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

by Jean G. Goodhind

  ‘What makes you think I have something to tell you?’

  Somehow Honey knew that Faith had never quite believed her bullshit story about having a script to sell. If Faith was worth her salt as an agent, she would have done a little background checking. Alternatively, being used to working with creative people should have made her more instinctive. In her game it was a definite plus.

  She looked up from beneath the dripping brim.

  ‘Arabella was a right cow, but there’s something going on here that I’m not getting.’

  Honey frowned. Droplets of water ran into her eyes. She brushed them aside, swiping at them with the back of her hand.

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘If I knew that, I wouldn’t be asking you to help out here, now would I,’ snapped Faith.

  She flicked her unfinished cigarette into the wet grass where it fizzed red then died, a single string of smoke trailing into nothing.

  Rain had found its way around Honey’s collar and was slowing trickling down her back. She wanted to hear what Faith had to say, but would have preferred to be in the dry. She had to hurry her along even if only for the sake of a dry back!

  ‘You’re leaving me guessing,’ she said. ‘Let’s put it another way. What do you think it’s about? What’s your gut instinct?’

  Faith’s eyes bored into her. They were piercing eyes, bleary when under the influence, but totally the opposite when she was sober. She was sober now.

  She attempted to light another cigarette, then discarded it when it failed to light.

  Faith sniffed, then shook the brim of her hat.

  ‘One thing you have to understand about Arabella, she loved fame. Loved her job. OK, she was ambitious and difficult, but she did a good job. She was ideal for presenting this programme and landed it with ease, but … she had baggage. She had problems.’

  ‘Did you know she’d set her cap at Arthur King?’

  Faith’s laugh was hollow. ‘Arthur bloody King! She set her aim high, did our Arabella. The silly cow was going to sue her old man for divorce. Thought she could have everything she wanted – her kids, and another man. Arthur is a born charmer and strung her along as long as it suited him. As if Arthur was interested in her! No chance. It came as one hell of a shock when she found out it was her daughter he was interested in, not her.’

  ‘It must have done.’

  The whole scenario was looking sadder than ever. Arabella had given the impression that she hated kids. The truth, it seemed, was that having Adam’s kids visit must have hit a raw nerve. She’d ditched her past and everything in it, trying to forge out a new life without her children. She’d had success, but not what she’d really wanted. How sad was that?

  Funnily enough, it seemed suddenly as though the rain had stopped and everything was clearer. On reflection Honey could see it was nothing of the sort. The rain still poured down, the grass was slick and shiny with wetness, and both she and Faith Page were soaked through. Yet something had happened here. Something had erupted into the light.

  ‘So she didn’t exactly leave the agency?’ Honey suggested.

  ‘Oh, yes. She did that all right. She told me this was all about new beginnings.’

  ‘That’s why you sent me those tickets. She phoned you that night didn’t she.’

  Faith nodded. ‘Yes. I was over in Wales. I lost my phone for a few days. Gordon’s fault.’

  Honey didn’t bother to ask who Gordon was. Gin was Gordon’s, wasn’t it?

  So the phone call Arabella had received was from her husband. The sexy underwear hadn’t been for him but in the hope of seducing Arthur King. Arthur had spurned her, so when Adam had asked to meet her, she was still dressed to the nines. She had indeed gone along to the house to meet him. She’d asked him for a divorce. She’d left a message on her agent’s lost phone saying as much. At the same time she’d told him everything there was to tell about her real name, her background, her first husband and her children – and what? Taunted him that, despite everything, her kids were desperate to see her and his son couldn’t care less?

  ‘She told him,’ she said suddenly. ‘She told him everything.’

  Faith Page stared at her at first, but then her face crumpled and she looked sadder, older than she really was.

  ‘And he killed her. That’s what you’re surmising. Yes?’

  Honey nodded. ‘Yes. Imagine how it must have felt. She’d kept him apart from his children and now she was telling him that she’d never told him the truth about herself. What with the affairs as well, it was the last straw. Adam broke. I think it may also have had something to do with his background in the Gulf War. He suffered then, so I hear.’ She turned away, meaning to leave, when a thought came to her.

  ‘Can I borrow your phone?’

  Doherty answered almost immediately. ‘Where are you?’

  She explained about Arabella, that their first guess had been the right one. John Rees had believed in Adam’s innocence. Unfortunately he’d been mistaken.

  The silence on Doherty’s part was disturbing.

  ‘What is it? What’s happened?’

  ‘Adam Rolfe has been found murdered. We understand from John Rees that he was on his way to where you are.’

  ‘To kill Arthur King.’

  ‘Sounds that way. Seems he was the victim of a hit and run. The driver didn’t want him found too quickly, so he left him in the back of an open truck belonging to the Welsh National Opera. We think it happened in the early hours of this morning. Nobody saw anything.’

  ‘The opera singer! The one who thought her husband had hired me to spy on her.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘No,’ she said abruptly, shaking her head. ‘It had to be a pure hit and run.’

  ‘You’re being swayed by the fact that the body was found in the back of a truck belonging to the opera company.

  Suddenly the phone went dead. Just after it disconnected, it rang again at Doherty’s end.

  ‘Honey.’

  ‘No. Sorry to disappoint you. It’s Emlyn Morgan. Thought I’d let you know that the victim was murdered. Big bruise on the back of the neck. And there’s more. My boys found something in the truck that the driver said wasn’t there before. We think it may have come off when whoever knocked your boy down heaved him up into the truck. It’s a gold bracelet. Judging by the weight and the size it looks to be a man’s bracelet. Not something I would wear, but there, takes all sorts though.’

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Honey strayed around the castle precincts, the view from the battlements attracting her attention far more than what was happening below in the courtyard.

  From the battlements she could see the whole town rising up behind her. Looking directly down she could see the river, meandering past, the tide out now leaving small boats marooned in the mud.

  By the time she got back down, the programme was over. The audience had long since drifted out of the castle and back to where they’d parked their cars.

  Desperate to fill Doherty in on the details, Honey wanted to do the same. Unfortunately, Mary Jane had wandered off.

  ‘Wait a minute. I’m sure the director is still here. I want to ask him what the chances are for a REAL psychic on this production.’

  Although there seemed to be few people left, Mary Jane had collared the man inside the gift shop next to the main gate.

  She tried looking at her watch, but it was too dark. Mary Jane was not likely to rush things.

  Honey shivered. The weather was bad enough; then there was the journey back and Mary Jane’s driving.

  In the hope of warming herself up, she went back into the portcullis arch out of the wind and rain. Mary Jane would have to walk in this direction. Then it was whizzing back to Bath in the car, eyes shut and a few prayers rendered to the gods of reckless driving.

  At present her eyes were wide open. Two of the psychics had already passed her without noticing her presence. She thought that odd seeing as they were supposed to be
hyper-sensitive to spirits. Surely that also went for living people too?

  Only a few people remained in the castle courtyard. Some were lingering outside in the driving rain. The programme editing crew were already running through the rushes, setting them up for the following day when the serious editing would be done.

  Surrounded by darkness, she saw all but nobody saw her. She might as well have been a shadow herself.

  Suddenly the beam of car headlights flashed swiftly over the lower half of a ruined turret. There was the soft thudding of a car door.

  Fed up with waiting, she headed into the inner courtyard, wondering where the hell Mary Jane had got to. Couldn’t the woman take no for an answer?

  The yard was uncommonly quiet. Everything was dark and nothing was moving. The only place still showing a light was the gift shop and ticket office.

  She was within ten yards of the shop door when two hands caught hold of her shoulders.

  Her eyes opened wide, though the darkness was so absolute that she couldn’t see his face. Not that she needed to.

  His voice was instantly recognisable and she felt instantly safe.

  ‘You were right about Adam Rolfe,’ said Doherty in a low voice. ‘He killed his wife. It must have been one taunt too many from a woman he’d come to hate. Rolfe was lying – but only about not knowing about Denise and Sean. I’ve got to say, it was a great double bluff, confessing like that.

  Susan Rolfe admitted that she’d been deliberately vague about the timings – despite all that happened, she still loved him enough to want to protect him. There was enough time for Adam to have killed Arabella and still got to the bar to meet Susan. She said that “he’d finally come to his senses” and she didn’t want to deprive Dominic of his father any more, so was willing to lie for him.

  And we questioned the barman again – he’s only been in the job five minutes and although he remembered serving them, he had no idea what time that was. We also know who killed his stepson, Sean Fox.’

  ‘So if it’s all wrapped up, what are you doing here? And who killed Sean Fox?’

  ‘Adam Rolfe was the victim of a hit and run – or so we thought – until the Gwent police found a large contusion at the back of his neck and a gold bracelet beneath his body.’

  Honey let out an almighty gasp. ‘I’ll never trust an estate agent again.’

  ‘I didn’t think anybody did.’ Doherty sounded genuinely surprised.

  Honey looked towards the shop. ‘He’s in there. It’s the only place still lit-up. So let me guess. He’s after Arthur King?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Am I right in thinking …’

  ‘Sean Fox had to have told him that Arabella had received a phone call that night and suggested it was from her husband.’

  ‘I think Sean also told him about some psychic that Arabella was lusting after … so, I assume he killed Sean because he didn’t want him telling that he was after Arthur King. Right?’

  ‘We can only assume! His mind was pretty troubled.’

  Honey nodded towards the gatehouse shop. ‘He’s in there. He’s got to be still in there. Trouble is, so is Mary Jane. So’s the director.’

  ‘Ah-uh.’

  ‘A resume would help put my surmising into some kind of order.’

  ‘OK. Gabriel Forbes warned Glenwood to stop pestering his wife, Sofia Camilleri, the opera singer. We interviewed Forbes, who also happens to collect rare maps, by the way. He admitted to warning Glenwood off. We have also to assume that our estate agent friend wasn’t nearly so obsessed with the diva Camilleri as he was with Arabella.’

  ‘So he’s in there and now we go in and get him.’

  ‘No. I go in and get him. You stay here.’

  ‘No.’

  Doherty was a man most women wanted and a lot of men would have liked to be like him. Her mother was a notable exception to this rule, but, boy oh boy, if she could just see him now. There was no hesitation; in he went looking as though he meant business. Honey followed. No way was she going to miss this. If she did, how could she boast of his prowess and spin a long and heroic tale? Or discuss his actions in intimate detail with him while being intimate?

  Glenwood Halley was as tall as Arthur King. If Arthur had possessed the same colouring as Glenwood, they would have resembled a pair of bookends.

  Arthur was looking unnerved, verging on scared stiff. Their stance was reflected in the mirrored door behind them, the one Honey had noticed earlier. The door was edged with a frame of stained glass depicting medieval figures – the kind you might find in an ancient abbey or church.

  Mary Jane was not there. Neither was the director. Honey swallowed. Please, God, don’t let her be lying dead behind that shop counter. I’ll accept the director being dead, but not Mary Jane.

  Glenwood was holding a dagger to Arthur’s throat. She guessed it hadn’t come out of one of the glass cabinets. And it looked too lethal to be plastic.

  There was a wildness in Glenwood’s eyes. His skin was slick with sweat. Gone was the Savile Row suit; he was dressed in a black cashmere sweater, chinos and thick-soled deck shoes.

  Doherty placed himself in front of her, shielding her without impairing the view.

  ‘Glenwood. What are you doing with that knife?’

  ‘I’m going to kill him. It was his fault. He led her on. She was the star and he destroyed her. He got her killed.’

  Doherty spoke firmly and calmly. ‘Mr Halley. Glenwood. You don’t want to do this. Think now. Think about it carefully.’

  His voice made her toes curl but had no effect on Glenwood Halley, who was quite possibly mad.

  She thought of the photos of showbiz people on Glenwood’s wall. The warning signs had been there, though she’d never really thought them through. How many of them had he become obsessed with? How many had he stalked and been warned off by the likes of Gabriel Forbes?

  Doherty was cool, pulling up a chair and placing it between her and the two men who stood as if frozen in action.

  He addressed Glenwood. ‘So now what? You’re going to kill King Arthur here, Camelot will be without a king, and the best people are going to be without a good man to show them around a castle that they want to make home. Is that a good idea?’

  Glenwood gave a short harsh laugh. ‘King Arthur. That’s a good one.’

  ‘Bad if he ends up dead.’

  ‘Arabella’s death has to be avenged.’

  ‘I thought you’d already done that. You killed her husband, Adam. You arranged to meet him, knocked him to the ground, then ran over him in your car. Then you attempted to hide his body. Were you trying to lay the blame on Sofia Camilleri, aka Forbes? The opera singer. You stalked her for a while.’

  Glenwood was completely unmoved. ‘He killed her. It was his fault.’

  Doherty sighed heavily. ‘Does it really matter?’

  Glenwood rounded on him, eyes staring and round. ‘To her it does. She counted on me to sort things out for her. I lent her the money for the apartment, the one she’d bought without her husband knowing. I thought it was going to be for us. But it wasn’t. It was supposed to be for him and her! Would you credit it? Him. That bastard. Arthur. He just played with her.’

  Honey thought about Denise. Arthur was a man who liked to play games. She’d seen Denise leaving. She’d been in floods of tears. Had she too been cast aside?

  ‘What about Sean Fox, Glenwood? Why did he have to die?’

  Glenwood sneered. ‘I knew Sean was her confidante. I knew he’d know all the details. Once I knew them, too, then he had to go. He just had to.’

  ‘Arabella wouldn’t thank you for that,’ said Honey. ‘Sean was her son.’

  Doherty had risen to his feet. She felt his hand brush hers and knew he was about to go into action. Someone was going to get hurt. Glenwood Halley was the most likely candidate, Arthur King a close second.

  Mention of Sean Fox being Arabella’s son seemed to have no effect on Glenwood. Honey guessed that he’d
given up listening and was lost in his own little world, one hand gripping the hilt of the dagger, the palm of the other poised over the end of the hilt and about to hit it home.

  Suddenly the mirrored door behind them burst open. Glenwood was knocked sideways.

  As Glenwood and Doherty grappled, Arthur King – the man who styled himself as a medieval king of wide renown – cowered in the corner.

  Seemingly energised by madness, Glenwood was on top of Doherty, trying his best to bring down the top half of a pair of stocks over the policeman’s head.

  In her search for a weapon, Honey tried undoing the glass cabinets, just in case one of those maces, or a dagger or a sword, wasn’t made of plastic. No luck. She looked around for something else.

  There was no mace to twirl – though she’d quite hoped there was – it seemed like a fun thing to do. A keen weight hanging on a length of something. She pounced on the credit card machine, pulled it from its socket, wound the wire round her fist, and swung the rest of it above her head.

  Thwack! It made a reassuringly crunching sound against Glenwood’s head.

  Clunk! Then rattle, rattle! The dagger hit the floor.

  Doherty pounced, looked in his pocket for handcuffs but found none.

  ‘Drat!’

  Honey pointed. ‘It’s only plastic, but …

  Glenwood Halley was fitted into the stocks. Doherty straightened, looking well satisfied despite the intense pain in his back. ‘That should keep him until Gwent Police arrive.’

  Mary Jane stepped out from the darkness on the other side of the open door.

  ‘Hey! How about that for timing. Good, huh? It’s a two-way mirror, you know,’ she said, jerking her thumb at the wide-open door. ‘Bet that wasn’t there in medieval times.’

  ‘It’s for shoplifters when staff are out the back,’ said Arthur King, his voice shaky but his pride intact. ‘They didn’t have them back then.’

  ‘True,’ said Mary Jane. ‘They did disfigurement instead. Chopped bits off so everyone would know a felon when they saw one. Not that they’d have done that to this guy. Hung, drawn and quartered. Which reminds me, I’m hungry. Anyone fancy stopping for a Big Mac on the way home?’