A Taste To Die For - A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries) by Jean G. Goodhind Page B
Authors: Jean G. Goodhind
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felt heavy.
She sighed. ‘I feel like going to bed.’
His smile smothered his face. He whispered in her ear, ‘Just name the time and the place.’
She threw him a you should be so lucky kind of smile designed to put on the brakes, but her hormones were going full gallop and won the day. ‘I don’t suppose I’d kick you out,’ she said as an afterthought. He liked that. She could tell by the way his fingers brushed against the side of her breast. And that smile. Christ, how could he smile with all this going on? That poor chef. Even at his most irritating she had never considered roasting Smudger in his own oven.
‘Come on.’ Steve sounded concerned.
She made a firm effort not to fall against him as he helped her to her feet. ‘I’ll be OK.’ He looked a bit put out when she waved him away, but her attention was firmly fixed on the sobbing girl.
The male members of the team investigating the murder scene were also paying attention to the delectable Sandy Brown. The girl’s skirt stretched like a black bandage across her willowy thighs. A white cotton gusset winked with each strangled sob and the crossing and re-crossing of her mile-long legs. She was wearing an off-the-shoulder white top too tight to be decent. No bra. Her nipples were like dark eyes peering through a fog. She was about twenty.
Sandy was sitting at one end of a wickerwork sofa. The wickerwork was bronze, the cushions beige and sprinkled with gold thread. Very tasteful. And very expensive, Honey guessed. She fingered the chair arm and the cushion before sitting down and asked if it was designer.
‘It’s Fiona Davenport,’ said Sandy, referring to the trendy sofa almost as though it were a star of stage, screen and television.
Honey made a face. ‘Wow. He must have been loaded.’
‘Brian liked nice things.’
It occurred to Honey to ask in more detail how Brian Brodie could have afforded the services of an interior designer whose efforts got featured in Country Living and House Beautiful magazines.
‘The restaurant must have been doing extremely well.’
The sobs had turned to a well-rehearsed simper. ‘The best in Bath. He did ever so well.’
But not well enough, thought Honey in response to the defensiveness in the girl’s voice. Her eyes flitted over the restaurant, mentally counting the number of couverts and coming out at around forty. Forty at around forty pounds per head? One hundred pounds per head? And how often was the restaurant full? Generally it was safe to base the turnover rate at around twenty-five per cent capacity. But the hospitality industry was notoriously optimistic.
Sandy blew her nose loudly. Honey winced. Just as she’d guessed, the large handkerchief turned out to be a table napkin. Not hygienic, but forgivable in the circumstances …
‘Was Brian ever married?’
‘He used to be.’
‘So how long had you two been together?’
‘Two weeks.’
‘I see.’
‘His wife left him two years ago,’ sniffed the girl, pre-empting Honey’s next question.
‘And you moved in with him?’
The girl pulled a face. ‘Not straight away. Not until his other girlfriend moved out.’
Honey sized her up. She instinctively knew that this was not the girlfriend Oliver Stafford had been having an affair with. This was eye candy. Not even that. More like a cuddly toy, something silent and cute to cuddle up to.
‘Would you know who’d want to kill him?’
The girl shook her head. ‘He was a lovely man.’
Doherty threw Honey a quick nod of understanding. There was nothing this girl could say to assist them in their enquiries. Honey nodded back. Steve turned to the gathered professionals.
‘Anyone available to take this girl home?’
A host of hot-blooded Scene of Crime Officers, plus two paramedics who’d been called out and had stopped for coffee, rushed forward like a human tsunami. The paramedics won.
‘You need a lie down, love.’
They steered her towards the waiting ambulance.
Honey
She sighed. ‘I feel like going to bed.’
His smile smothered his face. He whispered in her ear, ‘Just name the time and the place.’
She threw him a you should be so lucky kind of smile designed to put on the brakes, but her hormones were going full gallop and won the day. ‘I don’t suppose I’d kick you out,’ she said as an afterthought. He liked that. She could tell by the way his fingers brushed against the side of her breast. And that smile. Christ, how could he smile with all this going on? That poor chef. Even at his most irritating she had never considered roasting Smudger in his own oven.
‘Come on.’ Steve sounded concerned.
She made a firm effort not to fall against him as he helped her to her feet. ‘I’ll be OK.’ He looked a bit put out when she waved him away, but her attention was firmly fixed on the sobbing girl.
The male members of the team investigating the murder scene were also paying attention to the delectable Sandy Brown. The girl’s skirt stretched like a black bandage across her willowy thighs. A white cotton gusset winked with each strangled sob and the crossing and re-crossing of her mile-long legs. She was wearing an off-the-shoulder white top too tight to be decent. No bra. Her nipples were like dark eyes peering through a fog. She was about twenty.
Sandy was sitting at one end of a wickerwork sofa. The wickerwork was bronze, the cushions beige and sprinkled with gold thread. Very tasteful. And very expensive, Honey guessed. She fingered the chair arm and the cushion before sitting down and asked if it was designer.
‘It’s Fiona Davenport,’ said Sandy, referring to the trendy sofa almost as though it were a star of stage, screen and television.
Honey made a face. ‘Wow. He must have been loaded.’
‘Brian liked nice things.’
It occurred to Honey to ask in more detail how Brian Brodie could have afforded the services of an interior designer whose efforts got featured in Country Living and House Beautiful magazines.
‘The restaurant must have been doing extremely well.’
The sobs had turned to a well-rehearsed simper. ‘The best in Bath. He did ever so well.’
But not well enough, thought Honey in response to the defensiveness in the girl’s voice. Her eyes flitted over the restaurant, mentally counting the number of couverts and coming out at around forty. Forty at around forty pounds per head? One hundred pounds per head? And how often was the restaurant full? Generally it was safe to base the turnover rate at around twenty-five per cent capacity. But the hospitality industry was notoriously optimistic.
Sandy blew her nose loudly. Honey winced. Just as she’d guessed, the large handkerchief turned out to be a table napkin. Not hygienic, but forgivable in the circumstances …
‘Was Brian ever married?’
‘He used to be.’
‘So how long had you two been together?’
‘Two weeks.’
‘I see.’
‘His wife left him two years ago,’ sniffed the girl, pre-empting Honey’s next question.
‘And you moved in with him?’
The girl pulled a face. ‘Not straight away. Not until his other girlfriend moved out.’
Honey sized her up. She instinctively knew that this was not the girlfriend Oliver Stafford had been having an affair with. This was eye candy. Not even that. More like a cuddly toy, something silent and cute to cuddle up to.
‘Would you know who’d want to kill him?’
The girl shook her head. ‘He was a lovely man.’
Doherty threw Honey a quick nod of understanding. There was nothing this girl could say to assist them in their enquiries. Honey nodded back. Steve turned to the gathered professionals.
‘Anyone available to take this girl home?’
A host of hot-blooded Scene of Crime Officers, plus two paramedics who’d been called out and had stopped for coffee, rushed forward like a human tsunami. The paramedics won.
‘You need a lie down, love.’
They steered her towards the waiting ambulance.
Honey
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