – well not just at this moment in time. Just to be able to buy anything.’

  ‘Not all of the investors were ultra-rich. A few, like Evan Albright, were just comfortably off. And John Rees. That guy you used to know. The bookshop owner.’

  She could feel herself go hot and hoped it didn’t show. Luckily the Zodiac was a very dark place.

  News that John Rees had been an investor in Rolfe Investments was a total surprise, though it did explain his acting out of character. Losing a lot of money was enough to make anyone act out of character.

  ‘He was at the Roman Baths,’ she said flippantly as though she’d only said ‘hi’ in passing.

  ‘I know. He’s on the list.’

  Phew! For once she’d chosen the right time to tell the truth.

  ‘I could go along and talk to him, seeing as I know him.’ It seemed the least she could do. Besides, she had a yearning to get to the bottom of John’s involvement. Not that he’s guilty of killing anyone, she told herself. OK, he had been in the army or something, but he just wasn’t the type to kill. He’d probably just been an army cook or a stretcher bearer. Not a killer. Not John.

  ‘Give me time,’ she said to Doherty. ‘I’ll go and talk to John Rees and Arabella’s personal trainer – though not tomorrow. Tomorrow I have to attend the wedding of my mother’s first well-satisfied customers.’

  Honey kept muttering to anyone that would listen that she really didn’t have time to leave the hotel and a murder case to attend a wedding of people she didn’t know. The only person she didn’t convey this to was her mother. Gloria Cross had already announced that she would be very upset if her daughter did not attend. After all, this was the first pairing of lovebirds who’d met via her online dating site.

  ‘At least it’s not far,’ she said as she pulled a broad-brimmed black hat onto her head. The hat had been purchased on a trip to Covent Garden. It was plain black and therefore useful. Add a red rose or a pink scarf, anything that matched the outfit, and the hat matched too.

  The plan was to get there, hand over the card, explain the present was being forwarded to the Zodiac Club where the reception was to be held, then leg it fast back to the hotel. A coach full of tourists was due to arrive at noon for tea, scones, jam and clotted cream. The fact that midday was not usually the time to partake of a cream tea was beside the point.

  The coach operator had explained the reason for this. ‘They watched some costume drama on TV where all these women in big frocks were tucking into a cream tea. They thought Bath would be the place to do the same, so if you could oblige …’

  ‘I’ll be back asap,’ she said to Lindsey. ‘Cover for me.’

  ‘Never fear. I’m on the case,’ said Lindsey.

  So here she was, suitably dressed.

  ‘What do you think, Lindz?’

  Her daughter looked her up and down. ‘It’s very you.’

  ‘That could mean anything.’

  ‘It suits.’

  She’d gone for something jazzy and bright. The red suit she chose had a panelled skirt with a small black motif and a panelled top with a keyhole neckline. She added a red rose to her black hat. Handbag and shoes were black.

  One look in the mirror and she could see she looked decidedly cheerful. Not a hint of Miss Havisham – more a touch of Moll Flanders perhaps?

  ‘Don’t ask. Just go,’ said Lindsey when it looked as though she were having doubts.

  ‘Oooow. You look nice,’ said Mary Jane as she tottered through reception on four inch heels. ‘Very bright.’

  The comment about her outfit being bright was decidedly unnerving. Mary Jane had a penchant for very vivid colours, so if she thought this was bright …

  Honey glanced at her watch and sucked in her breath. There was no time to change.

  The moment she left the hotel, she did the decent thing and switched off her mobile phone. How many events had she attended where people had forgotten to do that? Including herself, hence being one jump ahead and switching it off now. The day was fine though cooled with a breeze, though not enough to swipe off hats and make a mess of a hair do.

  Dressed to the nines, she shot off deciding to walk there. Luckily the wedding of Wilbur Williams and Alice Prendergast was to be held at the Duchess of Huntingdon’s Chapel, a lovely old place perched up on a parapet of a pavement at the side of the A4 road.

  The air outside was bright, the pavements shiny with recent rain. They were also slippery. Speed was not really an option, though might have been if she’d taken the sensible approach and worn low-heeled shoes.

  Tourists thronged the pavements. They were all wearing sensible shoes and casual clothes, glancing at this woman so formally attired in red and black. One or two smiled at her and she smiled back.

  Two cups of coffee plus fruit juice had been consumed before leaving and nature accordingly took its course. She popped into the ladies’ cloakroom at the Roman Baths, did a quick check in the mirror and nipped out again.

  Outside the air seemed cooler and even more people were smiling at her.

  It’s the colour, she thought to herself. It’s making them happy.

  Back at the hotel, Lindsey was going spare. Her grandmother had phoned on her mobile to check whether Honey had left.

  ‘I left a message on her phone last night. She did get it, didn’t she?’

  ‘What message?’

  The moment she was told what had happened, Lindsey phoned her mother’s mobile. There was no reply.

  Smudger was in reception having written down the changes to today’s table d’hote menu.

  ‘Problem?’

  ‘Big problem. My mother has not got her phone turned on and my grandmother has just phoned to say that the venue is the same, but the form of service is changed. Wilbur and Alice will not be getting married.’

  ‘Ah! Cold feet or cold as in …’

  The look on Lindsey’s face said it all.

  Smudger offered to run after her. ‘I’m a good runner, though not as good as Clint.’

  Lindsey grimaced. The less said about Clint the better. Anna was pregnant again – and Clint had run – fast.

  ‘Try,’ she said to Smudger.

  ‘Is the world going to stop if I don’t?’

  ‘No. Just my mother’s heart!’

  Chapter Twelve

  Late arriving at the Duchess of Huntingdon’s chapel, Honey realised she’d probably missed the wedding march. She couldn’t hear any wedding march, but put this down to the thickness of the chapel walls. The vicar had probably now moved on to the tried and tested words of the wedding service.

  There were no big silk bows and bouquets of flowers decorating the wrought iron arch that girdled the gateway as she’d been expecting. Her mother had assured her there would be. An oversight, or funds didn’t stretch that far.

  The moment sh
e pushed open the door, she fancied something was wrong – though what?

  Everyone was dressed in dark colours. She put that down to the warning about not wearing white. Most of the people there were elderly. She guessed they’d gone for the opposite of white. Black was always a good standby.

  On searching for her mother, she saw her three pews back from the front.

  She slid into a pew at the back, and found she had it to herself.

  The vicar spoke quietly and she had to strain to hear the words. Though tempted to urge him to speak up, she refrained. The poor man was getting on in years himself and the acoustics in these old places was never very good. You could have dropped a pin and heard it roll over the floor; that was how hollow and silent it was. Nobody was making a sound. There were no funny comments about the bride and groom as is usually done at weddings. Nothing. Nothing but the incessant drone of the vicar.

  And then it struck her. She couldn’t see Alice in her frothy white gown. The only splash of colour was her own outfit; Honey Driver in a scarlet suit and nifty hat!

  Just as the penny dropped the door behind her opened. A figure in white stepped through, his face pink with effort.

  Once he’d caught his breath, Smudger whispered into her ear. ‘The bride died after dancing on the table at the Zodiac Club.’

  ‘Oh, my God!’ she whispered, and rushed out.

  Once outside, her chef told her of the change of plan.

  ‘The old geezer about to get wed couldn’t bear to cancel the service entirely, so he got it changed at the last minute. It’s a kind of tribute to the bride – a bit like footballers when they finally hang up their boots. So. Not quite dressed for a wake, boss,’ he said, running his eyes over the scarlet suit.

  ‘It can’t be called a wake if she’s only just died! Anyway, it just wouldn’t be right. It should have been a wedding. Besides, it’s a wedding I’m dressed for, not a wake.’ Honey swept her hat from her head. ‘How embarrassing. No wonder everyone was looking at me dressed in red.’

  Smudger grinned. ‘It’s not about the colour. The back of your skirt’s tucked in your knickers.’

  ‘You doing hotdogs? Where’s your stand? I’ll have four, please.’

  The question was asked by a group of Japanese tourists. On noticing Smudger was wearing chef’s whites, they’d presumed he was a hot dog salesman who perhaps had lost his trolley.

  She could have gone back to the hotel there and then, but for the second time in two weeks, she was dressed to impress.

  ‘I’ll be back later,’ she said, once she’d rearranged her skirt. ‘I’ve got to see a man about a dead woman.’

  The frontage of the upmarket agency Glenwood Halley worked for was glossy with glass and shiny with chrome. Honey looked for a door handle but couldn’t find one. The door was just one sheet of glass; very trendy but a magnet for mucky finger marks.

  The interior was breathtakingly pristine, all clean, clear surfaces and lots and lots of glass. Two inches of her high-heeled shoes sank into a creamy carpet. Soft music was playing and the air smelled of lemons.

  A young woman displaying the orange skin tone of a sun-bed-addict wafted across to greet her.

  ‘Mrs Driver isn’t it? So nice to see you again. Would you like tea, coffee, Champagne? We always have some on ice for valued clients.’

  A little surprised that the receptionist had recognised her, Honey shook her head thinking that Champagne at this time of day was vaguely decadent.

  ‘I want to speak to Mr Halley. Is he here?’

  ‘I’ll just see,’ she said, her voice prim and her expression slightly condescending.

  Glenwood Halley swept towards her with outstretched hand, his shirt crisply white, business suit smartly navy. The gold chain slid around his wrist.

  ‘Mrs Driver. How lovely to see you. Do come through. Would you like coffee? Tea?’

  ‘No. I wouldn’t want to trouble you.’

  ‘Oh, you wouldn’t be troubling me, Mrs Driver. Ruth will make a cup if you wish for one.’

  ‘No thank you. I’m sure Ruth has other things to do.’

  She smiled sweetly. Ruth showed no sign of being either surprised or hurt by Honey’s rejection of beverage. She just smiled in a professionally bland manner and betrayed no emotion whatsoever.

  It struck Honey that Glenwood Halley hadn’t asked if she would like Champagne, not that she wanted any. She preferred red wines, full bodied clarets just like the men in her life. Not fizzy and crisp – like Glenwood.

  ‘Do come into my office.’ With a flourish suited to a Buckingham Palace flunkey, he opened a plate glass door. Like the main door it was fashioned from plate glass, the handle a bronze pad inset into the glass. The door closed with a hush behind them.

  His office was cool, the walls lined with beige fabric, the carpet almost as white as his shirt. The chairs and sofa were of navy blue leather and plush enough to drown in. The rest of the furniture was chrome and glass. Framed photographs of ‘hot’ properties lined the right hand wall. Photographs of famous people were bunched into groups on the opposite wall. The two were obviously tied together; vendors and buyers ranged opposite the properties they’d purchased or sold.

  ‘I see you’ve noticed,’ he said with an air of someone who knows better than you. He sprawled himself at one corner of a settee, his long legs unfurled.

  Looking at his legs brought to mind the spiders in the old outhouse. When he invited her to join him, she settled herself in the opposite corner. A two-foot gap opened up like a moat between her knee and his. The hat with the broad brim and the red silk rose – now crumpled – sat between them.

  ‘You’ve met all these people?’ She nodded at the photographs.

  ‘Indeed I have! Lovely, lovely people, all of them.’

  Like the people he hero-worshipped, Glenwood Halley was overwhelmingly theatrical. He sighed like a love-sick teenager.

  ‘Arabella was an angel. I absolutely adored her. How sad. How very, very sad.’

  ‘You sound as though you held her in high regard – not just on a business footing I mean.’

  ‘Why not? She was beautiful. Such people have electrifying auras, don’t you think?’

  ‘Not really.’

  For some odd reason she thought of a toaster. She examined the pictures carefully. None of them even faintly resembled a toaster.

  Most of them were instantly recognisable. One of them was the recently deceased Mrs Arabella Rolfe, and this struck Honey as strange.

  ‘Excuse me for asking, Glenwood, but I notice Arabella Neville is up on your wall, though you haven’t yet sold Cobden Manor. Did they purchase it through you?’

  His eyes narrowed defensively. ‘Yes. She has also recently purchased an apartment in the Royal Crescent through us.’

  ‘You say ‘she’. Does that mean it was her money that bought it, not her husband’s money?’

  A closed look came over his face. ‘I couldn’t possibly comment on our client’s financial arrangements. It would be a breach of privacy.’

  Honey cleared her throat. ‘Glenwood, it’s a question the police are very likely to ask you. It might be beneficial both to you and your client list that the facts were relayed by me to Steve Doherty. I mean, how would your clients react if the police rope you in to answer more questions?’

  His response was sharp and immediate. ‘Private money. From a private source. There wasn’t a mortgage or anything like that.’

  ‘What do you mean by private?’

  He paused as he tried to make up his mind whether to bluster around the truth or declare it openly. There were options to weigh up. He made the decision to tell what he knew.

  ‘Her solicitor would know, though of course they’re less likely to tell you than I am. Client confidentiality and all that.’

  Honey toyed with the big fat rose still clinging to the side of her hat. The fact that the purchase money had come from a private source was interesting. Glenwood Halley was probably telling the t
ruth. As an estate agent he wasn’t likely to be privy to that information. The solicitor, on the other hand, would know.

  ‘So who was Arabella’s solicitor?’

  Glenwood ignored the question. Eyes shining, he was staring adoringly at Arabella’s photo-friendly smile.

  ‘She was so wonderful. Did you know that she was being considered for the Celebrity Big Brother House?’

  ‘No. I didn’t.’ She didn’t tell him that watching reality shows was something she did every day for real. She ran a hotel. All the world and his wife came through those doors, their behaviour good, bad and somewhere in between.

  Glenwood sighed deeply. ‘After that first meeting when her eyes met mine and she shook my hand, I taped every programme she ever appeared on.’

  Honey eyed the side of the sofa arm just in case it had magically turned into an aircraft seat complete with sick bag. And then it came to her. Glenwood had met Arabella long before she had purchased the apartment in the Royal Crescent. He’d have to have met her a few years back if he had, as stated, taped all her TV shows.

  ‘Hold on a minute. Are you telling me that you met her before she bought the apartment and the bank ordered you to sell Cobden Manor?’

  ‘We first met when she and her husband bought Cobden Manor.’

  ‘This was – how many years ago?’

  ‘Five, I think, though I could check the records for the exact date.’

  ‘Do you know anybody who would want her dead?’

  ‘Of course not. She was lovely. So lovely.’

  ‘And her husband; what did you think of him?’

  It was barely perceptible, but she was sure she detected a sudden cloudiness to his velvety brown eyes. But he rallied, unwilling no doubt to sully the memory of Arabella Neville in any way.

  ‘Mr Rolfe was quite the gentleman. His wife loved the house and although he was a little reluctant at first, she easily won him round.’

  I bet she did, thought Honey.

  Glenwood carried on. ‘She was so excited about the house and had great plans for it. They were newlyweds back then and her husband indulged her every whim. They were so in love, and she was so gorgeous! So very, very gorgeous!’