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

by Jean G. Goodhind

‘Still, she was only human,’ Honey said.

  ‘But very attractive!’ The comment was delivered vehemently. Poor Glenwood was totally star-struck. If he’d been a girl and Arabella had been a rock band, he would have been a groupie. But what had been Arabella’s feelings for Glenwood? She could guess, but for now the fact that Adam Rolfe had not been keen to buy the manor had to say something. Like, had it contributed to the downfall of his business? Had he hated her for buying it? She had to know.

  ‘Do you think Mr Rolfe would have bought the manor if his wife hadn’t persuaded him to do so?’

  Glenwood eyed her balefully. At the same time he fingered his chin as though tracing an imaginary line. Unlike Doherty there was no whiskery sound. Glenwood was shiny. Glenwood went in for a regular and very close shave.

  ‘I really couldn’t say.’

  ‘What was her reaction when the bank took possession?’

  ‘Upset,’ he snapped. ‘Wouldn’t you be?’

  She had to admit she would. Glenwood was tapping his knee with his fingers. Impatience was beginning to set in. If she was going to end this interview having learned something, it made sense to return to what seemed to be something of a hobby – a bit like autograph-hunting is a hobby, though without waiting in the pouring rain outside a stage door.

  ‘So, Glenwood. You liked rubbing shoulders with the rich, the famous and the glamorous.’

  Conviviality was instantly restored. Glenwood’s dark eyes shone as he surveyed the bevy of beauties hanging on the wall. There were more women than men. It could be because he’d had more female clients than male, ‘had’ being the operative word. It wouldn’t hurt to ask.

  ‘Excuse me for asking, but did you actually have any …’ Honey paused as she searched for the right word. ‘Liaisons with any of these beauties?’

  For a moment he was like an engine that had stalled on start-up. Then he was all subdued laughter and shaking of head.

  ‘That would be telling. I couldn’t possibly comment.’

  ‘I’m not a tabloid journalist, Glenwood,’ she said, smiling fit to seduce an archbishop. ‘Just out of interest – and envy of course. I would love to know …’

  He shook his head and came over all coy. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘Let’s just say that I became intimate friends with a few of them.’

  ‘How intimate?’ she cooed, narrowing the gap between them and lowering her voice.

  ‘Let’s just say, some became quite close.’

  ‘Was Arabella one of those you became close to?’

  Whether she’d sounded too eager or he’d suddenly remembered her policeman boyfriend, a light clicked on in his brain. ‘I really don’t think I should say any more. Shall we stick to the subject of Cobden Manor?’ he said coldly.

  ‘I thought we were. That’s where I found Arabella, remember? She was dead. Strangled with her own Alice band. Her murderer had to be a pretty strong guy to stuff her up that chimney. How big are you, Glenwood. Six foot two? Six foot three?’

  ‘I didn’t do it.’ He glanced towards the office door, aware that he’d raised his voice. ‘Not her. Not Arabella! How could I?’

  ‘How close were you two,’ said Honey, rising to the occasion and to her feet. ‘Did you arrange to meet there? Did you try to force yourself on her? Did she reject you?’

  The torrent of questions caught the estate agent unawares.

  ‘No!’

  He too got to his feet, towering over her. A nerve ticked below one eye, spoiling his smooth complexion.

  ‘I don’t have to answer your questions. You’re not a policeman.’

  ‘No. But my boyfriend is. Any suspicions I have will be relayed straight to him. Plus, of course, I am Crime Liaison Officer on behalf of Bath Hotels Association. I’ll be reporting on the progress of this investigation to Casper St John Gervais. He’s chairman of the hotels association. If you happened to mention to Casper that you’ve met the Archbishop of Canterbury, Casper will inform you that he’s met the Pope. Casper knows everybody. He has lines of communication all over the place. So it’s not a bad idea to tell me precisely what you know. I’ll keep it under my hat, so to speak. Unless it has direct effects on the murder case. Got it?’

  She wondered what Casper would think if he’d heard what she’d just said. Puff up with pride or explode with indignation. Her money was on the former.

  The tactic backfired big time.

  ‘Get out! Get off these premises right now. Even if you had ten million to spend, I wouldn’t deal with you!’

  The game was up, the party was over. Honey sauntered slowly for the door twirling her black-brimmed hat around one finger. Before opening the door, she turned round, held her head to one side and said, ‘Just one last question. Why didn’t you offer me Champagne? Ruth did.’

  ‘I only offer Champagne to …’

  ‘Famous and fabulously wealthy people?’

  That was it! Glenwood Halley really was a victim of celebrity culture. He couldn’t help himself. She had gone to view a property with regard to a commercial venture, not because she was rich, famous, or both. People who bought mansions to turn into country house hotels were pretty low in the pecking order as far as Glenwood was concerned. He would tolerate them for the money it would bring in, but that was as far as it went. It was the celebrities he loved to deal with, the beautiful people with their fantastic lifestyles and instantly recognisable faces. Basically, he was obsessed, and that in itself was worrying. She recalled Doherty referring to a stalker and Arabella being attacked.

  ‘I’ll find my own way out.’

  He didn’t apologise or come after her. She hadn’t expected him to. It must be pretty clear by now that she wouldn’t be buying Cobden Manor. Would I ever have gone through with it, she asked herself. She didn’t know the answer to that. All she did know was that Glenwood Halley had been rattled by her questions, and yes, she truly believed that he had got close – too close – to some of his clients. She had no proof of it, but a few questions of some of those women – stars she’d recognised – wouldn’t hurt. Glenwood Halley was in the frame, and she didn’t mean a picture frame!

  Chapter Thirteen

  Doherty came round to park himself in her office, talk about the murder case and indulge in a cup of black coffee.

  She told him how obsessed Glenwood was with celebrity and whether there had been complaints about stalking.

  ‘Not as far as I know, and remember, Glenwood was as shocked as we were when her body turned up. In fact, I’d say he was even more shocked.’

  Honey knew he was right. Glenwood had been totally thrown off balance. He’d been silent. Totally silent.

  Doherty declined a Danish pastry on account of his training schedule.

  ‘I’m fitter and leaner than I’ve been for a long time,’ he said. ‘I might play regularly.’

  Honey was doubtful. OK, he was sticking to the training schedule. There were only three days to go before the match and although he complained about his back, he refused to drop out of it.

  ‘It’s for the honour of the boys in blue,’ he said to her.

  ‘Steve, it’s a game of rugby, not the defence of Rorke’s Drift.’

  After he’d made himself comfortable in her leather-upholstered, swivelling bosun’s chair, Honey told him about the wedding that turned into a tribute and the reception that turned into a wake. She omitted the details about her skirt being tucked into her knickers. Such information was on a need to know basis only. Smudger had been sworn to secrecy on pain of her cutting off his bonus entitlement – ‘or something more painful – if he dared tell.’

  He’d soberly responded that his lips were sealed. When he wasn’t sober could pose more of a problem.

  ‘My mother said that they’re hoping to bury Alice in her wedding dress,’ Honey told Doherty, ‘though it does mean taking the hoops out of her skirt. She made the mistake of choosing a ‘Little Bo Peep’-style dress and it won’t fit in the coffin if they keep them in.’

 
Doherty shook his head. ‘You’ve certainly been up against it just lately.’

  ‘I wish,’ she said with a sad grin.

  ‘That’s a double entendre, I take it.’

  ‘You bet it is. I can do with some light relief.’

  ‘Things can only get better.’

  He was right about that. Just the act of taking hold of her chin between finger and thumb and kissing her forehead felt pretty good. Tingly feelings spread all over.

  ‘So how’s the coach house looking?’

  ‘Same as usual. I haven’t redecorated it or anything.’ Suddenly she got the gist of the true subject here. ‘You mean you want us to go over there and study the bedroom ceiling?’

  ‘It probably needs studying. That mattress too.’

  The occasion called for a clinch so they had one. It had barely terminated when Lindsey barged in.

  ‘Hey, I hate to interrupt a truly beautiful moment, but we have a problem.’

  Honey smoothed her hair and pulled her shirt back down over her waist.

  ‘Something wrong?’

  ‘Grandmother phoned and asked if you would like to attend the funeral, and what should she do with the footbath?’

  Honey’s mother took advantage of any occasion to dress up, even if it was in black. Out of everyone attending she would look the most glamorous. Gloria Cross was not the sort of grandmother who sat knitting and looking after grandchildren. At the time of Lindsey’s birth, she’d just married her fourth husband. She’d buried him four years later. Fortunately he’d left her a considerable sum of money, enough to keep her in designer clothes, cruises to foreign parts, and a very nice apartment where nothing was out of place. Honey wasn’t being invited to the funeral, she was being ordered to attend. Her mother actively encouraged people at such events to guess her age and invariably to make the comment that mother and daughter could easily be sisters.

  ‘No, I am not attending the funeral. I suppose I could donate the footbath to charity. People quite often donate things to charity instead of sending flowers, so that’s what I’ll do.’

  ‘That’s usually money, Mother, not footbaths.’

  ‘It’s the thought that counts.’

  Doherty tugged himself back into his leather jacket. ‘I’ll leave you to it. Shame about the wedding. I would have liked to been there. It sounded like fun.’

  He was grinning broadly. The vision of her wearing scarlet in a church full of people wearing black had tickled his funny bone. Or was it more than that? Had Smudger gone back on his word.

  ‘It wasn’t that funny,’ said Honey. ‘My mother didn’t think it very funny at all. That wedding was a milestone for her online dating business. She’ll be so disappointed. Wilbur and Alice met, fell in love and were getting married.’

  ‘And one fell dead. It could happen to anyone,’ said Doherty, his expression fighting between amusement and solemnity. ‘My uncle Sam remarried at ninety-two.’

  ‘My God. How old was his bride?’

  ‘Seventy-two. He outlived her by three years. Their children outlived both of them.’

  He regarded their puzzled expressions with amusement. ‘They both had children from past marriages. Get it?’

  ‘So this murder,’ said Lindsey, absolutely refusing to acknowledge Doherty’s sense of humour and instantly changing the subject. ‘The husband did it. It’s always the husband. Or the butler.’

  Doherty had been heading for the door, but stopped abruptly. ‘Funny you should say that. The Rolfes used to have a butler, but they let him go a few weeks before they moved.’

  ‘But the husband’s the prime suspect. Always is, isn’t he?’ said Lindsey.

  ‘I think he might be worth a question or two,’ said Honey. ‘But first there’s that personal trainer. I’d like to get my teeth into him. I really would.’

  Lindsey raised her eyebrows. ‘Biting his buttocks?’

  Honey didn’t answer. She’d never enjoyed exercise and couldn’t understand those who did. On top of that it was a personal trainer who had once told her that without his help she would remain pleasantly plump for the rest of her life. It was like a red rag to the bull; she wanted to put her horns down and charge!

  Chapter Fourteen

  Visiting a gym was not something Honey did very often, but she certainly knew how to dress the part. Delving deep into her daughter’s wardrobe, she had purloined the use of a pair of navy blue jogging pants, matching sweatshirt and white trainers with ‘go faster’ navy blue stripes along the side. Her hair was swept back into a ponytail and held in place with elasticated white towelling specially made for the purpose.

  She looked fresh-faced, sporty and ready to go – except that she had no intention of doing anything remotely energetic. She just figured that if she was going to ask this guy some questions, wearing the right outfit would put him at ease, even off guard.

  The girl behind the reception desk queried her asking for him and him alone.

  ‘Are you sure Amelia or Cosmo wouldn’t suit you? Only Victor is terribly sought after. I take it you’re looking for in-depth attention?’

  ‘It must be Victor. He comes very highly recommended. I need him. Badly.’

  The girl sighed as though she were asking for something really difficult, like George Clooney’s email address.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do. Can I have your name, please?’

  ‘Mrs Driver.’

  ‘First name?’

  ‘Hannah. Hannah Driver.’

  The blonde young thing with her even tan and her flawless complexion looked her up and down before picking up the phone. Honey paid her the same compliment as she informed Victor Bromwell that a lady insisted on seeing him and him alone.

  The girl’s breasts thrust like ice-cream cones beneath her white polo sweater. Honey concluded that her sports bra must be paper-thin. Unlike her own which had thick straps and ample cups; there was no danger of overflow.

  ‘If you’d care to wait over there,’ she said once the deed was done.

  Honey sat down on a black leather settee tucked to one side of a clutch of tropical palms.

  Victor Bromwell was the colour of a Sheraton sideboard, though with better legs. His teeth flashed pearly white when he smiled.

  ‘Hi there. Pleased to meet you.’

  He was testosterone on legs and his body was encased in skin-tight Spandex.

  Honey shook the outstretched hand. His eyes gave her the quick once-over. She returned the compliment, her gaze falling ever downwards, then returning, pausing on the upward sweep. Spandex held everything in place, but some things just couldn’t be hidden.

  ‘I need your help, Mr Bromwell. I need your help very badly.’

  He spread his arms. ‘Hey, lady. There’s no problem that I, Victor Bromwell, can’t help you with. Reshape. Define. Deflate.’ He hung in close and lowered his voice. ‘There ain’t no part of your body that I can’t do things to make you feel real good. Forget about becoming a new woman; babe, I can do wonders with the old one.’

  Honey felt her jaw tensing and her teeth set on edge. Was it her imagination, or was she really feeling his body heat?!

  ‘That sounds very interesting, Mr Bromwell,’ she said, carefully averting her eyes from below his equator. ‘Do you think we could talk in private?’

  His face lit up like a Christmas tree. ‘Hey. Hannah. If you want to talk it through in private, that’s OK by me.’

  Boy, this guy was full of himself. His Spandex certainly was!

  He took her through a door in the corner of reception. The room they entered was little more than a cubicle. A height chart was painted on the wall. To the right of that was a small table and chair, to the left a pair of scales.

  When he closed the door, the room grew smaller. There was no window, no light except for that for that provided by overhead halogen.

  ‘Right,’ said Victor, standing real close, his voice dropping to groin level. ‘Now where would you like to start? Is there any particular part
of your body that’s giving you real concern, if so, show it to me now. Right now.’

  ‘Right, Mr Bromwell …’

  ‘Victor, or even Vic.’

  ‘Right. Victor.’

  Victor Bromwell was over six feet tall, with defined muscles and the dentistry of a superstar. Thigh and arm muscles bulged from the leg and armholes of his Spandex shorts and cutaway vest. The Spandex clung to everything. Honey made a big effort not to let her gaze drop below his waist. It wasn’t easy. Anyway, somebody had to do the job.

  At least there was no gold medallion warming against his chest, though a thick gold sleeper gleamed in his ear lobe. His big feet were enlarged by top of the range Nike trainers and he stood with legs braced, crossed arms enhancing his bulging muscles. His biceps were as thick as her thighs, but firmer.

  She knew this stance was for her benefit. He had poser written all over him.

  ‘So, babe. Can I ask you your name?’

  ‘Honey Driver. Can I ask you a question?’

  ‘Shoot!’

  ‘Do you shoot that line to all the women that come here for your body workouts?’

  He grinned. ‘Only the really sweet-looking ones like you, babe. I’ve got respect for older women. They know what they want. Know what I mean?’

  She knew what he meant alright.

  ‘Did Arabella Rolfe know what she wanted?’

  His face clouded over. ‘Arabella? What you asking about her for?’

  ‘I’m making enquiries regarding her murder.’

  The veins in his naked arms swelled like tree roots. He looked at her. No sound, no movement, just a look.

  ‘Did you hear what I said, Victor?’

  ‘I heard. Are you a cop?’

  ‘I’m a Crime Liaison Officer.’ She mulled over whether she should state anything else and decided she would. ‘I found the body. It wasn’t a pleasant experience. It’s become personal. I really want to find out who did it and why.’

  Any doubts he had about cooperating were cancelled out by her telling him that she was the one who’d found the body. Actually talking to someone close to the fact knocked people off balance.

  ‘Look, lady,’ he said, his eyes deep and dark. ‘I know nothing about it and I didn’t do it.’