A Taste To Die For - A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries) (5 page)

Chapter Six

On her way to the underground garage where she’d parked her car, Honey conjured up how best to put Bling Broadbent in her place. Arresting her on suspicion of murdering her own chef would be good. The delicious vision of wiping that supercilious smile from Stella’s scarlet lips would not go away. A citizen’s arrest! Unfortunately she had no evidence to support that particular theory, except that she’d heard that Stella was a middle-aged nymphomaniac. Perhaps she’d had the hots for Stafford. Jealousy was always a good motive for murder.

As she folded her legs into her car she daydreamed that Smudger had won the B.I.T.E. competition. Now that would have sent the woman heading for cover! Stella was one of those people who had to be like the Christmas fairy, always on top of the tree looking down at everyone else.

Her reverie was interrupted by yet another call from Casper.

‘I need you here.’ He spoke low, deep and slow, the last word as drawn out as the string on a bow.

‘I’ll be right there as soon as I’ve spoken to Bling … I’m sorry,
Stella
Broadbent.’

‘Here.
Now
!’

There was something pleading in his voice. There was the usual class and confidence, too, but today there was also something else. Puzzlement? Confusion?

Her eyes caught sight of a notice board and her intention of calling on Stella Broadbent flew out of the open car window. Bonhams, were holding an auction of collectables at their premises in Little King Street. Clothes were included.

She spoke into her phone. ‘Casper, I won’t be long.’

‘Honey? Honey?’

A car pulled off the single yellow lines in Queen Square and she pulled into the space, turned off the engine and locked up. With a spring in her step, she dodged the traffic to the other side of the road and into Bonhams.

‘More voluptuous underwear, hen?’ asked the Scottish clerk behind the counter. His smirk of approval was lost within the confines of a bright ginger beard.

The last time she’d been in Bonhams, Jollys as it had been, she’d purchased a particularly large pair of undergarments, said to have been worn by Queen Victoria. Alistair remembered the purchase. He knew what items interested her. He knew what everyone collected.

She paid for a catalogue.

‘Anything interesting?’ she asked as she thumbed through the shiny pages. If there was anything, the employees of the company would have spotted it. Experience equals grandstand knowledge.

‘I did see a very nice pair of garters. Fashioned from French lace and festooned with ribbons in a particularly fetching strawberry shade.’ He spoke slowly and eloquently. As always, the richness of his Scottish accent turned the verbal equivalent of dry toast into fruit-filled Genoa cake.

‘You sound as though they quite took your fancy.’

Standing well over six feet, Alistair smiled through his thick red beard. ‘Not for me, hen. I would have preferred blue myself – to match my eyes you understand.’

‘Anything else?’

He clapped his hands over his chest. ‘A salmon pink Berlei bra from the fifties.’ He used his finger to describe it. ‘Sewn round and round, and round and round, into a conical shape. Just like the ones Madonna used to wear at the height of her career. Only bigger. Much bigger.’

Her phone rang again as she headed into the auction room. Bidding had already started. She didn’t have time for a proper look round so would have to trust Alistair’s judgement. The garters came first. Bidding started at twenty pounds, a ludicrous amount for apparel never likely to be seen.

Bidding climbed steadily. There was a middling crowd. If she craned her neck she’d see who she was bidding against. But she wouldn’t. Bidding called for deep concentration. All that mattered was getting what you came for.

She waited until the bidding reached thirty-five before going in at forty.

‘Forty. Do I see forty-five? Forty-five anywhere? Now come on. These were said to have been worn by a dancer at the Windmill Theatre in London. During the war it boasted that it never closed. Got to be worth more than forty, surely?’

The auctioneer’s eyes scoured the room for a potential punter. No one stepped in. She smiled. The garters were hers.

‘Going once, going twice … Fifty, madam? Fifty pounds. A fresh bidder at fifty pounds.’

Honey bid fifty-five. The other party bid sixty. Honey bid sixty-five. Her rival bid seventy.

Seventy? For a pair of faded garters?

Despite the condition of the intriguing items, she might have pushed the bidding further if her phone hadn’t rung again.

‘I need you here right now!’

Casper!

‘Casper, there’s just one more lot …’

‘Honey. I have a man here who I think you should speak to. Remember, my dear, you’re the one liaising with the police on behalf of the Hotels Association. Do I have to remind you of the benefits?’

Perks came with the job. She got priority bookings via the committee, recompense for involving herself in tourist related crime. Honey sighed.

‘I’ll be right there.’

So much for the garters. There was still hope for the salmon pink brassiere with conical stitching.

Alistair had come out from behind his counter and was standing at the back of the room. She knew he would be bidding on behalf of people who for whatever reason couldn’t be there. It was a fair bet none of them were involved in a murder investigation.

She handed him her bidding card. ‘Last bid for lot 132. Go up to fifty for the Victorian christening dress and ten pounds for the satin corset.’

‘Och! You couldn’t resist the brazier could you, hen.’ His lips grinned. His eyes remained fixed on the auctioneer.

Getting his meaning (
brazier
being his pronunciation of
brassiere
), Honey responded. ‘No, I couldn’t. Aren’t you going to ask me if I’ll be wearing it?’

‘Oh, no. You won’t be doing that, hen. Not unless your breasts are considerably more than an honest man’s handful. Though you could use them as a bowling ball carrier …’

Her eyes widened. ‘That big?’

He nodded. ‘What the Germans would call a
bustenhalter
.’

Enough was enough. ‘Don’t bother.’ She grabbed the ticket from the bunch he was clutching and tore it into shreds.

‘See you, hen,’ said Alistair, his eyes still fixed on the auctioneer and his head nodding in time with the bids.

Casper’s hotel, La Reine Rouge, was a stone’s throw from Pulteney Weir and a pleasant walk from Bonhams Auction Rooms, just off Queen Square.

Honey darted between people aiming digital cameras and around a party of Dutch students, barely missing being run down by a hire car driving on the wrong side of the road. The driver wound his window down.

‘Excuse me, can you tell me where the Pump Rooms are?’

She pointed round into Quiet Street. ‘That way, but you’ll have …’ Too late. The window was wound up. The last she saw was the car mounting the pavement barring its access to Quiet Street. Horns were blowing. People were shouting. Quiet Street was far from quiet.

Never mind. The air was balmy, summer was here and everyone was out enjoying themselves.

Neville, Casper’s head receptionist, was on duty behind the highly polished mahogany desk. Honey glanced at her watch as a brass-faced grandfather clock struck eleven. So did the wall clocks lining the stairs to the upper floors. Casper collected clocks.

Neville was resplendent in a red silk waistcoat embroidered with birds of paradise. Regency style was
de rigueur
at La Reine Rouge, as it suited the ambience of the elegant building. The tourists loved it.

He never gave her chance to say good morning. ‘You think this is a flamboyant outfit,’ he said, pointing at his waistcoat and tight breeches. ‘Wait till you see what’s downstairs.’

The phone rang and he picked it up. He plastered his hand over his mouth before attempting to answer the phone and pointed to the stairs leading down to Casper’s office.

Intrigued, Honey made her way down, knocking before entering the subterranean suite that served as offices.

The first thing she saw on entering was Casper’s pale complexion.

‘My goodness. You look as though you’d seen …’

Casper’s visitor rose from his chair.

Honey’s jaw dropped. Her head tilted back to accommodate the man’s huge height. Six feet six at least. And black. And beaded. And dressed in … animal skins? He was also carrying what looked like a spear. An assegai? His hair was plaited or matted or … something. Now what was he? Yes, that was it. She was looking at an honest-to-goodness Masai warrior. In Bath. A tourist?

She heard Casper clearing his throat. He probably couldn’t believe it himself.

‘This gentleman tells me he has important information regarding the murder of Oliver Stafford.’

Honey nodded slowly while she tried to find her voice. Now it was her turn to clear her throat.

‘Is that so?’

‘Call me Obadiah Jones,’ said the voice from on high. He offered her a long, slender hand as he flashed his uncommonly white teeth.

‘Right!’

She found her voice in time to say hello and pleased to meet you without sounding too stupid.

‘Do you think we can sit down,’ she said, her neck already aching from having to adopt such an acute angle.

‘Certainly.’

His accent was negligible, which was not what she’d expected.

‘And this evidence … Obadiah … can you tell me exactly what it is?’

The multi-coloured beads festooned around his neck jangled when he nodded. ‘Most certainly. I heard my wife arguing with Mr Stafford. She was calling him many rude names and threatening to destroy him if he didn’t continue to “play ballˮ.’

Honey stared. She looked at Casper for help. He looked just as shocked as she felt. Bath might welcome tourists from all over the world, but Masai Warriors were definitely a bit thin on the ground.

‘And your wife is …?’

‘Stella. The story is that she was on safari and I was her tour guide around the Masai Mara. We married in Africa, but she pretends that it never occurred. I followed her back here to claim my rights. She said she was not herself at the time we married so it doesn’t count.’

‘That’s wonderful.’

‘Not so wonderful. I was paid to do it.’

‘That figures.’

‘But I overheard this argument.’

‘He’s given me the details,’ said Casper, a perplexed look sullying his usually calm expression. He related a few details.

‘I can’t go to the police about it. You see, I shouldn’t be here. My work permit’s run out.’

The truth was obvious. He wasn’t a real Masai warrior, just a very tall man dressed up to look like one.

Honey asked the obvious question. ‘Who paid you?’

He shook his head. ‘I cannot divulge my client’s particulars. It’s private.’

Honey took a deep breath and reminded herself that this was a serious business. Murder was involved, plus the reward of substantial bed occupancy at the Green River Hotel for taking on the job in the first place. ‘And you definitely heard her threaten Mr Stafford?’

His rat’s-tails hair-do rattled as much as his beads when he nodded. ‘I sneaked through the back way to … use the facilities, shall we say. I heard her screaming at Stafford to do as she said. There was no security guard there – at least at first. And then it was not the same … Maybe he was asleep.’ He frowned. ‘When I arrived the first time, he appeared quickly. But I hid.’

Honey made a mental note to have a word with the security guard – after she’d had a word with Bling Broadbent.

‘You have to tell the police,’ said Honey.

A sense of panic moved him. ‘You tell them,’ he said, backing towards the door. ‘I don’t want to get involved. That’s why I came to see you and not them.’

‘Do we have your address?’

‘I’ll be around.’ He was gone, the door swinging behind him.

‘Oi!’ Honey raced after him while Casper reached for the phone.

Once outside, she looked up and down the crowded street. There was no sign of Obadiah Jones – or whatever his name was. Traffic was flowing well. He could have jumped into a taxi or even on a bus. Steve Doherty would have to deal with it. They had to find him again. They also had to find out whoever had paid him to do it.

Chapter Seven

At the Green River, the atmosphere between Honey and Lindsey was subdued. They were each carrying out their duties around the hotel efficiently, only speaking when the need arose, and never, ever, alighting on the subject of Oliver Stafford. The relationship rattled between them. It had happened but both were having difficulty dealing with it.

Getting out cleared Honey’s head, but, because this case was so personal, the details never ceased to whirl in her mind.

She and Doherty were having a lunch-time drink in the public bar of The Garrick’s Head next door to the Theatre Royal. Just for once it was Honey who had called him to arrange the meeting.

‘His wife could have hired a hit-man,’ Honey said.

‘It’s possible. Or Mark Smith could have done it.’

‘Nooo!’ She said it emphatically and low. ‘Not Smudger. Anyway, his alibi checks out.’

‘For the most part. Did you know he visited Stafford’s wife on a regular basis?’

Honey looked away. She hadn’t known about her daughter’s relationship with that rat Stafford, and she hadn’t known about Smudger’s relationship either. It rankled that neither her daughter nor her chef trusted her with their secrets.

‘I’ll take that as a “no”,’ said Steve. ‘How are your hotel bookings?’

‘Great.’ She continued to admire the Regency décor, the old posters and pictures of stars who’d trodden the boards of the old theatre. The famous Sarah Siddons, and even David Garrick himself, had played to packed houses in Regency times. Sarah Bernhardt and Lillie Langtry had too, in the Victorian era. The big names still came to Bath, often taking a break from the stage with a gin or two.

Honey knew she was dwelling on this case, but she couldn’t help it. Even if Casper hadn’t been putting bookings her way as reimbursement for police liaison, she would still be doing the job. But should she be? Was she neglecting her family – notably Lindsey? She wanted to find Stafford’s murderer for no other reason than to serve her own misgivings. The high-flying chef was a sexual predator; that alone could have resulted in his murder. No stone must be left unturned. After that? Well … she’d wait and see how she felt.

‘You need more fun in your life,’ Steve said suddenly.

Still with her eyes on her drink, she nodded. A thought occurred to her and suddenly she began to smile.

‘Any luck tracing our Masai warrior?’

He shook his head. ‘I don’t think that’s his real name. And it’s got to be a spoof. Your friend Stella and her premises have been the target of a hate campaign for some months. To my mind this is just an extension of that.’

‘You’re probably right.’

‘Never mind. We’ll find him.’

‘First stop, a few questions at the Beau Brummell?’ she asked brightly.

‘Did I invite you?’

‘No. I invited myself.’