Walking with Ghosts - A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries) by Jean G. Goodhind Page B
Authors: Jean G. Goodhind
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winked. ‘We don’t just sightsee, Detective Inspector. You might say we like to try out local delicacies – if you know what I mean.’
Sally blew him a kiss on the way out and Betty shook her buttocks in an impromptu hula dance before the door was closed behind them.
Steve’s expression was a mix of puzzlement and embarrassment. The two uniformed police swaying on either side of the door fought to hide their smirks.
Doherty looked to Honey. ‘What did I say?’
Honey did nothing to stop her grin from spreading. ‘Not what you said. What they said, about trying local delicacies.’
He shrugged. The light wasn’t on.
‘Wake up, Steve.’ She poked a rose-tinted fingernail at his midriff.
‘Damn. I hate snide remarks.’ He sounded churlish. He wasn’t good at picking up innuendo and hated not getting the joke. ‘What am I if I’m not awake?
Honey rested an elbow on the table and rested her chin on her hand, eyeing him sidelong and very, very salaciously. ‘What are you? A local delicacy. That’s what you are!’
Chapter Twenty
Hamilton George took big strides to put space between himself and his wife. He’d pulled his earmuffs down over his ears and his woollen hat more tightly down onto his head. His face was beetroot-red, and his teeth ached because he was clenching his jaw so tightly.
He felt her hand grasping the sleeve of his jacket. Her short, fat legs were going nineteen to the dozen in her effort to keep up with him. He glanced at the piggy nose he’d thought so cute when she was young and slim. It was just as porcine as the rest of her now.
‘What have I done wrong, Hamilton?’
He couldn’t hear her too well, but then he didn’t need to. He could see her mouth moving. He knew the words well, knew she was once again apologising for doing something wrong. Meredith was always doing things wrong. Wrong! Wrong! Wrong!
‘You opened your big mouth!’
He shrugged her hand off and kept walking. She did her best to keep up with him, but he knew she was finding it difficult. By the time they got back to their hotel room she’d have her inhaler out and be fighting for breath, her breasts heaving up and down like sacks of oatmeal. Well, so be it! She deserved to suffer for what she’d done. And at least when she was fighting for breath she couldn’t talk. That was Meredith’s trouble. She talked too much. He hoped she was fighting for breath for a long while. At least then he’d have some peace.
The guy behind hotel reception handed him the room key at the exact moment Meredith came panting and puffing through the revolving door. Hamilton marched towards the elevator, his wife padding along some distance behind him, her face bright red, her shoulders sloping forward as though she were in two minds whether to crawl.
The doors closed before she got there. Her husband made no move to stop it. He went up. She waited at the bottom. At the exact same moment, a young man that the receptionist did not recognise bounded up the stairs to the right of the elevator shaft. The receptionist told the manager. The manager moved towards the stairs.
Meredith George chose that moment to collapse, landing belly-up at the manager’s feet.
‘Get a doctor,’ he shouted. ‘Inform her husband. Room 471. Quickly!’
Chapter Twenty-one
The bedroom recently occupied by Lady Templeton-Jones at La Reine Rouge was very French. The walls were covered in yellow striped wallpaper. Noble silhouettes in gilt ovals were arranged in groups of four. Larger groupings were gathered around a central portrait of a soft bosomed lady in stiff lace. Judging by the delicately pink cheeks and heart-shaped face, the portrait dated from the eighteenth or early nineteenth century. A light oak French sleigh bed of enormous proportions occupied the centre of the room.
As with every room at Casper St John Gervais’ very upmarket hotel, antique furniture of a certain age and of the highest quality had been exquisitely arranged.
Sally blew him a kiss on the way out and Betty shook her buttocks in an impromptu hula dance before the door was closed behind them.
Steve’s expression was a mix of puzzlement and embarrassment. The two uniformed police swaying on either side of the door fought to hide their smirks.
Doherty looked to Honey. ‘What did I say?’
Honey did nothing to stop her grin from spreading. ‘Not what you said. What they said, about trying local delicacies.’
He shrugged. The light wasn’t on.
‘Wake up, Steve.’ She poked a rose-tinted fingernail at his midriff.
‘Damn. I hate snide remarks.’ He sounded churlish. He wasn’t good at picking up innuendo and hated not getting the joke. ‘What am I if I’m not awake?
Honey rested an elbow on the table and rested her chin on her hand, eyeing him sidelong and very, very salaciously. ‘What are you? A local delicacy. That’s what you are!’
Chapter Twenty
Hamilton George took big strides to put space between himself and his wife. He’d pulled his earmuffs down over his ears and his woollen hat more tightly down onto his head. His face was beetroot-red, and his teeth ached because he was clenching his jaw so tightly.
He felt her hand grasping the sleeve of his jacket. Her short, fat legs were going nineteen to the dozen in her effort to keep up with him. He glanced at the piggy nose he’d thought so cute when she was young and slim. It was just as porcine as the rest of her now.
‘What have I done wrong, Hamilton?’
He couldn’t hear her too well, but then he didn’t need to. He could see her mouth moving. He knew the words well, knew she was once again apologising for doing something wrong. Meredith was always doing things wrong. Wrong! Wrong! Wrong!
‘You opened your big mouth!’
He shrugged her hand off and kept walking. She did her best to keep up with him, but he knew she was finding it difficult. By the time they got back to their hotel room she’d have her inhaler out and be fighting for breath, her breasts heaving up and down like sacks of oatmeal. Well, so be it! She deserved to suffer for what she’d done. And at least when she was fighting for breath she couldn’t talk. That was Meredith’s trouble. She talked too much. He hoped she was fighting for breath for a long while. At least then he’d have some peace.
The guy behind hotel reception handed him the room key at the exact moment Meredith came panting and puffing through the revolving door. Hamilton marched towards the elevator, his wife padding along some distance behind him, her face bright red, her shoulders sloping forward as though she were in two minds whether to crawl.
The doors closed before she got there. Her husband made no move to stop it. He went up. She waited at the bottom. At the exact same moment, a young man that the receptionist did not recognise bounded up the stairs to the right of the elevator shaft. The receptionist told the manager. The manager moved towards the stairs.
Meredith George chose that moment to collapse, landing belly-up at the manager’s feet.
‘Get a doctor,’ he shouted. ‘Inform her husband. Room 471. Quickly!’
Chapter Twenty-one
The bedroom recently occupied by Lady Templeton-Jones at La Reine Rouge was very French. The walls were covered in yellow striped wallpaper. Noble silhouettes in gilt ovals were arranged in groups of four. Larger groupings were gathered around a central portrait of a soft bosomed lady in stiff lace. Judging by the delicately pink cheeks and heart-shaped face, the portrait dated from the eighteenth or early nineteenth century. A light oak French sleigh bed of enormous proportions occupied the centre of the room.
As with every room at Casper St John Gervais’ very upmarket hotel, antique furniture of a certain age and of the highest quality had been exquisitely arranged.
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