A Taste To Die For - A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries) by Jean G. Goodhind

loath to give her the details, except the name; Brian Brodie. His restaurant was the Samuel Pepys, named after the great seventeenth-century diarist.
    ‘That’s two chefs who took part in the Grande Epicure dead in suspicious circumstances,’ she said excitedly, her mind working overtime. ‘Two dead and one to go.’
    Steve looked puzzled. ‘What’s this Grandie thing got to do with it?’
    ‘Grande Epicure. It’s a competition run in France for top flight chefs. The competition’s very hot. A chef would kill to win it.’
    There followed a pause.
    ‘Would they now? Was your chef one of the participants by any chance?’ Steve sounded stern.
    Honey made a face. Why couldn’t she engage her brain before opening her mouth? The genes, of course. Her mother was just the same.
    ‘He had an alibi.’
    ‘For both murders?’
    She stuck her neck out. ‘I’m almost certain.’
    ‘Almost?’
    Suddenly Honey didn’t like the tone of his voice. ‘I trust Smudger.’ She knew she sounded defensive, but she believed in supporting her staff, though this normally amounted to inter-staff disputes or customer grievances. Murder wasn’t usually on the list.
    Now she had something extra to tell him. Sylvester Pardoe and Oliver Stafford had had a fight.
    Before leaving the Green River, she’d told Lindsey to inform Casper of the latest murder. She was expecting him to ring and prepared herself accordingly. No sign of being uptight would filter into his voice, but he wouldn’t be pleased. She’d bet a pound to a penny on that.
    Her phone played a snatch of the 1812 overture, a thunderous and apt introduction for a man like him.
    ‘Casper.’
    ‘Are the press there?’
    She glanced out at the small crowd gathering on the pavement; recognised a few freelance reporters and photographers.
    ‘I’m afraid so.’
    Casper grunted an acknowledgement. Casper St John Gervais never allowed sympathy to get in the way of practical considerations. Still, what he said next was a bit surprising.
    ‘On the plus side, the Samuel Pepys will have its fifteen seconds of fame.’
    Well, that was to the point. Honey couldn’t help a hint of sarcasm creeping into her voice. ‘Quite so, Casper. I can just see a full-page advertisement on the Dining Out page in the Bath Chronicle .’
    ‘Quite. Let me know the details toute de suite.’
    He rang off.
    Honey pulled a face. My, but that man was mercenary! She really couldn’t believe that Casper would consider an ad on the Dining Out page all the same. For her part she was feeling regretful on two counts. Number one: she and Lindsey had just been about to make a breakthrough in their lately strained relationship. Number two: she wished she’d visited Brian Brodie before this happened.
    The Samuel Pepys was a place of terracotta floors and exposed stone walls. An interior designer with a swish Chelsea background and the right connections had been engaged to upgrade the decor when Brodie had bought the place. Oak Windsor chairs had been replaced by designer wickerwork, stained dark tables by light oak and dripping candles by twelve-volt LED lighting.
    ‘Must have cost a fortune,’ Honey muttered as she took everything in.
    Someone went to fetch Steve who was still exchanging details with the initial forensic team. She spent the waiting time peering at a wall mounted menu.
    British based cooking … emphasis placed on home-grown produce … free-range Suffolk chickens, Dublin Bay prawns and Wye Valley salmon and asparagus … happy lives … optimum taste.
    ‘I doubt the chickens, prawns and salmon would quite see it that way,’ she muttered, then realised what she was doing. ‘I must stop talking to myself, I must stop talking to myself, I must …’
    ‘Honey. Are you talking to yourself?’ Steve had been fetched quicker than she’d expected. Day-old stubble contrasted with deep blue eyes and too-long dark hair curling over his collar. A little longer and he’d need to tie it