The Ghost of Christmas Past: A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries Book 8) Read online

  First, she needed his confession. Someone had sworn they’d seen the red nose in the cloth holdall he was carrying. And he had been standing next to one of the reindeer, one arm leaning nonchalantly on it prior – no doubt – to doing the dirty deed. The bag containing the evidence nestled at his feet.

  ‘Show it to me,’ she demanded, placing her arm across his chest, pinning him to the wall.

  He stared at her. ‘Not bloody likely. I’ve heard of women like you.’

  ‘Oh, yeah?’

  ‘Yeah. Old birds that chase after young men and lust after their bodies. You’re a pervert!’

  The penny dropped. This dork thought she wanted a peek at his privates.

  ‘You wish! And cut the “old bird” bit. I caught up with you, didn’t I? Now! Let’s get down to business. You’ve got a red nose in your bag. It was seen by a member of the public.’

  ‘Oh no I ain’t!’

  ‘I suppose you’re going to tell me next that you’re not the vandal who’s been sticking red noses onto decorative reindeer, reindeer I might add who are destined to be sold off to raise money for charity. ‘

  ‘No. I’m not. I’m a plumber.’

  ‘Prove it.’

  Eyeing her warily, he bent down, unzipped his bag and brought out a ball-cock, the little round thing that controls the water level in a lavatory cistern. It was a red ballcock.

  The bag also contained tools, brass connectors, and tape, all of them things a plumber would use. There were no red noses.

  Honey chewed at her bottom lip. This was so embarrassing! That was definitely a ballcock, not a red nose. She felt obliged to make amends.

  ‘Err …’ She started hesitantly. ‘Look. I’ve got a leaky loo in the ladies cloakroom at my hotel. Do you think you could pop round? I’ll pay you top dollar.’ She decided it was the least she could do.

  The young plumber swiftly zipped up his bag. What he said next was heartfelt and to the point. It was also pure Anglo-Saxon, and the second word was ‘off’!

  Chapter Two

  Honey related all this to Mary Jane while the latter was applying a subtle shade of auburn dye to Honey’s hair. Or, at least, Mary Jane had informed her it was auburn, though whether it was subtle or not hadn’t yet been confirmed.

  It was Mary Jane’s opinion that the noses did something for the reindeer.

  ‘They should have had red noses in the first place. It’s the right time of year for reindeer to sport red noses.’

  ‘I wonder where he’s getting them from. He must have quite a stash.’

  ‘Never mind where he’s getting them from. In my opinion they’re going to the right place.’

  Honey began trilling ‘Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer’. She was feeling happy and festive – until Mary Jane took the towel from her head.

  ‘Aghhh!’

  One glance in the magnifying mirror she’d brought in from the bathroom was all it took to write off having a very merry Christmas. Rechecking the result in the gilt-edged mirror hanging over the sideboard did nothing to reduce the effect. Her hair had turned the colour of a bunch of neon carrots.

  She covered her eyes with her hands and made a wish. ‘Please make it go away.’

  ‘Aw, come on,’ urged Mary Jane in her broad Californian twang. ‘We all have a bad hair day now and then.’

  Honey shook her head and refused to come out from cover. ‘This is not merely a bad hair day. It’s the wrong colour. It’s cataclysmic.’

  ‘Cataclysmic?’ Mary Jane pulled her spectacles half way down her nose, picked up the box containing the home colouring kit, and checked the details. When she frowned her eyes almost drowned in wrinkles.

  ‘No. That’s not what they call it. It says burnished copper on the box. Yep! Burnished copper.’

  ‘Carrot,’ Honey exclaimed, her voice filled with horror. ‘It’s burnished carrot.’

  Not having taken on board that Honey had heard her the first time Mary Jane took another look at the fancy name.

  ‘Well, it says burnished copper on here.’ She shook her head in a forlorn manner and made a clicking noise with her tongue. ‘I followed the instructions to the letter. All I can say is that there must be something in the water altering the shade.’

  The statement was typically Mary Jane. The fault was not hers. It was never hers. She was one of those brazen folk who approached everything in a ‘can do’ frame of mind even when it was perfectly obvious she could not do! Hair colouring was right up there on the list.

  Honey was beside herself. ‘This is definitely not burnished copper, glowing copper, or any kind of auburn shade. Just look at it!’

  Mary Jane looked, flinched, and fixed her gaze at a bare rose bush outside the window.

  Probably resting her eyes, thought Honey. Nobody could stare at this colour too long for fear of being blinded.

  ‘I can’t be seen over Christmas like this. Wake me up around mid-January.’ Blaming herself for trusting Mary Jane’s supposed hair-colouring skills, she hid her head under a cushion and groaned.

  Mary Jane’s air of supreme confidence was undiminished.

  ‘Oh come on, Honey. Not looking at it won’t make it go away. I find a little meditation helps when things aren’t going exactly as planned. I beef it up with some in depth conversation with Sir Cedric. He gives good advice.’

  To an outsider who didn’t know her and hadn’t a clue who Sir Cedric was, Mary Jane sounded philosophical, as though the long-dead knight worked on behalf of the Citizens Advice Bureau, dispensing words of wisdom over a cafe latte and a club sandwich. The truth was that Sir Cedric was dead, and had been for over two hundred years.

  ‘Ask him if he knows the phone number of a good hair colourist.’

  The likelihood of Sir Cedric being able to help in this instance was extremely remote, mainly because he’d never used a phone in his life, or a hair colourist for that matter. Sir Cedric had worn a wig, tight britches, and white stockings; hair washing – or any kind of washing for that matter – had tended to be on an infrequent basis. Mary Jane shared a room with Sir Cedric, though of course you wouldn’t notice his presence. Only Mary Jane could see him walk through the wall or out of the wardrobe. No one could prove or disprove that, but then, the tall, lanky, and very eccentric Californian was a professor of the paranormal so considered herself an expert. Everyone accepted her eccentricities and never questioned Sir Cedric’s existence.

  Mary Jane gathered her things together, got up from the chair, and stretched her thin frame. ‘I really should be going. But don’t you fret about your hair, Honey. Look at it this way; you won’t need a costume for a fancy dress party with hair like that.’

  ‘Sure. I can go as a clown. I won’t need to wear a wig.’

  ‘Aw, now, come on up from out of your boots.’ She rubbed Honey’s shoulders, shaking her slightly as if to dispel the despair from her body. ‘Come on. You handle crime. You can handle this.’

  Honey was not reassured. ‘My hair is a crime. Just look at it!’

  She felt like adding and it’s all down to you, but checked herself. In all fairness, she was as much to blame. Time was of the essence at this time of year.

  ‘It’ll get put down to seasonal madness – like wearing fake reindeer antlers and long white beards. We all do that. Besides, you won’t be going out much,’ said Mary Jane dismissively. ‘No crime-fighting and stuff.’

  Honey conceded that she was right about the wearing of fake reindeer antlers. Mary Jane herself was wearing them, the bright red clashing with her lounge pyjamas of pistachio green and shocking pink.

  Sighing deep into her boots – or at least her reindeer-shaped slippers – Honey hoped she was right. Nobody would judge her a serious crime-buster with hair this colour. She wouldn’t want that. She wanted to be taken as a serious antidote to serious crime – not that she’d felt that way at first.

  The position of Bath Hotels Association Crime Liaison Officer had been foisted on her in the first place.

>   On the day in question, Casper St John Gervais, Chairman of Bath Hotels Association, had insisted that she’d agreed to do the job the night before, during a presentation given by an Australian wine producer. Honey hadn’t really seen it that way, given that she’d consumed most of a bottle of Shiraz, which had put her in a state of mind to agree to almost anything.

  The very next day she’d accepted the position, following a surge of excitement at auction when she’d bagged a pair of bloomers said to have belonged to Queen Victoria. It had struck her that the Queen of England and Empress of India had worn very large knickers for a such a small woman. The price had been pretty huge too, but Honey had been pleased. The day had gone well – until Casper phoned and reminded her of what she’d done. The job of Crime Liaison Officer had landed on her. And Casper had been clever. He’d bribed her to take it on.

  ‘I’ll make sure that your rooms are filled in the shoulder months.’

  How could she refuse? ‘Just for a while,’ she’d told herself. Business was always slow in January and February. She’d be a fool not to accept.

  Contrary to what she’d expected, she found that she liked the job. She’d also ended up liking the irascible police officer, Detective Chief Inspector Steve Doherty, he of the unshaven good looks and wall-to-wall street cred. They’d rubbed each other up the wrong way at first. Now they just rubbed each other – especially in private.

  ‘Does it really look that bad?’ The colour wasn’t nearly so dazzling when she narrowed her eyes.

  She was hoping for reassurance. It wasn’t forthcoming. Mary Jane looked, blinked and headed for the door.

  ‘I’ll go talk it over with Sir Cedric. It’s bound to make things better.’

  ‘For whom?’

  No good. Mary Jane had bounced out of the door as though she were meeting some old friend for afternoon tea.

  Honey was left filled with despair in the place where she lived, a converted coach house on the other side of the yard at the back of the Green River Hotel. She was holding her head in her hands and feeling a little like Cinderella, in no fit state to go to the ball. Luckily for Cinderella, her fairy godmother had come to her rescue. There was no sign of one hanging around Honey Driver’s pad. The only one she knew of was playing in the pantomime at the Theatre Royal. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to make a wish would it? She closed her eyes.

  Please make it go away. Turn the clock back. Make everything as it was before.

  Having carrot-coloured hair was not the first disaster of the Christmas season. Another one had hit her in the face like a sausage-filled frying pan.

  For some stupid reason that no one could quite recall (though accusing fingers were pointed in her direction), the Green River Hotel had missed the copy deadline for insertion in a very important marketing brochure. This particular brochure was the one produced by the English Tourist Board and distributed to just about everywhere, including, so it was rumoured, places as diverse as Timbuktu, Timor, and Tokyo.

  Her daughter, Lindsey, had pointed out that their bookings for the coming year were not as prolific as they should be. The finger was pointed firmly in her direction. Honey had forgotten the deadline.

  Expletives were followed by excuses. ‘I’ve been busy.’

  ‘We’ve all been busy.’

  She was cool with this. ‘We’ll get over it. You’ll see. Everything will be fine. It’s just a little hiccup.’

  ‘More haste, less speed.’

  She found a hat to wear. No way was she running through reception looking like an escapee from a circus. Lindsey looked up. Honey dashed past. There had to be a hairdresser with space to take her.

  ‘I need to go out. I won’t be long,’ she shouted over her shoulder.

  Lindsey guessed what she was up to. ‘You won’t get in anywhere. I won’t say I told you so, but I told you so. Just like that advertising you said you wouldn’t forget – but you did.’

  Cripes! Clever dick daughter!

  Swamped with guilt, she paused to button up her dark green coat and wind a bright red knitted scarf around her lower face. This wasn’t about hair; Lindsey knew about that. This was about missing the advertising deadline.

  You wouldn’t listen. You’re stubborn. You always were.

  She presumed the damning voice in her head was the down-to-earth side of her nature, the one with feet firmly planted on the ground and an unerring accuracy of judgement. Her other self, the one in everyday use, possessed a ‘fly by the seat of your pants’ attitude and a flippant approach to judgement. Tossing a coin seemed as good as anything.

  That was probably what had happened with the brochure; she’d tossed a coin, rather than bothering to study the trade generated by last year’s brochure.

  With more conviction than judgement, she told herself that everything would sort itself out and crossed her fingers. She needed all the luck she could get. In the meantime, she lost herself in the crowds, occasionally darting into a hairdressing salon, in the vain hope that they could fit her in. They all threw her pitying looks.

  ‘Sorry.’

  There were ten days to go until Christmas, and all through the busy streets and ancient alleyways of Bath people were spending as though their pockets were bottomless, their bank accounts bursting with cash.

  Fearlessly they eddied in and out of small shops, big stores, and the shop selling hot pies and pasties, the delicious aroma of the latter drawing them in – along with the need to keep up the energy levels – and feel the warmth.

  The atmosphere was seasonally electric; Christmas greetings passed between total strangers and two groups of carol singers in Abbey Churchyard competed with renderings of ‘Silent Night’ and ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.’ The latter won the battle of the eardrums, but only because they were accompanied by a tuba player.

  Strings of decorative lights danced overhead brightly sparkling against the leaden sky. The eyes of shopkeepers were sparkling too. The tills in the crowded shops were jingling. Jingle bells and a one-horse open sleigh just couldn’t compete with the sound of a busy cash register.

  The Christmas Market was in full swing, dozens of little individual stalls selling everything from home-made chocolates to clothes made from recycled material.

  Honey lingered by the stall selling scented candles, breathing in the smells of tangerine, pine needles, and roasted chestnuts.

  Everything was lovely and people were noticeably friendlier at this time of year. Everyone was doing a brisk trade, including hotels and restaurants. Office parties were their lifeblood at this time of year, and different to other parties. It was the time when people did things with people they worked with that they wouldn’t dream of doing the rest of the year.

  The Green River Hotel was no exception to this seasonal fervour. The last slot for an office blow-out had been scooped up by the end of August.

  Casting all concerns about next year to one side, Honey entered the shopping fray, very much enjoying being part of the seasonal throng.

  She was still feeling good when she set down her array of Christmas wrapping paper, presents and last minute decorations against the reception desk. Her smile froze, then shattered, once Lindsey put down the phone.

  ‘The Grigsby and Jones group for the office party has been cancelled.’

  ‘No!’ Tonight’s event was a conglomeration of different companies, making up a total of around seventy people; twelve empty seats would look bad. Parties were meant to look crowded. It jollied things along.

  ‘Well, at least at this late date we do get the keep the full amount …’ Lindsey caught the look on her mother’s face. ‘They didn’t settle the full amount?’

  Honey bit her lip.

  ‘Half.’

  ‘Mother!’

  ‘I trusted them.’

  ‘This is a business!’

  ‘I did phone them a few times.’

  ‘Obviously not enough!’

  ‘Blast!’

  She thoroughly deserved this dressing down.
She knew her own weaknesses, her tendency to dance around things. Never mind. She would bounce back.

  ‘So what’s their reason for cancelling?’ she asked.

  ‘One of the partners has run off with a client’s money and the other partner’s wife. The partner and staff that are left are in no mood to celebrate anything. The firm’s had to fold. I think the employees are going to a local pub to drown their sorrows.’

  A cancellation at such a late date had Honey Driver fuming. They’d paid a deposit, but that wasn’t the point. Empty seats didn’t make for good ambience. It would be double-o-great to pick up a late booking, but the chances were pretty slim.

  Honey swore.

  Lindsey shook her head, shot her mother a pitying look, then left her to it.

  Honey slid into the swivel chair behind the reception desk. She patted her head. The hat would have to stay in place. There was no way she was going to show her head of hair. Hair, advertising, and now a cancellation. Life just wasn’t fair – well not to her anyway. A big cloud of mucky gunk was hovering above her head. She wished it would go away.

  Her fairy godmother must have been listening. Suddenly the phone rang.

  ‘Do you have any vacancies for this evening, plus rooms, plus Christmas lunch? I’m giving my staff a one-off Christmas Special, a big thank you for their efforts throughout the year.’

  Honey punched the air and silently thanked her fairy godmother.

  ‘Yes. Yes. I’ve got that. Christmas party for ten. Plus rooms. Plus Christmas Day lunch. Mallory and Scrimshaw. Right. Now if you’d like to give me your credit or debit card details …’

  It wasn’t professional to sound so bubbly when taking a booking, but she couldn’t help it. A miracle! This was what Christmas was all about, although sitting bottoms on empty seats was small fry compared to having wise men from the east bring you a chunk of gold and pungent perfumes.

  The company name rang no particular bells except that it sounded slightly Dickensian: Mallory and Scrimshaw.

  The debit card number, security code, and everything else checked out. The name wasn’t needed on a phone booking so she didn’t bother to make a note of it. Grab the booking and run. There was a more pressing problem she had to deal with.