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

by Jean G. Goodhind

  She imagined the salacious twinkle he had in his eyes and the path his strategy was likely to take. She promised to bear his suggestion in mind and cut the call.

  Lindsey was on reception duty and was looking agitated. ‘There’s a Sofia Camilleri waiting for you in the lounge. She said it’s urgent.’

  Honey groaned. ‘Damn. I need a shower.’ She gave her head a good scratch. ‘Did she say what she wanted?’

  Lindsey shook her head. ‘No, but she looked nervous. And she kept lapsing into Italian. I gave her a brandy to calm her down. Apparently she’s an opera singer. That’s according to Mr Rizzo in room fourteen.’

  ‘Ah!’ said Honey. If Mr Rizzo said so, then it had to be so. Honey had been dubious about her credentials – she seemed too much of a cliché – but if anyone would know, it was Mr Rizzo. Other residents had complained about the fallout of sound from his MP3 player at breakfast time. It was always an opera classic and nearly always Italian.

  The residents lounge was at the rear of the hotel overlooking a patio and courtyard. A profusion of tea roses in the flowerbeds screened the area from the coach house, the private accommodation shared by Honey and her daughter.

  The lounge had panels of eau de nil set into walls of a buttery cream colour. Sofas and chairs of comfortable vintage covered in brocade and rose-covered chintz were ranged into small groups. The idea was that groups of no more than six could congregate; their beverages safe on the small tables in front of them. A gilt-framed mirror dominated the room, ten feet high and sitting above a white marble fireplace reflecting the light from the French doors and the two carefully placed chandeliers.

  There was a distinct smell of fuchsia emanating from the woman sitting like a queen in a brocade-covered chair.

  Sofia Camilleri was everything an opera singer should be, and obviously Italian. In her late forties, she had melting brown eyes and hair to match. She was small in stature, though her bosom looked as though it belonged to somebody else. No big surprise there, thought Honey; wasn’t it common knowledge that opera singers had bigger lungs than ordinary folk. In the case of Sofia Camilleri, she had the boobs to match.

  The dark brown eyes were intense. The cherry red lips trembled slightly.

  Sofia Camilleri leaned forward, her face stiff with tension.

  ‘How much did my husband pay you to spy on me?’ she said, without first offering a greeting. ‘I will pay you twice what he paid you if you agree to say nothing, to tell him I am faithful to him.’

  This hadn’t been what she’d expected the opera singer to say, although Victor Bromwell had sprung to mind. She hadn’t thought today could get any crazier, but it had.

  ‘Signora Camilleri, I’m not sure what you’re talking about. I am not employed by your husband.’

  The heart-shaped face, running to fat, lost its tension. The jowls slackened.

  ‘You are not?’

  Honey shook her head. ‘No. I run a hotel. What made you think that I’m a private investigator?’

  ‘Oh! Excusee. I thought that …’ Sofia’s expression changed from concern to puzzlement. A handful of red-painted fingernails covered a little gasp that escaped from her equally red-painted lips. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, heaving her ample proportions back on to her legs and her impossibly high-heeled shoes. ‘I should not have come here. I made a mistake. Somebody told me the wrong thing. Big mistake! Big, big mistake!’

  Honey stared after her, open-mouthed. What was that all about? The only person who tied in with Sofia Camilleri was Victor Bromwell. But why would he tell her that Honey was a private investigator? It just didn’t make sense.

  Sofia Camilleri went tottering on her way, found a taxi, and didn’t look back.

  Honey rubbed at her aching head. She was having one of those Alice in Wonderland days when things just seemed to get crazier rather than more curious. Now for a nice shower.

  Lindsey was on reception duty when she went through and a clutch of residents were sitting around a coffee table helping themselves to cream scones, jam, and cups of tea on a tray. A large pizza box lay open on the reception desk. Lindsey explained that the Ferritos’ young son from room sixteen had ordered it without his parents’ knowledge. ‘And ate it right after he’d eaten his dinner,’ she added, pulling down onto the lower desk so that residents couldn’t see what young Ferrito had just eaten. She didn’t want people thinking their chef wasn’t up to scratch.

  ‘Somebody dropped this in,’ said Lindsey.

  Honey stared at the item Lindsey was dangling between finger and thumb. The scarf had returned.

  ‘It smells of cats,’ said Lindsey in a low voice so that those scoffing scones couldn’t hear her. She did, however, dare to hold it a bit closer, sniffed and wrinkled her nose. ‘Definitely cats.’

  ‘Burn it.’

  Lindsey pointed out the obvious. ‘We don’t have an open fire. Not at this time of year. Or a garden big enough to accommodate a bonfire.’

  ‘Never mind. I’ll deal with it.’

  Taking the scarf gingerly between finger and thumb, she stuffed it into the pizza box. Being encased in cardboard should stop the little devils from claiming more victims.

  She headed for the kitchen.

  It had occurred to her to remove the lid from the centre of the flat top gas range. The ring was always lit and burned very hot. Both pizza box and, more importantly, rancid scarf, would be ash in no time.

  Unfortunately, it was covered in everything from small pots containing portions of Bearnaise, Diane, and peppercorn sauces, to large pans of sizzling lobster, pork loins, and spitting duck breasts.

  The air bristled with the aromas of roasting meats and fish. Head chef Smudger was like a whirling dervish, his face red as he dealt with one pot after another.

  She knew better than to interrupt him. He was a good chef. He was good at knife-throwing too.

  OK, if she couldn’t burn the offending article, then she could store it – at least for now – and burn it in the morning when things were quieter.

  The rubbish bins were out the back. Unfortunately they were full. From experience she knew that if she left the pizza box perched on top the rubbish, every stray moggy for miles around would come sniffing.

  Her gaze happened to land on the door to where the cold room sat in one corner and a range of freezers – both chest and upright types – were ranged along the walls.

  The freezers were regularly cleared out of food to be cleaned. She couldn’t possibly put the box and its offending contents in with fresh food, but she could put it in an empty one.

  The second one she opened was empty. In went the pizza box.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Honey was lying on the bed next to Doherty. They were sharing a chocolate muffin and the crumbs were falling on his chest.

  Honey was chewing thoughtfully, considering the crime. Her gaze frequently travelled to the muffin crumbs.

  ‘Are you thinking of licking them up?’

  Honey’s eyes slid sidelong. ‘Maybe.’

  Though the thought had occurred to her, she purposely sounded non-committal. However, the duties of a Crime Liaison Officer could not be ignored.

  They discussed Dominic blaming himself for his stepmother’s death.

  ‘Purely to protect his father of course. I take it you haven’t found him, or if he has been found, nobody is telling you.’

  ‘They wouldn’t dare not tell me, so, no, our absent husband has not been located and we have another murder victim. Sean Fox did not commit suicide. He was murdered.’

  Honey swallowed the last piece of chocolate muffin. ‘Ah!’

  ‘No fingerprints, but somebody belted Fox on the back of the head before stringing him up. And as our friend Mr Rolfe is still missing, we have to consider he might be the murderer. Despite all our efforts, he hasn’t shown up. It’s not beyond all probabilities that somebody is hiding him.’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  Doherty wriggled a little on the bed. �
�Hey. I think my back’s getting better.’

  ‘Give it time to heal. Concentrate on your muffin.’

  ‘I wonder why Sofia Camilleri thought I was a private investigator?’

  ‘Beats me. You don’t look like one.’

  ‘Don’t I?’ The comment hurt.

  ‘You’re not sneaky enough.’

  It was hard to keep her mouth zipped. She thought she’d made a pretty good job of being sneaky, following John Rees without being seen. The only real downside had been bumping into her mother – oh, and the scarf. Even thinking about the scarf brought on a bout of intense itchiness.

  ‘So who was the lover? Was it Glenwood Halley, like Dominic asserted it was?’

  Doherty exhaled a draft of air down his nostrils, like a dragon left with smoke and no fire. ‘More to the point, did Adam find out, confront her before this bloke Halley got there, and stuff his wife up the chimney.’

  ‘Or did the lovers argue? Was it really true that Arabella read more into the relationship than Glenwood did? He’s a sucker for celebrity status, you know. He’s photos of famous people whose houses he’s sold all over the walls of his office.’

  ‘Or is it just an adolescent boy’s way of getting back at what he regards as the desertion of his father? The long shot is that Mr and Mrs Rolfe came over all nostalgic. People do get fond of a house if they’ve lived there a long time.’

  ‘But she wouldn’t dress up just to have a last wander around the place. And who threatened her that night in the ladies bathroom?’

  ‘Ah yes,’ said Doherty. ‘The mystery voice overheard in a toilet cubicle.’

  Her eyes had just settled on a particularly large chocolate-flavoured crumb nestling in Doherty’s chest hair, when the phone rang. Lindsey’s mobile number.

  ‘Come quick. Smudger is threatening to marinate a friend of yours in garlic butter.’

  ‘I’ll see you tonight,’ she said, phone thrown into bag and feet into the shoes she’d discarded earlier.

  She turned to see him trying to roll himself out of bed and reminded him that he wasn’t supposed to exert himself.

  ‘I’m going stir crazy and my back’s moulded itself to the mattress. I’m out of here.’

  ‘Not yet. Stick to the house. Take it easy.’

  He waved a hand dismissively. ‘I’m OK. I’m OK.’

  She wasn’t too sure that he was, but things seemed to have turned ugly round at the Green River. And who was this friend? She hadn’t been told and she hadn’t asked. That’s the way things were when you owned a hotel. You were never off duty. Still, the Green River Hotel wasn’t far, whereas if she moved to the country …

  A pang of remorse settled on her. She needed time to think. Time to consider. In the meantime, it was post-haste home.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  ‘I only asked him for a well-done fillet,’ said Milly Benton. Milly was a successful lawyer who specialised in the transfer of property from vendor to purchaser.

  Milly was short for Camilla. The shorter version of the name suited her better than the more elegant, fully fledged version – or at least, it had done. Honey knew Milly from way back as the epitome of what people expected a lawyer to be: brown hair cut in a no-nonsense bob, her pale complexion made more so by the addition of heavily framed spectacles. The urge had always been strong to give the woman a makeover. First off: swap the specs for contact lenses, the brown bob for a blonde crop, and the black business suits for something trendy and bright.

  If Honey had gone ahead with the sale of the Green River and the purchase of Cobden Manor, she would have used Milly Benton. And Milly had been forewarned, at least by phone. It had been years since they’d promised to meet up for lunch. Somehow they just hadn’t got round to it. Therefore this meeting turned out as something of a surprise.

  Honey stared. There she was, Milly Benton, looking trim and gorgeous in a fitted pink and black checked jacket, her short black skirt showing pins to die for. Her hair was urchin cut, blonde and, surprise, surprise, she was wearing make-up. Honey had never known Milly wear make-up, or if she did, it hadn’t shown.

  ‘Milly?’

  Milly was accompanied by a man. That man was Glenwood Halley. It was hard not to stare; hard not to look surprised.

  ‘Milly. You’ve changed.’

  ‘Not really. It’s the same old me.’

  She blushed and fiddled with her hair self-consciously. Honey had never known her blush before. Never known her be self-conscious either.

  ‘Glenwood,’ said Honey once she’d got over the shock of the remodelled Milly.

  If Glenwood was surprised to see her, he didn’t show it. Had he forgotten that she owned this place, or had Milly insisted they come here to eat? She fancied the former might be the case.

  ‘Mrs Driver. I didn’t know you two knew each other. Milly and I do a lot of business together.’ Glenwood was smooth – she had to give him that.

  She made the usual apologies for Smudger’s behaviour. It didn’t happen that often nowadays, but insensitive people did still exist who knew nothing about the cooking of steaks. Milly, it seemed, was one of them.

  Milly and Glenwood had quibbled when the message came out from the kitchen that the chef didn’t cook fillet steaks to charcoal. That’s what had set Smudger off. He’d come out to tell them to their faces.

  ‘I think it’s best we go elsewhere,’ said Milly. She exchanged that certain look with the estate agent, the one that gave away the fact that she was uncomfortable at Honey knowing they were an item. If indeed they were an item. After all, Honey thought, it appeared Glenwood did put himself about a bit.

  It occurred to her that snaring Glenwood might have been the reason for Milly changing her image. The old one wouldn’t have stood a chance.

  ‘Please. Let me buy you a drink,’ she said smiling, determined to make some hay from the situation. ‘It’s the least I can do.’

  She gripped Glenwood’s arm and steered him to where Emmett would pour large doubles as long as she slipped him the wink. She wanted an unguarded Glenwood. That way she might learn something, if nothing else, the true value of Cobden Manor.

  He was reluctant, but she was determined. And smiling. And nice, as though he was in with a chance if he played his cards right.

  ‘Glenwood, we just have to talk property, and Milly,’ she said, oozing enthusiasm as she placed them immediately next to the bar. ‘We just have to talk about your new look. I wouldn’t have recognised you. In fact I would have walked past you in the street.’

  Milly snorted exasperation. ‘You walked past me only recently, though not in the street. You walked past me at the Roman Baths the other night.’

  ‘Did I really? Well, it’s understandable. Talk about ugly duckling to stunning swan. My, but I’m so surprised – and envious I have to say. How about you tell me your beauty tips,’ Honey whispered. ‘In private, of course.’

  She made a point of doing most of the talking. With Glenwood she talked property. With Milly she mixed property with flattery about her stunning good looks and choice of clothes. The one thing she didn’t do was to ask was why the sudden change. She guessed the reason was sitting right there with his thigh brushing against hers.

  It occurred to her that Dominic Rolfe and his mother were right. Glenwood Halley was indeed a walking groin.

  While Glenwood excused himself and retired to the gents’ bathroom, Honey plied Milly with more drink.

  ‘He’s quite a catch you know, Milly. Good-looking, successful and pretty well off. So when did the spark become a flame?’

  Milly was pretty well-oiled now and rising to the occasion. She looked pleased with herself.

  ‘We finally came together that night at the Roman Baths when you walked straight past me. There were lots of famous people there, and Glenwood positively glows around famous people. We’d brushed past each other a few times, but that night was … well … as you said, a spark became a flame. All in all it was a pretty good night.’

/>   There was a new rapport between them, and Honey went all out to make the most of it. Two girls together sharing gossip and secrets.

  ‘My, but did you see Arabella Neville? Every man there was huddled around her.’

  Milly made a contemptuous sound – something between ‘pah’ and a spit.

  ‘So immature for her age; all pink and fluffy like a bunny rabbit a little kid might take to bed …’

  Honey thought somebody of more mature years was likely to take Arabella to bed, but made no comment on that score.

  ‘Go on,’ she said to Milly, and Milly did.

  ‘Arabella Neville got her comeuppance in the end, didn’t she? Nobody can say that she didn’t deserve it. And do you know what,’ she said, her voice suddenly dropping to a whisper. ‘I think I know who did it.’

  She tapped the side of her nose and winked.

  Honey gasped. ‘Do you really? How fascinating,’ she whispered back. ‘Do tell.’

  Milly drained her glass, poured herself another and leaned closer.

  ‘I heard somebody threaten to kill her. I was in the loo – lavatory, I should say. Loo is so common, don’t you think?’

  ‘Whatever,’ said Honey, not caring what she called it as long as she spilled the beans. ‘So where were you exactly when you heard this?’

  ‘Sitting down in a cubicle of course.

  Honey was dumbfounded. Why had she thought she was the only one there? Milly had been there too!

  ‘So this person who threatened Arabella, you recognised the voice?’

  Milly nodded sagely. ‘Petra Deacon. Her name’s Petra Deacon. She’s an actress and presenter. Glenwood knows her too, don’t you darling.’

  Glenwood had just returned. Very much the worse for wear, Milly eyed him adoringly. Judging by the look on his face, he’d overheard what had been said. The corners of his mouth were downturned. His velvet brown eyes had turned hard.

  Honey smiled at him. ‘Milly thinks she overheard somebody by the name of Petra Deacon threatening Arabella Neville. You know her too. Is that right?’

  She noticed a tightening of his already firm jaw. ‘I don’t think so.’