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

  Chapter Three

  ‘What do you think? Do you think people will stare?’

  Lindsey regarded her mother’s hair, swallowed then chewed her bottom lip.

  ‘You can be as honest as you like,’ said Honey.

  Lindsey cleared her throat. ‘It’s a very positive colour. That’s all I can say.’

  Honey grimaced. The message was loud and clear.

  ‘Sure. As in neon sign in trashiest part of town.’

  ‘I can try contacting a few styling salons, but I can’t see us having much luck.’ Lindsey was nothing if not supportive.

  Although grateful for her offer, Honey knew the score. ‘I tried. It’s the wrong time of year. Office parties and all that. I’ve tried every hairdressing salon in the civilised world.’ Well, it wasn’t quite the whole world, but Bath was a big slice of it as far as she was concerned.

  ‘I could get you another colour – something to calm it down.’

  ‘No. Nobody but a professional is ever touching my hair again. I’ve resigned myself to spending the Christmas period with my hair hidden. I figure there has to be something more festive than a knitted hat, though. I could wear one of those sparkly carrier bags on my head and tie the red rope handles under my chin. That might do the trick.’

  Seeing as there was nothing else she could do, Lindsey announced she was off to the gym. How she found time, Honey couldn’t fathom, except that her daughter planned her day methodically. She was never flustered, always in control – sometimes Honey wondered whether there’d been a slip up at the hospital and the real daughter, the one like her, was driving some sane family steadily batty.

  Things could be better. What better way to make herself feel better than to indulge in a little comfort eating. First off she located a bag of chocolate marzipan. Secondly she filled up a vibrating footbath with warm water and a really rich moisturising gel, set it before the sofa, and surrounded herself with fat cushions.

  The vibrating footbath had been a birthday present by her darling daughter. Lindsey was nothing if not practical. Hotel people suffered for their trade – or at least their feet did.

  Eating chocolates whilst soaking her feet was sheer decadence; what else could she do to make her feel better? Her gaze alighted on the ornate mirror. She frowned. There were too many mirrors about the place, but that could be fixed. Draping them with holly, mistletoe, and spangled reindeer with big red noses would minimise their impact.

  She sighed. ‘Well! Can’t sit here day-dreaming.’

  As she reached for the first envelope from the pile she’d brought over from the hotel, her free hand strayed to the bag of marzipan chocolates. There were only six of Thorntons’ best dark chocolates in the bag. This would be the third that she’d eaten. She eyed it speculatively. Hell, it didn’t look so wicked as all that. She popped it into her mouth.

  ‘No point in saving any,’ she muttered. ‘I’ll need the energy over Christmas.’

  She turned her attention to the bundle of mail.

  One Christmas card after another with pretty scenes of fat-breasted robins, glittery stars or snow-bound coach and horses outside old-fashioned inns. Something about the latter – Victorian Christmases focusing as they did, on family, cold weather and warm fires – hit the right chord. She lingered, thinking of Dickens, plum puddings, and visions of sugar plums dancing on heads – or people slightly off their heads by virtue of how much brandy and rum had been mixed into the plum puddings. She reminded herself to check with Smudger how generous he’d been with the alcohol. She didn’t want a repeat of last year when a party of vicars had rolled out of the bar after Christmas lunch, barely coherent for evening prayers. And all they’d had was one sherry each … and very large portions of plum pudding smothered with brandy cream.

  The very last envelope caused her to pause and take stock. The address was hand-written with real ink from a real pen – the sort with a nib not a ball point – and in the most beautiful script; calligraphy at its best.

  She fingered it tentatively. It wasn’t stiff enough to be a card. A letter? Now who did she know who didn’t use email?

  Seemingly of their own volition, her fingers began to tap dance around the gummed down opening. Why the hell was she feeling so nervous about this? She answered her own question.

  ‘Bad vibes,’ she muttered.

  She began ticking off the reasons the letter was making her feel so disconcerted.

  Number one the address on the envelope wasn’t typewritten. That was the first alarm bell. The second was the beautifully rounded copperplate script which, on giving the envelope a second inspection, confirmed what she’d already observed. The address was beautifully executed. Nobody of intimate acquaintance would do that. Not in this life, anyway.

  It was addressed to Mrs Hannah Driver. That meant it wasn’t from a close friend. She couldn’t recall how long it had been since people had ceased calling her Hannah and started calling her Honey – except for her mother. Gloria Cross had picked the name Hannah and figured it was there to stay and to be used, even though she was the only one using it.

  All these things conspired to make Honey’s nerves tingle and her toes curl up. For a start, hand-written letters were as out of date as sedan chairs and penny farthing bicycles. It was the postmark which really dug deep into her soul, though. The return address was a town in Maine not far from Rhode Island.

  Rhode Island! The place name gored a hole in her heart and sent a prickly feeling down her spine. With those two little words her deceased husband Carl rose from the dead – though hopefully only in letter form. The thought of him traipsing into the Green River Hotel demanding a bed and her presence in it was nothing short of a nightmare. He’d drowned. He was fish food. As forgotten as yesterday’s stale bread.

  But was he? It was Christmas and all good ghost stories were told at Christmas. A plot line from some TV mystery series flashed into her mind where the wife had awoken up covered in blood. The scene had taken place on a boat far out at sea. Of her husband there was no sign and the unfortunate wife was accused of murder. She did time but when she got out followed the few clues she’d mustered and tracked him down. Turned out he was alive and with a young wife and baby in tow. Well, at least Carl hadn’t done that to her. He’d just drowned in the middle of the Atlantic. His body had never been found.

  Another awful scenario popped into her head from a clichéd American soap opera. ‘Hi, Honey. Here I am. I’m not dead. It was all a mistake. It was really my twin brother that died.’

  She shivered as she blinked the image away.

  Mindful that the envelope was turning decidedly soggy thanks to the steam from the footbath, she placed it to one side.

  Once it was out of danger of becoming a mushy mess, she towelled off her softened toes and rubbed her heels with Vaseline – which was cheap and really did the trick – then added a few dollops of Moulton Brown foot replenishment. The Vaseline did the deep-down work; the more expensive product smelled lovely and added gloss to a winter-worsened instep.

  She began to read the letter.

  Dear Mrs Driver,

  You may not remember me as it is some years since your husband and I …

  She blanched. The letter went on to confirm the time of arrival of a Professor Jake Truebody. He’d booked a room for the Christmas holiday as already confirmed by email.

  Honey turned cold.

  Lindsey chose that moment to come barging into the neat coach house they shared at the back of the hotel. The coach house no longer bore any resemblance to a place reserved for a coach and pair. The bedrooms were downstairs, the living room and kitchen upstairs to gain the benefit of the views and the light – the latter more so than the former. Chimney pots and mansard roofs were hardly the stuff good views were made of.

  Lindsey looked at her. ‘What’s up with your cheeks?’

  Honey blustered. ‘It’s the steam. They always go pink like that.’

  ‘They’re not pink. They’re pale. As t
hough you’ve seen a ghost.’

  ‘It’s the hair colour. It makes me look paler.’

  ‘Ah! It would do.’

  ‘If I can’t get a salon appointment, I think I’ll wear a cloche hat over Christmas. I’m sure my mother can find me a flapper dress – or something.’

  ‘Not so easy now she’s no longer in the second-hand fashion trade.’

  Honey agreed. Her mother had been a partner in a shop dealing in high-class cast offs. She’d recently informed them that she’d branched out into something else. They’d asked what sort of business, but she was being secretive about it. ‘All will be revealed,’ she’d snorted with an uplifting of her nose and a slamming of her eyelids.

  Honey cleared her throat. ‘Lindsey, there’s a man coming to stay over Christmas.’

  ‘Well, there’s a big surprise. In my experience, Mother, guests usually fall into one of two categories – men or women. What’s special about this one?’

  ‘Nothing. He’s American.’

  Lindsey looked amused. ‘We can’t hold that against him.’

  Honey cleared her throat for a second time. ‘His name’s Professor Jake Truebody.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘I checked the list this morning.’

  Lindsey sounded her usual efficient self. Nothing fazed her. Now for the crunch.

  ‘He says he’s an old friend of your father.’

  It was just a tightening of her daughter’s smile that gave it away; Lindsey was affected, though hardly knocked sideways.

  She nodded her chin slowly. ‘I see. Is he coming to see you?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so. I don’t know the man. At least, I don’t think I do. I don’t recall the name.’

  ‘What’s his reason for coming?’

  Honey shrugged. ‘I don’t know. He strikes me as pretty strange and a bit of a show-off.’

  ‘A show-off?’ Lindsey frowned as she took the letter. Her eyebrows arched when she noted the beautiful handwriting. ‘Wow! Someone’s taken a lot of trouble. What’s he like?’

  Honey spread her hands, palms upwards. ‘I’ve already told you, I don’t recognise the name.’

  ‘I take it you didn’t know all of Dad’s friends.’

  ‘No,’ said Honey with a grimace. ‘He was pretty secretive about some of the female ones.’

  ‘This is a guy.’

  ‘With a name like Jake, he would be.’

  ‘Truebody. It’s a fairly unusual name.’

  Honey shook her head. ‘His problem. Never heard of him.’

  When her phone started to trill like a strangulated budgie, she just knew it was Doherty. She hoped he was going to suggest having a drink with him at the Zodiac Club. The Zodiac was their favourite watering hole, the place where hoteliers and pub landlords congregated around the midnight hour, unburdening their problems and generally getting pissed.

  He did indeed suggest meeting her there, and she agreed.

  ‘I’m also calling to let you know that I persuaded Mark Bennett, the plumber you chased, not to press charges.’

  ‘Ah!’

  ‘I told him it was an age thing.’

  Chapter Four

  Two days after the letter arrived and Mallory and Scrimshaw had filled the gap left by the firm of lawyers, Honey Driver went shopping. In her pocket was a folded up shopping list. At her side was Doherty.

  ‘I didn’t think you liked shopping,’ she said to him.

  ‘I don’t, but it gives me a chance to see the sights.’

  While rounding the corner into Milsom Street, they paused briefly to look at a multi-coloured reindeer. According to the sign etched into its base, it was titled Rainbow Reindeer.

  ‘Otherwise known as the red-nosed reindeer,’ remarked Honey. They both checked the red plastic nose some wag had added to what was supposed to be an artistic exhibit. ‘No idea who’s doing it?’

  ‘No. He’s been caught on a few security cameras, but he’s wearing a hoodie and the pictures aren’t too clear.’

  ‘Snowing when it isn’t snowing.’

  ‘Yep. That’s about how clear they are.’

  A white mist had descended on the city of Bath and the icy air nipped at noses. Colours were veiled into pallor, but the Christmas decorations were bright and shone on bravely regardless. Only in the narrowest of side alleys where the lighting was minimal did the mist hold full sway. Buildings that were old when Jack the Ripper was a lad loomed darkly, their outlines muted into mere phantoms of what they really were.

  Honey knew Doherty was bound to ask her the million-dollar question and it was making her nervous.

  ‘Have you told her yet?’

  Attempting to divert Steve Doherty’s attention to the big task of present buying had not worked. He’d given her a ring to wear. His intentions were obvious – and honourable. The ring hadn’t yet seen the light of day. Everything was on hold.

  ‘Steve, I’m a bit busy at present, Christmas arrangements and all that …’ An excuse.

  ‘Are we engaged or not?’

  ‘Of course we are … I think. Anyway, does it have to be public knowledge just yet?’

  ‘I’ll tell her myself.’

  ‘No! You don’t need to. OK, call me cowardly, but I have to choose the right moment.’

  She pretended that a shop window with one of those modern displays showing a briefcase supposedly suspended in mid-air and surrounded by holly and mistletoe was particularly interesting. Actually it was far from it. A briefcase rated a D minus on the exciting present scale. D for dull.

  ‘I wouldn’t use it,’ said Doherty. ‘So don’t buy me one.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to. How about socks?’

  ‘As long as they don’t have snowmen on the side and jingle when I walk.’

  She gasped as though it was exactly what she’d had in mind. ‘But, Steve, they are so you!’

  Talking nonsense was ducking the issue, but at this moment in time she was into ducking. She hated feeling like a silly teenager. A silly teenager deserved to feel guilty about declaring her intention to tie the knot. Here she was on the wrong side of forty-five – far from being a silly teenager but feeling as though she was. This had to stop.

  Doherty made her feel guilty. Lindsey made her feel guilty. The number one coward card kicked in. When all else fails, make a viable excuse.

  ‘This isn’t the right time to ask me about this. I’m expecting a crowd in the dining room, the last office party, thank goodness. Also I’m not looking my best. Mary Jane did my hair …’

  ‘Mary Jane isn’t qualified.’

  ‘I know that. You know that too. You’ve seen the colour.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I was in a hurry. It’s turned out all wrong and wasn’t really my colour in the first place.’

  ‘It’s definitely not your colour. It belongs to Coco the Clown.’

  Earlier, Doherty had almost choked when he’d seen the colour and asked if she happened to own a wig.

  ‘I’d be far more confident about announcing our engagement if my hair looked normal.’

  ‘I’m not saying that your hair isn’t likely to sap your confidence, but let’s be honest; you’re making excuses.’

  He was quite right of course. A mountain troll would have been quite happy with her hair colour. The wild man of Borneo might have balked at the colour, though been quite at home with the straggly style which currently seemed to have a mind of its own.

  Doherty had given her a ring – which she hadn’t worn just yet. He’d asked her to marry him. No time schedule for that, but she had pointed out that she needed to run it past Lindsey first, and that was the problem. She just couldn’t get up the courage to tell her daughter – well, not yet anyway.

  Over the years, mother and daughter had discussed such an eventuality in a very grown up manner. But that had been when the whole idea was imagined, not real. Getting real was a real problem. A real, REAL problem.

  ‘Tell
you what, I’ll tell her on Christmas Day. You’ll be there, won’t you?’

  ‘Honey, you have no backbone.’

  ‘Yep, but I’ve plenty up front.’

  ‘I’ve noticed.’

  No prizes for guessing what he wanted for Christmas.

  ‘OK. Let’s do the deed on Christmas Day. I’ll hold you to it.’

  Honey’s nose was pink by the time she got back to the Green River Hotel, and her concern about bookings for next year was hurting like a hole in her head. There were other things to worry about, and they were all whirling around at the same time, crashing into each other and getting muddled.

  Telling Lindsey that Doherty had asked to marry her had to be put to one side for now. She told herself that she’d get round to it in her own good time. Some might view her as cowardly. They’d be right.

  Bath was busy. The Green River Hotel was busy.

  From the beginning of December the office parties had been in full swing. On top of that relatives were visiting relatives, friends were visiting friends, and everyone was out eating and drinking and clogging up the shops.

  On the whole the atmosphere at the Green River was full of festive friendliness and everyone was happy to help out.

  From kitchen staff to chambermaids to reception cover, everyone was entering into the spirit of things, even though they were working over the holiday period. A lucrative cash incentive – double time and a day off in lieu – helped to ease the pain. Plus a slap-up dinner on the big day itself.

  At times like these it was a case of all hands to the pumps, the dishes, the waitressing, and the pulling of pints in the bar. That included the boss. She’d bought in an extra supply of rubber washing-up gloves. It paid to be prepared.

  ‘Roll on New Year,’ she muttered to herself, then threw herself into the fray, though not until she’d found something better than a knitted hat to cover her head. She found a black velvet cloche hat, part of a 1920s fancy dress outfit, that hid most, if not all, of the offending hair colour.