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

by Jean G. Goodhind

  ‘And the toiletries were all Tesco own-brands.’

  ‘Does that matter?’

  ‘To someone who used to afford Dior it would. There was just a single bottle of upmarket lotion there with about half an inch of lotion at the bottom. All that’s left of her former wealth I suppose. Adam Rolfe used to be a millionaire. He was able to afford to keep two homes in luxury for a while, but then it all went belly-up. Once that happened his ex-wife’s income must have nosedived. She’s struggling – and it shows.’

  ‘Enough to hate him? Enough to kill him?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘I get your point,’ said Doherty. ‘That’s a big house to keep going all by herself. On the other hand, she’s not a big woman.’

  ‘But she is resourceful and determined to make things good for her kids. Stuff like that can move mountains.’

  Steering Doherty’s car with one hand, Honey ran her fingers through her windblown hair with the other.

  ‘I bet she used to have her own cook, if not she ate out most of the time. I bet she also had a woman who came in to clean two or three days a week. I’m betting she’s not exactly grieving that her blonde bimbo replacement is dead, but I’m not sure how she feels about her ex-husband. Does she still love him, and if so, would she hide him?’

  ‘You sound jealous.’

  ‘Of Mrs Rolfe?’

  ‘No. Of the cleaner.’

  ‘Never mind. Let’s leave the woman in peace – for now.’

  ‘She’s got good reason to feel aggrieved.’

  ‘Good enough to commit murder. If he can, Adam is bound to be more generous now Arabella’s not on the scene.’ She paused as the obvious thought came to her. ‘Do you think she might have done it?’

  ‘I don’t know that she would be strong enough.’

  ‘Unless she had help from somebody bigger and stronger than her; so the money is still on Adam – or his son.’

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  ‘Excusee, Mrs Driver, but was that Sofia Camilleri I saw here the other day?’

  Honey recognised Gabriella Rizzo from number fourteen, her with the opera buff husband. Mrs Rizzo was slim, with classic good looks and streaked blonde hair. She also had deep brown eyes, which meant the blonde hair was salon-induced, but so what? So were half the blondes on the planet.

  Honey said that indeed it was and added, as if she didn’t already know, ‘Are you a fan of hers?’

  Mrs Rizzo tossed her head from side to side. ‘So, so. She has a great voice, but a terrible reputation. Hot-blooded, you see. Easily angered. She throws things at people. My sister used to work for her. Sofia threw things at her when she was in a bad mood. She threw a bowl of pasta at my sister. Luckily it had grown cold or she would have been burned.’

  Successful surveillance, Honey decided, depended a lot on luck. Franco Rizzo was off playing golf for the day. Mrs Rizzo stated her intention to go shopping.

  ‘We will meet for tea at four?’ she said hopefully.

  Honey said she would be very pleased to meet her for coffee rather than tea.

  ‘You have coffee. I will have tea. I will also have more scones and jam and cream. Or perhaps butter. We will have to have butter too. I think Mary Jane prefers butter. She is coming too.’ Gabriella tossed her luxuriant mane of hair. ‘She will read the tea leaves for me. She is very good at things like that.’

  Honey said she would look forward to it purely out of politeness. She had a hotel to run and rooms to fill. The log for advance winter bookings was looking bleak. The carpet along one of the landings needed to be replaced before next summer. Mary Jane had caught her foot in it and fallen headlong. A rug had been placed over it for now. It would suffice until she got a new one; not everyone would dismiss falling down as Mary Jane had. Money for the new carpet was needed. Those rooms had to be filled.

  Just when Anna had brought her the news that the mattress in room twenty was wet through and somebody had upset coffee over a bedspread in room twenty, Casper phoned to ask how the case was going. Mind only half on the job, she gave him the details and said she was hopeful.

  ‘Incidentally,’ she said. ‘The terms of me accepting the job of Crime Liaison Officer were that my rooms would be filled during the winter. Due to the lightness of my business account, my bank manager has suggested I convert from hotel to bail hostel. He reckons on there being more felons than tourists around in February.’

  She detected a sharp intake of breath.

  ‘I’ll phone you back.’

  Her eyes stayed fixed on the phone. She badly needed Casper to come up with the goods.

  Mary Jane caught her staring at the phone.

  ‘Has that phone done something bad to you?’

  ‘It’s a phone. It can’t do anything.’

  ‘Even inanimate objects have spirits,’ Mary Jane said ominously. ‘Did you see Most Haunted last night?’

  Honey admitted that she hadn’t seen it last night. In fact she’d never watched the TV programme which, from what she had heard, consisted of a team of psychics dashing around in a dark house hunting for ghosts. Why they didn’t bother to turn the light on she didn’t know. But then, it was probably all about getting the viewing public nicely scared. Darkness was always scary because you couldn’t see anything including the sound technician, the camera man and the catering people serving tea and buns in the background.

  ‘Neither did I,’ said Mary Jane which seemed to make her asking the question a bit pointless. ‘I’ve applied for tickets to that new show that’s being made. I took the opportunity of taking a note of that woman’s address in Tintern. You did mention to her that I was a professional, didn’t you?’

  Honey told her that she had. She would like to have added that Faith Page wasn’t likely to respond. But Mary Jane looked so enthused.

  ‘Can you check my mail?’

  Honey did as asked. ‘Nothing for you today.’

  Mary Jane looked disappointed. ‘Drat. I was hoping that gal we visited over in Wales had got something for me. I know I’d be great on TV. If they’d answered I was going to buy myself a new outfit. I thought something with sequins, though sticking to my favourite primary colours.’

  Honey balked at the idea of bright pink, blue or lime green sequins sparkling on screen.

  ‘Perhaps you should check with them first. I think they have guidelines on that score.’

  ‘You’re probably right,’ said Mary Jane, her eyes glittering as she tapped her chin thoughtfully. ‘I’ll check which colour they’d prefer me to wear and how they feel about sequins.’

  Left to herself and a catalogue of carpet samples was kind of soothing. Hotel stuff instead of crime stuff. She found herself drooling over one hundred per cent Berber wool, and creamy Fleur de Lys scattered over an old gold background.

  The fitted carpet she was particularly attracted to was made to measure, only available by special order, and thus crushingly expensive.

  The money she would have made from the sale of the Green River would have paid off all her debts and left enough to buy Cobden Manor, renovations to be achieved over two years. Still, all that was definitely out of the window. There was no way she was moving now, so instead she’d splash out a little on the Green River. A new carpet on the second floor landing was just one of those upgrades. A Jacuzzi might be nice. And how about a sauna? How about a gym?

  ‘How about we invest in a gym?’ Honey said to Lindsey who had just come on duty.

  ‘You don’t like physical exercise, Mother. Well not that kind anyway.’

  ‘I meant for the guests. We could even hire a professional trainer for, say, two days a week.’

  ‘You have your own personal trainer. His name’s Steve Doherty. Has he found the missing husband yet?’

  ‘No.’

  She was close to sharing her suspicions about John Rees, but the phone rang. It was Casper.

  ‘There’s a party coming over from Sweden in mid-February,’ he said to her. ‘They’re yours. F
ifteen rooms. Six couples. Three twin-bedded rooms and six singles. Can you oblige?’

  Of course she could.

  ‘Are they here for any specific reason?’

  ‘A conference on European defence logistics at the Ministry of Defence.’

  ‘Fifteen rooms in February,’ she exclaimed. Excitedly she conveyed the details of the rooming arrangements.

  ‘And they all work for the MOD?’ Lindsey said quizzically.

  Honey caught the raising of Lindsey’s eyebrow. ‘I don’t care. They can sleep with whoever they want – as long as it’s not with me.’

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Taking her list of clues, suspects and a shopping list, Honey traipsed around to the sausage shop in Green Street close to closing time. Once that was done her head was clear for considering the crime, the suicide and the missing husband.

  A coffee and a croissant would help her concentration. She was sitting at the same pavement table where she’d met Dominic Rolfe. Her pad and her pen were on the table. So were her coffee and croissant. Before she could fully apply herself to the job in hand, she spotted John Rees hurrying along in the direction of Bathwick.

  It was six o’clock at night. Yet again he was carrying a brown paper parcel under his arm. Supplies for a fugitive? Quite possibly.

  On account of the fact that he had very long legs, it wasn’t too long before he was out of sight. Quickly paying for her coffee, she was off in pursuit. This case was personal. She had to hang in there.

  Luckily a taxi appeared on cue, the driver totally unfazed when she asked to be let out just a few hundred yards down the road. The fare was still pretty stiff, but Honey didn’t care. With luck she might relocate John and resume her pursuit. Nothing was certain. She could but try.

  Enquiries were ongoing. A tick-list circled like prairie wagons in her mind. One of them stopped and throbbed at her temple.

  Here she was, alighted from the taxi, standing on the pavement and not seeing him anywhere. There was no sign of the familiar figure striding head high above the crowds, just customers puffing clouds of nicotine outside The Curfew pub and juggernauts puffing out diesel fumes on Cleveland Bridge.

  There were a number of directions he could have gone in, some of them more attractive than others. She certainly didn’t fancy trudging along the London Road with all that traffic travelling nose to tail. It may have been judgement, it may have been instinct but she opted for the prettier route.

  Professional tails wouldn’t choose the more scenic or intriguing route, but as an amateur, she could afford to be different. Accordingly she considered her options and what might have happened.

  Get inside John’s mind .

  As she marched along, various possible scenarios scampered through her mind like frightened rabbits. Number one: John was hiding Adam, perhaps in the rear of his shop. Some of those cardboard boxes the books came in were pretty big. A full-grown man could hide in one. Homeless people lived in them. Number two rabbit looked a little wary; if John was hiding Adam, did that mean Adam was guilty or too scared to come forward? Or was he guilty? Was John his accomplice?

  She shivered at the thought of it. I mean, she said to herself, did he actually LOOK guilty?

  A vision of how he’d been dressed flashed through her mind. Dark cords, dark sweater, dark shoes. No change there. Again, a brown paper package tucked beneath his arm. Frowning, she concentrated her mind on what it might contain. Too thin to be a book. It had to be a map. Or a picture.

  Bath was an old city of old buildings, old alleys and old shadows that at certain times of day fell blackly and densely on rumpled pavements.

  There were distinct possibilities. He could have been delivering that package somewhere. A client? Possibly. Suddenly she had a Mary Jane moment.

  When all else fails, let your instinct take over.

  Sometimes Mary Jane talked rubbish, but sometimes, just sometimes, her well-worn sayings resurfaced sounding far wiser than when first heard. The times when this happened were usually when there was no other alternative.

  Instinct, Honey thought, half closing her eyes to minimise the distractions.

  Her feet headed down St John’s Road. Ivy-covered walls separated St John’s churchyard from the road. At one point the old rectory had been turned into a hotel. It had closed, possibly because the diocese had refused to allow it to have a drinks licence. Most tourists were pretty thirsty people.

  She eyed the dark trees surrounding the old place. Part of the grounds had been developed into senior citizens accommodation, but the churchyard still existed. Not that she wanted to go nosing around down there. It was getting dark and she had no intention of entering a graveyard after sunset. The fear was a leftover from her youth when she’d gone to the pictures with a boyfriend. At that time she’d liked horror movies and had become engrossed in the film, so much so that she’d forgotten she wasn’t alone.

  Her companion had not been concentrating on the film; his attention had wandered. So had his hands, or at least one of them. Just as Dracula sank his fangs into a female neck on screen, a hand landed on Honey’s breast. She’d screamed, jumped three feet out of her seat, and scattered a tub of popcorn on to the people in front. Boyfriend had gone off muttering about the price he’d paid for the popcorn should have been enough to allow for a few little liberties. Honey hadn’t agreed with him. Neither had the people in the row in front.

  She’d never gone to a horror movie again. Neither had she read any Gothic novels, the experience of a cold hand at a chilly moment was embedded in her bones – or more correctly on her bosom.

  ‘Options, options, options.’

  Exasperated, she left the road and took the steps down to the river just below the Old Dispensary. The water looked cool and she was feeling hot.

  Slumping onto a wooden bench she took a deep breath. Off came her shoes. The shoes had heels and were smart but weren’t made for walking great distances on stone pavements. Trailing someone called for sensible footwear. She made a mental note to remember that in future.

  The A4 London Road was full of traffic leaving the city. John was on foot. Most pedestrians stuck to the city’s heart where cafes, restaurants and individual shops jostled for business and the air smelled of coffee and full-cream fudge.

  John was striking an outward trail.

  Once her feet were rested she made her way back up the steps to road level and headed across Cleveland Bridge past the fire station.

  There was always traffic on the A36, the city planners doing their best to get it around and out of the city as quickly as possible. Those involved in the tourist trade preferred it to hang around. Between the two of them they’d created abject gridlock.

  Another Bath pub, The Crown, sat beside the main A36 just before the turning into Forester Road. Built in the early twentieth century, its stone facade and mock mullion windows break out between a late Georgian house and the type of house that shouts Home Counties wealth.

  Two elderly people were manhandling a suitcase across the pavement to a waiting taxi. In the process they were holding up whoever else was trying to exit the pub. One person did and had no option but to assist them. It was John Rees.

  Honey held back. She hadn’t expected this, but guessed that at some stage John had spotted her, led her on a marathon of a walk around the city, and then dived into the pub for a quick pint. She missed the scarf, though not the fleas.

  Still, she thought, my persistence has paid off. He thought he’d lost me, and it turns out he hasn’t.

  Now she had him and was pretty sure he hadn’t seen her. Once the taxi door had closed, John was off, still carrying the brown paper parcel under his arm.

  It definitely looked like it might be a picture; perhaps a map that he’d sold and was off to deliver. But why avoid her if that was all it was?

  A dark green sign pointed to Bathwick Boating Station. John shot down Forester Road. The road is lined with solid houses, mostly dating from the Edwardian era. They h
ave big roofs covered in little red Rosemary tiles and carved weatherboards. Square panes in bay windows glistened with cleanliness. Kerbside parking was usually readily available, though not tonight. The end of the street seemed more crowded than usual. A few of the houses were given over to Bed and Breakfast. Some had been turned into flats, but that wouldn’t be enough to warrant the road being this packed with parked cars. It had to be overspill from the boating station. Something was going on here and Honey was curious.

  At the end of the road a wrought iron arch curved over the entrance to Bathwick Boating Station. The road formed a U-shape so it was no big deal to wander past the boating station and circle back to the main road.

  Something seemed to be going on at the boat house; the lovely old riverside restaurant and self-contained letting accommodation.

  There were a lot of cars parked and a lot of people funnelling like lemmings along the narrow path to the restaurant entrance.

  First rule of tailing someone was to fit in. At first she was one of the crowd; just before the entrance, she took a detour making her way off to the right and down around the front of the building between it and the river.

  Lawns of soft green grass curved salaciously to the river where weeping willows sighed over the dark green water. There were flowers everywhere, notably tumbling from huge hanging baskets and festooned in windows boxes on the letting accommodation next door. The boating station took in guests, though only those people who wanted to dip into the city’s delights, but also get a good night’s sleep.

  The crowds that had been funnelling in remained inside the boating station, networking around the restaurant on the first floor. A hum of conversation and light laughter sounded from the wide balcony above her head. The air smelled of warm garlic and tinkled with the sound of wine glasses. She craned her neck looking for sight of John Rees.

  Damn. She was just too low down. The balcony was too high, the big windows behind it set too far back. She had no option but to go back round to the main entrance and hope she could blag her way in.