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

by Jean G. Goodhind

  The fact that Faith was supposed to be representing the artiste’s work in all this was totally smothered by her highly inflated ego.

  ‘Well, you do seem to have quite a reputation,’ said Honey going out of her way to massage it a bit further.

  The fact of the matter was that she’d made enquiries of a few people who knew of Faith Page, and none of them had had a good word to say about her. ‘Faith Page is a right cow,’ was the average comment.

  ‘So was there anyone else who recommended me to you,’ asked Faith.

  ‘Another friend of mine, Arabella Rolfe informed me that you were the person to speak to if I wanted to get on in the world of TV, film and theatricals. She used to be Arabella Neville. I believe you’re still her agent.’

  The gin paused on its way to Faith’s mouth before resuming, the contents swigged back in one gulp.

  ‘That fucking cow. She’s dead, you know.’

  ‘How dreadful!’

  ‘I heard somebody did for her. Fucking cow. Had no talent anyway. Wouldn’t listen to what I said. Thought she was better than what she was. Told me I wasn’t doing my best for her. Ungrateful bitch! I should have dumped her years ago.’

  ‘So she left the agency before she died?’

  ‘Bitch! Thought she could do better elsewhere. Phoned me last week and told me so. The cow. Couldn’t tell me to my face. Couldn’t march in and tell me to get stuffed!’

  Ignoring yet another stream of expletives being used to describe the very dead Arabella, Honey sipped her tea. Over the rim of her cup she scrutinised the bitter expression, the pink cheeks, the red-rimmed eyes, and down-turned mouth. Faith Page was brutally honest, erring distinctly on the side of brutal. She also had meaty shoulders that looked capable of tossing a caber at the Highland Games or putting the shot in the Olympics. So how about shoving a body up the chimney? Did she hate her ex-client that much?

  ‘It sounds as though you didn’t like Arabella very much – even before she left you. Do you think there was any justifiable reason for her leaving?’

  Faith fixed her with slitty, mean eyes.

  ‘It was all too late. She’d already done the damage. She wouldn’t listen. OK, she wasn’t the first to open her legs for a married man, but hey, that’s fine for a pop star or someone with a femme fatale reputation. The public believed she was all sugar and spice, the cute, innocent girl next door. They couldn’t contemplate her being capable of breaking up a family, stealing the father of three kids.’

  ‘But she wouldn’t listen to reason?’

  ‘Would she hell! I kept telling her that the public have to be kept sweet even though their lives are far from perfect. They want somebody to look up to and be the person they deep down want to be. Look at it this way, they felt betrayed and sorry for the kids and the abandoned wife. They’ve got enough of that sort of life themselves. They wanted Wonderland. The silly cow wouldn’t listen. Jumped off the gravy train and hit the buffers.’

  ‘I sympathise. It couldn’t have been easy for you – I mean professionally as well as financially.’

  Up until now, Faith Page’s eyes had been narrowed and fixed on some point on the other side of the room where a flowering impatiens glowed from a willow-patterned soup tureen that had long ago lost its lid.

  Faith regarded her sidelong.

  ‘What are you trying to say?’

  ‘Well …’ Honey couldn’t help the length of her hesitation. ‘Do you think she regretted marrying him? Adam Rolfe?’

  ‘You bet she did. She was thinking of leaving him. It wasn’t as though she’d be alone for too long. Not Arabella. Not the way she operated.’

  ‘Do you think he killed her?’

  She shrugged. ‘If he didn’t, he should have. The silly cow deserved it.’

  ‘Well I suppose you didn’t speak much or meet up like you used to even before she left the agency.’

  Faith Page leaned across the side table and poured herself another drink even though the ice cubes were steadily turning to water. After taking a sip, she lowered her head and looked up from beneath orange hair and jet black eyebrows.

  ‘If I’d met up with her and the circumstances were right, I would have murdered her myself.’

  Honey made the ‘oh’ shape with her mouth, though no sound came out.

  ‘Me and a whole army of other people,’ Faith added, her creepy smile spreading over her face like a malignant rash.

  ‘TV people?’ asked Honey.

  ‘Especially TV people. Amiable Arabella was a smile a minute on TV. Once the camera stopped rolling she was arrogance on legs. Ask anybody. Ask Sean Fox. Ask Denise Sullivan. Ask any of the poor sods who worked with her.’

  ‘Interesting. Still, you’re out of it now you no longer represent her.’

  The malignant smile returned. ‘Sweetie, I still do represent her. She owed me ninety days’ notice.’

  ‘But you’ve just told me, and her husband would be aware …’

  ‘You don’t count. I can call you a liar. As for Adam, well that weak-kneed excuse for a man wouldn’t dare stand up to me. If ever a man left himself open for intimidation, it’s Adam Rolfe. Wimp! That’s what he is. A wimp!’

  Faith leaned forward, eyes hard with hatred. ‘I’m telling you now, there’s a fair chance she’ll make me more money dead than alive. She was murdered. If she’d died from an illness – pah! No change. But,’ she said, her eyes gleaming as she reached for another shot of gin and tonic, ‘she was murdered. All publicity is good publicity, but getting herself knocked off is more than likely to repair all the harm that she did. I can just see all the TV channels rushing to sign a contract for the repeats …’ She raised her glass in a toast. ‘Happy days are here again …’

  She sang in a high rasping voice, a voice matured in a mix of alcohol, rich food, and French cigarettes.

  ‘I know a psychic you might be interested in having on one of your shows,’ she offered, suddenly remembering her promise to Mary Jane.

  ‘Speak to my secretary. She deals with all that crap.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘See yourself out.’

  ‘One more thing,’ said Honey, remembering what Casper had said. ‘Did she ever have any children of her own?’

  Faith laughed into her drink. ‘Ask Sean. Ask Denise.’

  ‘And they are?’

  Faith’s open expression closed shut like a door slammed against an intruder.

  ‘People she worked with. People who snuggled up to her.’

  This case, thought Honey, is getting more and more confusing. Now should I ask her what she means by these comments? Or should I let it be. Sozzled people can get pretty cranky at the slightest comment. Oh, what the hell …

  ‘Literally?’ she asked, caution flown out of the window.

  Faith fixed her with a glassy-eyed stare. ‘Her personal doormats – for whatever reason.’

  A very confused Crime Liaison Officer slid into the passenger seat of the pink Caddy.

  Mary Jane was all eager eyed enthusiasm. ‘Did you get me a slot on a TV programme?’

  ‘She said she’ll bear you in mind.’

  It was far from the truth, and even if Faith Page had said that, Honey doubted it would happen. Faith, she reckoned, looked after Faith. Honey’s take on the woman was that if a client achieved success through their own effort, Faith took the credit – and her percentage.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Lindsey was yawning at her computer screen when Anna came down from upstairs frowning hard at a piece of paper and chewing a pen.

  ‘This list,’ she said to Lindsey. ‘It isn’t right.’

  ‘Really?’ Lindsey stifled the urge to yawn again. She’d been away for two days and all the excitement and outdoor activities – which included getting to know new boyfriend Emmett in a very physical sense – had taken their toll. ‘What list is that?’

  ‘Polishers. Not wood polisher. Metal polisher.’

  At the mention of metal polish – for that
was what Anna was referring to, Lindsey woke up.

  ‘Let me see.’ She snatched the list.

  Anna looked peeved. ‘There is no need to snatch. You can see there should be six cans of metal polish, but there is only one. I have not used five. I could not possibly use five. I only do silver and brass with that polish. Anything shiny. That does not include toilet handles or towel rails – things like that. Damp cloth for them.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Lindsey. ‘It’s just a blip.’

  Anna held her head to one side and frowned. ‘What is this blip?’

  ‘A blip is usually down to a one-off occurrence – such as if my mother suddenly bought a large brass monkey from the auction rooms. If it was dirty we would use a lot of metal polish to clean it.’

  ‘Mrs Driver has not bought a brass monkey from auction. I have heard of these brass monkeys. She would not buy one, especially one made of brass, because bits drop off of brass monkeys in cold weather. I have heard this.’

  Lindsey’s smile was pained but patient. ‘That isn’t what I mean. What I mean is …’

  ‘That Mrs Driver used metal polish for brass monkey. But she did not buy brass monkey. I would know this if she did. She would tell me, Anna, I have bought brass monkey for you to clean, but be very careful not to put it out in the cold.’

  ‘Never mind, Anna. If you run out of metal polish, let me know I’ll nip out and buy some from Waitrose. Like I said, it was just a blip.’

  Anna didn’t look too sure about this whole business of blips, but Lindsey was the owner’s daughter and Anna liked her job, liked the family, and had a growing family of her own to think of. Whatever her employers wanted to do with their metal polish was up to them. And if they wanted to buy a brass monkey whose balls fell off in frosty weather, well that was up to them. Clint had said, ‘it’s cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey.’ She’d taken it on board with as much gullibility as she had taken up his offer to view his new tattoos. Hence another baby in the offing.

  Mumbling in Polish, Anna went back upstairs to attack the bedrooms with her brand new Dyson cleaner and a whole plethora of cleaning fluids.

  Lindsey, feeling a bit annoyed and also a bit guilty, reached for her phone and dialled a number. Emmett and the Twelfth Roman Legion were on a budget, but she really had to draw the line somewhere.

  ‘Emmett. It’s about the metal polish.’

  Emmett said something about his performance during their weekend break. For a moment Lindsey was thrown totally off track. However, once she’d pushed the vision of his bare thighs out of her head, she got back on course.

  ‘I said you could have one can of metal polish, not enough to shine up an entire Roman legion.’

  ‘Hey! You’ve got a great polishing action.’

  ‘Flattery will get you no more metal polish. Buy your own.’

  ‘I meant it. You can’t deny we had a great weekend. And it took in a lot of polishing.’

  ‘That’s no reason for you to take advantage of an amenable situation.’

  He pointed out that the legion he belonged to lacked the sponsorship and resources of the Ermine Street Guard, who had been going for some time and were quite well known.

  ‘We have to make do with second-grade metal. Only metal polish and Vaseline keeps us from going seriously rusty – just like the tin man in the Wizard of Oz.’

  ‘Oh yeah, and I flew in from Kansas – only I didn’t. So quit the sob stories. Anyway, I thought the tin man was a bit of a wimp.’

  ‘True, but then I’m a lion inside,’ he said.

  Lindsey silently counted to ten. ‘X,’ she said at last.

  ‘I’m forgiven,’ he said exuberantly. ‘I can tell. You counted to ten in Roman numerals.’

  ‘Yeah, and X marks the spot.’

  ‘Hey, babe. I’m only a humble waiter.’

  ‘Have a good time over the weekend?’ asked Honey.

  ‘Great,’ said Lindsey who hadn’t noticed her mother come in.

  Unfortunately, the check list for polishes, toilet cleaners, and sundries was still on the desk between them. Her mother scrutinised it.

  Honey frowned. ‘We seem to be going through a lot of metal polish.’

  Lindsey pretended that there was something needing her serious attention on the computer screen.

  ‘Dirty finger marks. There were a lot of dirty finger marks on the brass stair rails. We ended up using a lot more than usual.’

  ‘Hmm. Has everyone been down for breakfast?’

  Lindsey did a serious scrutiny of the list produced by the dining room.

  ‘Everyone has had breakfast with the exception of Mr and Mrs Milligan.’

  ‘Ah!’

  Honey recalled the overweight gentleman and his very much younger bride. The bride had dancing eyes and a penchant for wearing clingy leather outfits.

  The obvious thought had occurred that as a spring/autumn relationship, they weren’t married at all, but just out for a fun weekend. Mrs Milligan had put her right, flashing her platinum wedding ring and the knuckle duster of a diamond that was her engagement ring.

  ‘It cost Reginald thousands,’ she’d breathed while fluttering her eyelashes at her less than nubile husband. It occurred to Honey that the poor man couldn’t possibly have sighted his wedding tackle for many a long year – except with a mirror.

  ‘Nothing is too expensive for my sweet little Bagpuss,’ he’d gushed, his face pink and his podgy hand holding hers.

  Bagpuss! Yuk! How and why did people come up with names like that?

  First things first. ‘I think I’ll check with Emmett to see how they were last night – or do you want to?’

  Lindsey pretended that she didn’t really care to phone Emmett, which of course she didn’t. She’d only just put down the phone on him.

  ‘No thanks. I’ll leave it to you.’

  ‘Does his outfit turn you on?’ Honey asked her suddenly.

  Lindsey looked at her wide-eyed. ‘I take it you mean the short skirt, metal breastplate, and plumed helmet. Not his starched shirt, bow tie, and neatly pressed trousers.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘Yes. I’ve always had a thing for Roman soldiers. And knights in shining armour. Especially knights in shining armour,’ said Lindsey, nodding affirmatively.

  Emmett had been on duty the night before. Honey wanted to get his feel on the couple before disturbing them, barging in when no barging in was called for.

  Accordingly, she phoned Emmett, who yawned into the phone before saying, ‘Am I forgiven?’

  ‘Why? What have you done?’

  He laughed. ‘Mrs Driver. It’s you.’

  ‘Do I need to forgive you for anything?’

  ‘Um. I thought you were somebody else.’

  ‘Obviously.’

  She waited until she was certain that he was tuned in. ‘Milligan. Mr and Mrs. Did you see them go up to bed last night?’

  ‘Oh, him. Yeah …’ Another yawn. ‘Champagne. Two bottles.’ Another yawn. ‘To wash down the Viagra.’

  Honey took this as a young guy’s attitude to the older, overweight bridegroom. ‘You’re surmising. Just because he’s a little older than you is no proof that he’s not physical,’ said Honey.

  ‘I’m not surmising. He told me that thanks to Viagra his soldier still stands to attention.’

  ‘Too much information.’ Honey rolled her eyes then looked directly at Lindsey. ‘While we’re on the subject of soldiers, is it possible that I can sponsor your soldiering weekends rather than merely provide the metal polish?’

  Lindsey sunk lower in front of the computer.

  ‘That would be great,’ Emmett gushed. ‘If you sponsor us, we can buy our own. You won’t regret it, Mrs Driver.’

  ‘I know I won’t. It’s tax deductible.’

  ‘I’ll pay for the polish. Sorry.’

  Honey shook her head. ‘Let’s put it down to sticky fingers and leave it at that. Goodbye, Emmett. Get some rest. See you at six
.’

  She turned to Lindsey who was gradually unfurling herself from the computer screen. The metal polish fiasco was over. Honey judged she now had her daughter’s full attention.

  ‘Now, about Mr and Mrs Milligan. I think their non-appearance needs further investigation and I don’t want to tackle it alone. Come with me.’

  They headed to the drawer behind the reception desk where the master key was kept and bolted for the stairs.

  ‘Thanks for sponsoring Emmett,’ said Lindsey whose spirits seemed to have risen. ‘He’ll be dead pleased. He looks great in his uniform. You’ll have to have a close look at it some time. Maybe come along to one of the enactments. They really go all out for authenticity. And all well-built men that really look like soldiers. You’ll love them.’

  Honey stopped dead. ‘I think we need a man with us.’

  Lindsey cottoned on to what was going through her mother’s mind. She made a hissing sound through her teeth. ‘I’ll get Smudger.’

  Wearing chefs’ whites and a red bandana around his head, the chef accompanied them to the Milligan’s room.

  Honey knocked at the door. ‘Mr Milligan. Mrs Milligan. Is everything all right in there?’

  Someone responded, though weakly.

  Honey looked at Lindsey and Smudger. ‘Did you get that?’

  Both looked blank and shook their heads.

  She pressed her ear against the door.

  ‘Someone is saying something,’ she said, brow wrinkled in concentration.

  Smudger nudged her aside.

  ‘Let me.’

  He did the same as Honey had done.

  ‘I think I heard something,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, but was it ‘come in’?

  He shook his head. ‘No. I don’t think so. Hang on. Something’s coming through. I think it’s … yes … that’s it … Help me! Someone is saying, help me.’

  Honey opened the door of the Green River’s honeymoon suite which boasted a six-foot-wide oak four-poster bed. Drapes of light blue and gold brocade adorned each turned post, tied back with thick ropes, each ending in a heavy gold tassel.

  ‘Help me.’ The cry of distress emanated from beneath Mr Milligan and a pair of feet wiggled out from beneath the naked body.