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

by Jean G. Goodhind

  Think about something else, she said to herself. Thinking about something other than fudge allowed doubts to creep in.

  For a start it wasn’t a dead cert that John would re-emerge. What if he stayed indoors till morning? What then?

  You’ll be the one arrested for lurking in a shop door way with intent to do something – like breaking and entering. Or soliciting.

  For various reasons, the pressure to adjourn her stakeout was enormous. Her stomach was the prime mover in this. Real cops doing real stakeouts must have the same problems.

  Just when the lure of a supper of devilled kidneys threatened to drag her back to the Green River Hotel, something happened. The dark blue door to John’s apartment block opened. John was coming out. He was carrying a brown paper parcel, one similar to that carried by the two men she’d seen leaving his shop.

  John kept up a good pace all the way through the Guildhall Market and out the other side winding his way through the chairs and tables of pavement cafes, skirting billboards and swinging towards Pulteney Bridge – towards the Green River.

  The small cafe immediately overlooking the bridge was shut. By day its customers had the best view possible, its arched windows overlooking the foaming waters of the weir.

  John Rees passed the shops and headed down Manvers Street.

  With just a teeny pang of jealousy, it occurred to her that he might have a girlfriend. At one time that could have been her, but she’d made her choice. Steve Doherty had been more in her face; John more relaxed and casual in his approach. It’s there if you want it, kind of approach. Still, it didn’t hurt to have a spare male interest. Or a spare career prospect. How much did private investigators get paid?

  Pacing her steps with his was something of a challenge. There was a definite skill in maintaining the distance between them and she was pleased at her prowess.

  Like a panther.

  My, oh my, but she relished that description. She was so low-key, so stealthy in her approach, and nobody, nobody had recognised her …

  ‘Hannah! Hannah! Is that you? What are you doing in that get-up? It doesn’t suit you.’

  Honey dived beneath the ebullient umbrella of a cafe table, head hidden between the spokes, body still clearly visible. Nobody who’d ever met her mother could fail to recognise her shrill voice.

  Her mother too dived beneath the umbrella, her expression puzzled.

  She sniffed. ‘What’s that smell? Where did you get that scarf? What are you doing going around dressed like a trainspotter’s grandmother?’

  ‘It’s fancy dress.’

  Her mother pulled her down into a chair, one eye narrowed in an expression of disbelief. ‘I didn’t bring you up to be a liar, Hannah. You look shifty. Are you meeting someone?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Would you tell me if you were? Is he rich or famous? I do hope he is. Never mind, you don’t have to tell me. As long as he’s rich, I don’t care what he is.’

  ‘Mother, I do not have a new man in my life. I’m perfectly satisfied with the old one.’

  Her mother sniffed. ‘Is that cats I can smell? Where did you buy that dreadful scarf?’

  ‘Charity shop,’ Honey mumbled.

  For a moment, her mother sat open-mouthed. ‘Are things that bad you have to buy second-hand clothes? It smells as though somebody wrapped their cat up in it. It probably had fleas. Cats are very prone to fleas.’

  ‘It belonged to an old lady.’

  ‘Old ladies are famous for keeping cats. It’s something they do in their old age. And they talk to them. That’s why they got burned as witches, you know. Lindsey told me all about it.’

  ‘You’re an old lady, mother.’

  Her mother looked seriously affronted. ‘I’m not old enough to keep cats. So why are you wearing it?’

  ‘I told you. It’s a fancy dress party. I’m on my way there now.’

  It was fine to lie. Private investigators did it all the time.

  Her mother reappraised the scarf. ‘What’s the theme of this party? Smelly street people?’

  ‘No. A scarf party. It’s a scarf party.’

  ‘Hmm!’ That was it for the moment, purely because she had sighted a waiter going begging for a bar order.

  Up shot her hand and click went her fingers. ‘Garçon, get me two schooners of sherry.’

  ‘I don’t like sherry,’ said Honey.

  Gloria Cross ignored her. Gritting her teeth above and beyond the pain threshold, Honey looked away.

  ‘Now,’ said her mother, her look intent and her fingers interlocked. This made the rings on each of her fingers bristle like the back of a bejewelled turtle. ‘I’ve been thinking about the fixtures and furnishings of this country hotel – once it’s suitably renovated and refurbished, of course. Chintz would be nice. All country houses have chintz. And Chinese carpets. White marble table lamps with pink silk lampshades …’

  Her mother droned on and on. She had it all planned out. ‘I’ve done drawings – not technical ones, but artistic impressions of what the finished room will look like.’

  ‘Mother, a woman was found murdered in that house. It was me that found her.’

  ‘So? Should that put you off of what could be a very good business deal?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Hannah, I have gone to an awful lot of trouble for you. I’ve had all these designs done, and now you’re telling me you’re not going through with the deal?’

  Honey sighed. Her mother just wasn’t getting it and John Rees was getting away from her.

  ‘OK. Point taken. Great. Have you got them with you?’

  ‘No. They’re at home. You’ll have to call in and take a look. Jean Paul helped me draw them up. He’s very artistic.’

  Honey resisted rolling of eyes and swigged back the sherry. At first it was sweet on her tongue, but burned at the back of her throat before she swallowed it.

  ‘Who’s Jean Paul when he’s at home?’

  It was faint, but Honey detected a pink spot erupting on each of her mother’s cheeks.

  ‘He’s a very close friend. He’s from the Dordogne.’

  ‘He’s an interior designer?’

  Her mother shook her head. ‘No. Not exactly. He’s retired from all that kind of thing. But he’s French. He’s lived in this country for a number of years.’

  A nasty little niggle gnawed at Honey’s insides.

  ‘Did you meet him online? Did you meet him through your dating site?’

  Her mother did coy big-time. ‘Sort of.’

  Honey leaned back in her chair. A little distance was needed, not only to rein in the surprise, but just in case her mother caught fire. She’d started fanning herself with a red paper napkin.

  ‘He’s hot. Is that what you’re saying?’

  Her mother gave a funny little smile and there was a definite twinkle in her eyes, the kind of twinkling that the over-seventies are not frequently prone to.

  ‘Well, yes. Why pass round the best dishes to one and all? I thought this particular dish I’d keep to myself.’

  ‘Just because he’s French doesn’t make him an interior designer.’

  ‘Well Jean Paul is just that.’

  Honey wasn’t about to argue. When her mother made up her mind about someone or something – especially a man – there was no reasoning with her. In the meantime, John Rees had got lost in the crowds.

  The waiter came back. He had white teeth, tanned skin, and blue-black hair slicked back with oily gel.

  ‘Another sherry, ladies?’ His smile almost split his face in half.

  ‘Yes. Make it a large one,’ snapped Honey.

  ‘I thought you didn’t like sherry!’ Her mother eyed her accusingly.

  Honey whipped off her headscarf and sunglasses. There was no sign of John Rees so no point in maintaining the disguise. Besides which her head was beginning to itch. She began to scratch.

  Just as she was debating whether to head for home and wash her hair in a mixtu
re of vinegar and something lethal to fleas – like witch hazel – raised voices sounded from inside the wine bar.

  Bars are the natural home of raised voices. She looked towards the door, glancing an interior of dark wood, waxed floors and features lighting.

  The waiter who had served them was escorting a young man from the premises. One hand was on the young man’s shoulder, the other wrenching his arm up behind his back.

  ‘You can’t do this to me,’ he shouted, tossing his head and sending his long hair flying.

  There was a scowl on the public-school features and he was wearing clothes that looked slept in.

  ‘Leave me alone! I want another drink. I demand another drink!’ he shouted.

  Keeping a firm grip on shoulder and wrist, the waiter bundled him down the steps.

  ‘You have had enough, sir,’ he said with grim politeness.

  Her mother tutted. ‘It’s a fact that people in this country drink far too much.’ She took another sip of sherry.

  The young man heard her. ‘Don’t you bloody tut at me, you old cow!’

  Honey covered her face with her hands and groaned. It was a bad move on his part. Just because her mother was knocking on in years, didn’t mean to say she no longer had a fire in her belly.

  Gloria Cross, five feet five in kitten heels, sprang to her feet. Whack went her handbag around the young man’s head. Once. Twice.

  ‘Apologise before I beat you to a pulp. I’ve got some heavyweight weapons in this handbag, and don’t you forget it. There’s more if you want it. Well do you want it, punk? Do you?’

  Honey came out from behind her hands. When it came to reading, her mother was a great fan of Mills and Boon romance. When it came to films, Clint Eastwood – the real McCoy complete with gun and skinny trousers – did it every time. So did Sean Bean in the title role of Sharpe, though mostly from the tight-trousered rear.

  Two more hits from her mother’s weighted handbag and the young guy was on the floor.

  ‘No more,’ he shouted, arms wrapped over his head. ‘That bag’s lethal.’

  ‘It’s a Mulberry,’ cried her mother after biffing him one last time. ‘And it’s made from renewable resources. Ostrich skin in fact.’

  Fearing headlines of Elderly lady beats drunken youth to death, Honey intervened.

  ‘He’s had enough.’

  Her mother lowered the bag. ‘Oh, my!’ she exclaimed. ‘I must look a mess.’ She proceeded to sit back down. Powder, lipstick, and magnifying mirror were drawn from her bag. ‘No matter what happens in life, there’s no excuse for not looking your best,’ she said while pursing her lips and retouching her paintwork.

  Honey figured she had plenty of excuses for letting her make-up get smeared and her lipstick smudged. Life was too short to spend painting her face.

  The teenage boy sat on the pavement, head on knees, arms folded over his head. Honey bent down at his side. ‘Are you OK?’

  He seemed to think about it a minute before shaking his head.

  ‘No. I’m not OK. Nothing in my life will ever be OK again. It hasn’t been OK since seven years ago. Seven bloody years!’

  Taking an interest in the woes of a teenager wasn’t high priority on Honey’s to-do list. However, she’d experienced enough teenage angst to consider herself something of an expert.

  ‘Come on,’ she said, gently touching his shoulder. ‘Tell me where you live and I’ll take you home.’

  She’d expected him to tell her to get lost, but he didn’t. He gave her his address. It seemed vaguely familiar. Come to that, so did he.

  She asked him his name and added, ‘If you like you can also tell me what the problem is. I’m a good listener.’

  He chewed his bottom lip as he considered. ‘My name’s Dominic Rolfe, and I think I may have killed my stepmother.’

  Chapter Twenty-three

  In the taxi Honey had hailed to take them both home, Dominic Rolfe unburdened himself. Honey was all ears. It wasn’t often somebody confessed to murdering their wicked stepmother.

  Holding his head in his hands, Dominic told her all about it.

  ‘I had this row with my father. I stormed out, basically after calling him a coward. He just wouldn’t stand up to her. She wouldn’t let us visit him, our own father. And he wouldn’t do anything about it.’

  Honey listened attentively as it all poured out; the lunchtime meeting at the Cafe Rouge, Dominic storming out after telling his father not to bother to visit him at university.

  ‘And then?’

  Dominic Rolfe had brandy-brown hair that flopped over his forehead. His eyes slid sidelong to regard her from beneath his heavyweight fringe.

  ‘I phoned him later. Not to apologise, but to try and get him to wake up to the truth. I was so bloody angry. I told him that Arabella was having an affair. That she’d had more than one affair, but that this one was a big one and she would walk out on him and he would be alone. We, his children, would be all he’d have left, so wasn’t it time to make amends? Isn’t blood thicker than water?’

  ‘Of course it is.’ This was all super stuff, grist to the mill as far as the crime was concerned. On the other hand, poor Dominic was having a hard time and Honey felt sorry for him.

  His head fell forward to be cupped in his hands.

  ‘So was it true? Was she really having an affair?’

  He shrugged. ‘I don’t know for sure, but my mother said she was. She said there were rumours.’

  And your mother wasn’t wrong, thought Honey. Dominic’s stepmother had been dressed to kill – and had been killed. There had to be a lover. Everybody said there was. Stockings and slinky underwear were not made with comfort in mind. They were the tools of seduction, the mainstay of erotic fantasy. You wore them for a man’s benefit, when you were meeting someone. A night in by the telly, you wore comfortable clothes. The sexy stuff was for special occasions. Honey shivered deliciously at the thought of silky garments against naked flesh. Lovely!

  ‘So you told your father that your stepmother was having a serious affair. Who with?’

  Dominic folded his fists beneath his chin. His eyes remained fixed on the taxi floor and his face was red. She might have thought he’d been crying if she hadn’t seen the way her own mother had whacked the lad with her handbag.

  ‘The estate agent,’ he said quietly.

  Honey felt a distinct tightening in her chest and a great temptation to shout, ‘Whoopee!’ She reined in the temptation and took a deep breath.

  ‘Does this estate agent have a name?’

  Dominic nodded. ‘A daft name. Glenwood Halley. He’s darkly romantic. I think that’s how women describe him. My mum did. She said he’s the sort that women can’t resist and that Arabella was the sort that men can’t resist. She reckoned the two of them were made for each other.’

  Honey kept telling herself that this was all hearsay, but boy, oh boy, did she want it to be true. For a start she didn’t much like Glenwood Halley. He deserved to be guilty of something and if it happened to be adultery that could – just could – lead to murder, well how neat would that be? The likely scenario sprang into her head. The lovers arrange to meet, they argue because Arabella wants a serious commitment and Glenwood does not. Glenwood loses his rag and kills her. There were flaws to this scenario of course; number one, Glenwood had looked as shocked as anyone else when Arabella’s body was found in the chimney. Apart from that, she would prefer Glenwood to have done the dirty deed rather than young Dominic’s father. The family didn’t deserve it. However, the more plausible scenario was that Adam may very well have acted on what his son had told him. On finding out about his wife’s infidelity – the wife he had given up an established family for, Adam had finally lost his rag, arranged to meet her there and killed her. Case closed.

  ‘So you think your Dad killed her because you told him about Glenwood Halley.’

  Dominic looked scared. ‘You mustn’t blame him. It was my fault. I shouldn’t have stirred things up. Arrest
me if you like, but not him. It was me that made him do it.’

  Honey regarded him with a mixture of pity and disappointment. Pity because she felt genuinely sorry for him; disappointment because Adam wasn’t around to defend or incriminate himself. One thing was for sure: Adam Rolfe had put himself in the frame big-time. He was their prime suspect, now more so than ever.

  ‘No need for you to come in,’ he said when they got there.

  ‘Your mother will ask about that,’ said Honey, pointing to his bruised cheek.

  He tossed his head sending his hair back from his face before it promptly fell back again.

  ‘I’ll tell her I had a skirmish with a couple of lager louts.’

  Chapter Twenty-four

  By the time she got back to the hotel, the occupants of Honey’s scarf had her scratching big time.

  ‘Here,’ she said, slipping the taxi driver a £10 note. ‘Keep the change.’

  The itching worsened. In her haste to exit the taxi the scarf fluttered to the ground. She didn’t stop to pick it up. Let somebody else deal with its latent life.

  She stalked into reception with her phone pressed tight against her ear. Doherty listened as she told him what had happened.

  ‘It’s looking grim for Adam Rolfe, isn’t it?’

  He agreed that it was, then added. ‘Have you ever heard of a Sean Fox?’

  She admitted that she had, but only in passing. ‘Faith Page mentioned him being close to Arabella. Sean and somebody else. They worked with her on the last programme she presented.’

  ‘Hmm. We found him hanging from a tree. Apparently he’d committed suicide, though there was no note and nothing, according to friends, to say that he’d been depressed.’

  Honey frowned as she tried to think of the name of the girl who’d also worked with Fox. ‘Denise. That was it.

  ‘That’s right, Denise Sullivan. If you manage to find her, ask her what she knows. I’m finding it difficult co-ordinating tasks from this bed. It’s only sensible that you report to me in person when you can. We can plan a mutual strategy.’