Murder By Mudpack: A Honey Driver Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries) Read online

  Murder By Mudpack

  A Honey Driver Mystery

  Jean G. Goodhind

  After Lady Macrottie is found submerged in what should have been a therapeutic mud bath, the finger of suspicion points to the Beauty Spot Health and Beauty Clinic.

  Honey Driver, bath hotelier and part-time crime liaison officer, is booked in for botox, and a little snooping. However, she does take the necessary precautions to help her survive the experience of staying in such a health, beauty and diet conscious place.

  Cheese, biscuits, chocolate and a bottle of Australian Shiraz are hidden at the bottom of her bag. After all, a girl cannot live on carrot juice and lettuce leaves for any longer than two hours.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty one

  Chapter Twenty two

  Chapter Twenty three

  Chapter Twenty four

  Chapter Twenty five

  Chapter Twenty six

  Chapter Twenty seven

  Chapter Twenty eight

  Chapter Twenty nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty one

  Chapter Thirty two

  Chapter Thirty three

  Chapter Thirty four

  Chapter Thirty five

  Chapter Thirty six

  Chapter Thirty seven

  Chapter Thirty eight

  Chapter Thirty nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty one

  Chapter Forty two

  Chapter Forty three

  Chapter Forty four

  Chapter One

  Honey Driver eyed Steve Doherty suspiciously. ‘I’ve got bad vibes about this.’

  ‘Trust me. I’m a police officer. Just lay back and think of England. You’ll probably enjoy it.’

  ‘I’m not sure about somebody else doing things to my body – even if they are pleasurable.’

  ‘You might find you could get used to it.’

  ‘I don’t like getting dirty – well, not that dirty anyway.’

  Steve Doherty was on the floor, crunching his abdominals like nobody’s business. He paused in mid-crunch, grinned, and winked at her. ‘That’s not been my experience.’

  She pretended she hadn’t heard and continued to study the brochure he’d given her for the health and beauty spa he wanted her to stay at that specialised in mud baths. She was to nose around while getting the full treatment from the very upmarket establishment. She wasn’t into a strict health and beauty routine, mostly because she didn’t have time. He kept stressing that this was in the line of duty.

  ‘So you’re one hundred per cent sure this wasn’t an accident.’

  Steve grunted an answer between crunches. ‘It’s as possible to drown in mud as it is in water. Her face was plastered in mud then a piece of polythene was placed on top of that with holes to breathe through.’

  ‘To keep the heat in,’ Honey explained.

  ‘Is that right?’ Steve looked stoical. He was at that age when the things women did to keep young and beautiful – and other things – failed to surprise him.

  Honey assured him that it was right.

  He nodded. ‘Right. So, as I was saying, somebody adjusted the polythene face mask so that her nose and mouth were covered and then she was pushed and held under in the bath of mud.’

  ‘Some way to die,’ remarked Honey.

  Doherty frowned. ‘What is it with women and mud?’

  ‘Anything that gives us a chance of maintaining our youth. Women continually strive for perfection. Men wouldn’t understand. They’re content with what they’ve got.’

  ‘Gee. Thanks!’

  ‘No offence.’

  ‘None taken.’

  ‘So what’s happening on the suspect front?’

  ‘Not a lot, though someone did see a scruffy character hanging around, but I don’t really buy that. Why would a down-and-out go sneaking around a beauty clinic?’

  There were other alternatives of course. Honey voiced one of them. ‘She could have fallen asleep and slipped under.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you notice if you were chewing on mud? Nobody, but nobody could mistake it for chocolate pudding.’

  Honey grunted back at him. The brochure she was thumbing through was glossy. The Beauty Spot (Health and Beauty Clinic) promised natural therapies to enhance just about every body part. The building it was housed in was beautiful too. But then, she remonstrated, what woman in need of a makeover was going to book into a shambles?

  ‘Looks as though the murder victim outstayed her welcome,’ Honey murmured.

  Lady Carlotta Macrottie, a woman who’d made a career out of staying beautiful and spending her husband’s money – not necessarily in that order – had been found drowned in a bath of tepid mud at the luxury health spa. The mud used for the face pack and full body immersion was advertised as being full of sodium, iron compounds, and various other minerals that were supposedly good for the skin.

  The blurb was outrageous.

  She read it aloud. ‘You too could be drop-dead gorgeous. Our mud is special; sourced from volcanic deposits from Pacific islands where locals have long claimed the mud to have youth-giving properties.’

  Steve was lying flat on the floor, all crunched out. ‘It didn’t do Lady Macrottie any good.’

  After noting that Steve’s abs were little different than they were before – and just as attractive – Honey turned thoughtful. ‘Wasn’t there another case of somebody dying as a result of treatment at the clinic?’

  Steve shrugged. ‘Not that I know of.’

  Honey wasn’t so sure. Closing one eye was a wonderful aid to concentration for some obscure reason that she couldn’t quite account for. A front-page headline flashed into her mind. Some time ago she’d seen something in the Bath Chronicle and on local television about a woman who’d broken out in skin lesions after some kind of beauty treatment. She wasn’t sure exactly what kind; it could have been a mud treatment or it could have been more than that. She couldn’t remember. Needless to say, having turned out plug ugly instead of drop dead beautiful, said recipient of treatment was suing The Beauty Spot for a small fortune.

  Steve looked only vaguely interested when she told him.

  ‘Did she win the case?’

  Honey shook her head. ‘No. She died. A fire broke out in the bread shop below the flat she lived in. Charred remains. No body. No real evidence against the beauty clinic that the bad publicity had sent them running rampant with a firelighter. All they did was bring her out in lesions. Seems that drop dead gorgeous could mean just that.’

  ‘So?’

  There was a hell of a lot of meaning in that solitary word and the single lifted eyebrow. She knew what he wanted her to do. Wriggling out of it was a definite option before he said the magic words that weakened her.

  ‘A period of excessive pampering away from it all. No guests bending your ear about noisy bed springs. No chef threatening to slice the sous chef in two. And then there’s your
mother …’ The proposition was looking more and more attractive by the minute. Honey allowed herself to be swayed.

  ‘We-e-e-ll …’ She made the effort to sound less than convinced.

  ‘All expenses paid,’ he added, recognizing one of her weak moments when he saw it. ‘Courtesy of the city council and the tourist board. I think Casper had a go at them both. Beautiful city, beautiful body – you know what I mean?’

  Honey’s eyebrows shot skyward. Casper St John Gervais was chairman of the Bath Hotels Association and a personal friend. He was obsessed in protecting ‘God’s Little Acre’ from serious crime, which was why he’d decided that the Association had to have a Crime Liaison Officer. Honey was it. Which was how come she’d got involved with Steve Doherty. There’d been a couple of dangerous moments in her part-time career. Doherty had asked her to do a number of interesting things, some of which had had nothing to do with solving crime. However, she’d never been asked to go undercover before.

  ‘This place is out of town,’ she remarked after studying the address.

  ‘Not really. It’s just up the road from Castle Combe and forty minutes tops into town. You’ll be able to sneak out now and again. Grab the odd chocolate bar at the village shop.’

  Up until this point she’d thought the plan was to attend this place perhaps once or twice a week. It turned out otherwise.

  ‘You’d have to stay for a four-day break at least.’

  ‘Steve, this may have escaped your notice, but the Green River Hotel does not run itself.’

  ‘It’s well staffed. Stop thinking things will grind to a halt just because you’re not there. Delegate, that’s the secret – so I’ve heard.’

  He eyed her as though he really knew what it was all about. She sensed someone had been informing the uninformed.

  ‘So you’ve heard!’ She nodded her head slowly while fixing him with a hard stare. To add gravitas she posed one hand on her ample hip.

  ‘It’s not a one man and his dog outfit,’ Doherty went on. ‘You’re the boss. You give the orders. You really should remember that.’

  He turned over and did press-ups.

  For a moment Honey got distracted. His back and bum muscles were equally as attractive as those at the front.

  ‘According to Smudger the place virtually runs itself. It doesn’t really need you. Besides, Lindsey will be there.’

  He’d hardly puffed between press-ups.

  ‘Is that so?’

  The temptation was too inviting. Placing one foot on the small of his back flattened him. A big ‘oomph!’ of breath escaped.

  ‘So you’ve been having words with my chef, have you? Well let me put you straight, Steve Doherty, my chef does not run things. He doesn’t get to face the guests or my bank manager. Just because he’s in control of the kitchen doesn’t mean that the rest of the place runs itself.’

  ‘Lindsey! Remember? I distinctly mentioned Lindsey.’

  Doherty was stating an absolute truth. Lindsey Driver could run anything. She had a knack for taking charge, a fluent mind, and more chutzpah than you could shake a stick at.

  She decided Doherty needed needling and there was no better way to needle him than mention of her mother, Gloria Cross – four times married and on the lookout for number five.

  ‘My mother frequents beauty parlours more than I do. She might be better at being your eyes and ears.’

  Was it her imagination, or did Steve Doherty shiver?

  ‘Your mother is not the Hotels Association’s Crime Liaison Officer. Besides, I might think of committing murder myself if your mother gets involved.’

  ‘Only joking.’

  Good strategy, Honey decided, well aware that her mother, she of the immaculate fingernails, superbly made-up face, and designer fashion wardrobe, turned her lover into a nervous wreck. Thinking about it, he wasn’t the only one. Her mother made her nervous too.

  Once she’d removed her foot, Doherty turned over, proceeding to work his front.

  Drawn by the sight of his naked abs, she went down on all fours on the floor beside him and peered into his face. Her hair was loose so it fell either side of both their faces as she went in closer.

  ‘What do I get if I agree to do this?’

  The nervous tic beneath his right eye, brought on by mention of her mother, shuddered to a halt as he smiled.

  ‘Before or after the case is solved?’

  ‘Both.’

  He grinned. ‘I have a few bonus moves in mind. A little on account beforehand. A little more after.’

  She didn’t need to ask what he would give her. One finger was already exploring her cleavage and his pants were getting too tight for his body.

  Chapter Two

  Serena Sarabande had a porcelain-white complexion and chilly blue eyes. Her cheekbones were high and her pale blonde eyebrows were plucked to arched perfection. She was tall with angular shoulders, long limbs, and the presence of a supermodel. Her slicked-back hair was short and blonde; not a single strand was allowed to flutter around her bone-hard features.

  The principal of The Beauty Spot wore a white doctor’s coat and looked every inch the seasoned professional in her field. Steve Doherty guessed that the professional look was in order to put her clients at ease; they were in safe hands. OK, there was a hint of glam medical TV soap about her, but it worked for a lot of people and was what they expected. He felt inclined to ask her if she’d ever played doctors and nurses as a child, but this was hardly the time and place. Besides, if Honey should find out she would cut off his credentials – or put them on the restricted use register.

  Yep, Serena Sarabande cut quite an imposing image. Someone who looked like they could handle a scalpel was bound to be a wow with a pair of eyebrow tweezers and a pot of warm wax – weren’t they?

  ‘You’ve already questioned me once,’ she said, her eyes unblinking above a classical nose, sculpted lips, and a blemish-free complexion.

  ‘That’s right. I did.’ He rubbed at his brow, furrowing it Columbo style; that goofy detective from the seventies – or was it eighties? He found himself warming to the part, even down to flicking at his thumb as though he were holding a smouldering cigar.

  ‘But there are a few things that I haven’t quite got a handle on. Sorry to bother you, but do you mind going over one or two things again?’

  She sat down behind a black glass desk set in a chrome frame. ‘I suppose not. What can I do for you?’

  Not much, he decided, not on the sexual front anyway. Although worth the once over, a few minutes with her and he wasn’t so keen. Too coldly professional for his taste.

  He pulled up a chair though she hadn’t invited him to sit down. When he did he realized she was still sitting higher than him; still looking down her nostrils. This babe liked her clients to be in no doubt who was in charge.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry to trouble you, Ms Sarabande,’ he said, feigning humility – just like Peter Falk used to do. ‘There’s just a few more points I’d like clarified – if you don’t mind.’

  Serena’s features remained on deep freeze though one eyebrow rose quizzically.

  Doherty noticed. ‘Sorry. That was my Columbo. You know? The one-eyed guy from that American cop show.’

  ‘No.’

  Her voice was cutting and as ice-cold as her looks. Serena Sarabande expected professional people to be as coldly clinical as she was. Christ, he thought. I’d go mad if I didn’t goof around now and again – a little innuendo here, a little leg pulling there – mostly with Honey, he reminded himself. She could take it.

  Feeling like a first-class idiot, Doherty cleared his throat. ‘OK. So let’s go over a few things.’ He got out his notebook and pen, flipping the cover and pages over beyond doodles and scribbled phone numbers to a clean, open page.

  He asked a few general things he’d asked before. Number one, who had found the drowned body of Lady Macrottie, at what time, and how long had her ladyship been left submerged in mud before anyone checked
on her.

  He recalled that an assistant by the name of Magda Church had been attending to her. Each client had her own personal attendant catering to her every need. The attendant had left her immersed and was supposed to check on her every fifteen to twenty minutes. As far as he could ascertain Magda Church had done exactly as she was supposed to do.

  ‘So, this Magda Church who found the body. Had she been working for you for long?’

  ‘Two years and three months.’

  He made a note to question Ms Church again. ‘That’s very accurate.’

  ‘I am always very accurate. I always get my facts straight.’

  ‘That’s good for me.’

  ‘I’m glad you think so.’

  Verbally it was like exchanging gunfire with a seasoned sniper. Shoot at Serena Sarabande and she shot straight back; definitely the sort who’d want the last word.

  ‘A place like this must take some running,’ he said, switching to Mr User-Friendly Policeman mode. ‘I suppose you have to be pretty well qualified too. Would that be right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So tell me,’ he said, casually crossing one leg over the other. ‘Where do you learn stuff like this?’

  ‘Stuff?’

  Her eyes glittered and her plush pink lips twisted in disdain. Stuff had not been the right word. What had he been thinking of?

  Taking in a deep breath sent her bosoms thrusting against the buttoned-up white coat.

  Doherty did his best to make amends. ‘All these different beauty treatments. They seem to come from all over the world. How do you get to qualify in them all? It must take some study. Some time too.’

  He didn’t really believe that; after all, how difficult must it be to plaster mud over a woman’s face then immerse her in mud? The bath had a lid. He’d been shown it; just enough room for the shoulders to pop up. Never mind. He’d ruffled her feathers. A little compromise didn’t come amiss.

  Some element of his question must have flattered. She loosened up and told him that she’d learned her craft in Venezuela.

  ‘Seems a long way.’

  ‘And also in Poland,’ she added. ‘I started in Poland. I have also worked in Italy and Spain before I went to Venezuela.’