A Taste To Die For - A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries) (6 page)

Chapter Eight

The Beau Brummell always struck Honey as a three-star building striving for five-star excellence. OK, she was biased. She loathed Stella Broadbent. Couldn’t stand her. Not at any price.

AND the bitch has a car park.

The car park was covered with gold-coloured gravel. Today it dazzled under bright sunlight. Honey put on her sunglasses.

‘The sun’s not that bright,’ said Steve.

‘I’m doing it to protect my eyes from Stella’s jewellery,’ she growled.

‘Ouch!’ said Steve, and pretended to cower inside his jacket.

A few hire cars were parked out front. So was Stella’s sporty Mercedes alongside a white Rolls-Royce.

The same security guard was still in situ, looking less surprised and more wakeful.

‘You back again?’ He was making an effort to sound welcoming, but it came across only grudgingly.

‘Yes. To see you,’ said Steve flashing his warrant card. ‘You haven’t made a statement yet.’

The man shrugged his bulky shoulders. They were rounded and heavy like the rest of him; not so much a good physical specimen as a very large one.

‘I didn’t see anything.’

‘You were here all night?’

‘Yes.’

The man’s eyes flickered. Honey noticed and pounced. ‘But you must have taken a leak. Or supper? Or fallen asleep?’

He turned on her. ‘I didn’t fall asleep.’

He sounded defensive. She knew he was lying. His complexion had turned apple red.

‘I want a statement from you,’ said Steve, pointing at him with a stabbing action.

The big man seemed to shrink in size.

‘I can’t wait to see her face when we mention Obadiah,’ said Honey as they approached the entrance. ‘It’s the stuff of tabloid journalism – middle-aged woman acquires warrior husband. I know it’s not true, but …’

‘Honey, behave yourself or I won’t let you stay.’

‘Did you say stay, or play?’ She nudged his arm.

‘Behave!’

Stella was in reception. Honey had the impression she’d been waiting for them, watching as they’d questioned the security guard.

‘A few more questions,’ said Steve once the formalities were out of the way.

She studied her wristwatch. ‘Well, I can only spare you twenty minutes. I need to apply myself to contacting Shifty Chefs in the hope theyʼve got a decent head chef on their books. I know it may sound a bit mercenary so soon after Oliver’s death, but I am off on holiday in two months and need to have everything running smoothly by then. And you know how long it takes to advertise, interview and arrange a start date.’

Honey bit her tongue to stop herself from bursting out laughing at the thought of Stella with Obadiah. ‘Where are you going?,’ she managed to say.

‘Borneo, to see the orangutans. I’m very keen on conservation. One can adopt or sponsor an orangutan you know.’

‘How romantic.’

Stella’s wonderfully made-up face never gave into expressions – especially nervous ones. It cracked into a smile on occasion, mostly when she was taking the money of overcharged guests. She tried to smile now. It still came across as nervous.

‘Perhaps we’d better go into my private
lounge
.’ Stella said lounge as though she were swallowing a lozenge. ‘Perhaps you’d like to wait here,’ she said to Honey.

Honey’s smile was for real. She was enjoying this. ‘Oh no. I’ll come in too. I need to hear the evidence and I particularly wanted to ask you about …’

‘Best you stay here,’ said Steve Doherty with a warning look.

Honey was left gaping. How could he do this to her?

‘I’ve got no time to make you coffee, so don’t ask,’ said the receptionist. Her tone was as plummy as the colour of her plush uniform. The name emblazoned on her breast, Perdita Fordingley, only added to Honey’s perception of the type of person she was.

Honey plastered on a smile. ‘Your congenial hospitality is quite overwhelming.’

The receptionist sniffed and flapped some papers. ‘Well, there you go then.’

It was obvious the meaning was lost on her.

‘Perhaps you threw it in the waste paper bin,’ Honey remarked over her shoulder.

The girl frowned at the papers she was holding and looked around her. ‘What?’

‘Your brain,’ said Honey, and went outside.

The nose of a butcher’s van poked out from around the side – just below the sign saying
Tradesmen’s Entrance
.

The driver came out of the hotel and got in. A ‘one careful owner’ description wouldn’t apply to this particular vehicle. Chippings flew up from beneath the squealing tyres as he accelerated from 0 to 40 in about half a second.

‘Oi!’ she shouted as a sharp stone hit her on the cheek. ‘Ow!’ She gingerly touched the sore spot and felt blood. The flow trickled down her cheek.

‘Damn.’

She was wearing a taupe top with a contrasting white collar. Two minutes and it was likely to turn polka dot. Loath to reacquaint herself with the smug-faced receptionist, she headed for the entrance to the storerooms and kitchen. From her last visit she remembered there being a staff toilet in the vestibule outside the kitchen.

Muffled conversation came from the other side of the kitchen door. She pushed open the one to the toilet, turned on the water and dabbed at her face. The water turned pink. She looked for a paper towel to staunch the blood. There was none. Toilet paper? None of that either. The only item remotely useable to wipe her face was a pillow and a sleeping bag rolled up together in the corner.

A slow smile spread over her face. She’d been right. The security guard had been lying.

Honey still needed something to staunch the blood, so she headed for the kitchen, knocking on the door before going in.

Richard Carmelli, the second chef and now in command of the kitchen – at least for a time – was in heated conversation with a man she instantly and instinctively loathed. They stopped talking and looked at her.

She gave them both the once-over and nodded an acknowledgement. The chef was wearing a red bandana around his head instead of the traditional toque. The other man was trying to be something he wasn’t. He was wearing a denim shirt and matching jeans. His shirt was too small for his robust flesh. So were his jeans and the toupée that sat like a pancake on top of his head. In short, this was a man who over-ate on a regular basis and yet still saw himself as Laurel rather than Hardy. He looked familiar and Honey finally recognised him as a well-known meat wholesaler in the local area. She’d read about him in a trade magazine. What was his name? Royston? No. Roland. Roland Mead! The name on the side of the van that had nearly knocked her block off outside …

Piles of vacuum-packed meat sat on the table in front of them. At the other end of the table were round white tubs. She glanced at them and saw the handwritten labels.

Coronation Chicken.
Richard Carmelli had been batch cooking. Four days’ supply of the tubs would go into the cooked meats fridge for immediate use. The rest would be frozen down and brought out when needed.

Her attention returned to the two men. The older man looked determined; the younger one looked intimidated, as though the beefy guy had said something he didn’t want to hear.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘But there are no paper towels in the loo – or any paper at all for that matter. I’ve cut my face.’ She lifted her fingers momentarily to indicate the bleeding.

The chef handed her a piece of kitchen towel. ‘What happened?’ He sounded genuinely concerned.

Honey explained. ‘The driver of that butcher’s van is out to get a place on the Ferrari racing team.’

The big man in the toupée faced her. ‘Do you mean my van?’ His whole demeanour was bluff and blunt.

 ‘Did my eyes deceive me, or does it say
Roland Mead, Meat Trader
, on the side of the van that just left here?’

‘Aye.’

‘And are you Roland Mead?’

‘Aye, lass.’ He licked his lips lasciviously.

‘Then I
do
mean your van. That driver’s a maniac.’

Roland Mead eyed her with sceptical disdain, one eye narrowed. The other eyeballed some point between her chin and eyebrows, as though seeking a secret doorway into her brain. He seemed to weigh things up before speaking. Sympathy wasn’t on the menu.

 ‘If you’re looking for compensation, you’ll get nowt from me.’

He spoke in a broad Yorkshire accent – or it could have been Lancashire. Honey had never been too hot on northern accents. He turned to the chef. ‘Give me a call if you want to reconsider my suggestion and I’ll sort things out.’

He threw her a warning glare before exiting the kitchen through the opposite door.

‘What a charming man.’

‘NOT,’ said the chef, a dark-eyed, dark-haired youngish man. The name embroidered across his chest in flowing script was Richard Carmelli.

That one word said it all.

‘I take it that’s his Rolls-Royce out front?’

The chef grimaced. ‘Well it certainly isn’t mine. Not on the wages I get here. Do this Richard, do that Richard. How about a raise, Mrs Broadbent? Certainly not, Richard.’

‘Yep. That sounds like Stella. Generosity has never been her middle name.’

She wondered if Oliver Stafford had asked for a rise after winning the competition. Could Stella have slit his throat in one angry, sober moment?

The young chef interrupted her thoughts.

‘Is your face all right now?’

She dabbed with the kitchen towel at the sore spot and looked at the results. ‘It seems OK.’

‘Good. We’ve had enough blood spilt on this floor.’

It was impossible to tell by his tone whether he was glad or sorry that Stafford was dead. She chose to take the negative line.

‘I take it you didn’t like Oliver Stafford.’

He nodded. ‘That’s about right. And I’ve got the scars to prove it.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘The man was a jerk. Ask his wife.’

Asking his wife anything was something she would try to avoid and not just because the poor woman must be upset. Her own daughter had been ‘another woman’. Even though Lindsey had been innocent of knowledge of his marital status, it made her angry; angry at Lindsey, but hugely angry with Oliver Stafford. And then there was Smudger. She still hadn’t got up the courage to ask him about his relationship with Oliver’s wife. There seemed to be enough on her plate at present.

‘He had this thing about being superior to any other chef in the city,’ Richard went on, pacing backwards and forwards to the open fridge with bundles of the vacuum-packed meat. ‘That meant taking anything they valued – and I’m not just referring to recipes.’

Honey frowned. ‘I’m not with you.’

Richard picked up another pile. ‘Wives. Girlfriends.’

‘You’re joking.’

Richard shook his head. ‘Olly had a big appetite – not for food mark you. He took care of his health and went to the gym and all that stuff – when he could fit it in. He wanted
things.
The trappings of success. Money, flash cars and flash birds. Material Man; that was our Olly. He wanted to prove to the world – or rather other chefs – that he was better than them in every possible way. Oh. And he was a bully.’

Honey jumped when he slammed the fridge door. There was no need to ask Richard whether he’d been the victim of Oliver Stafford’s tantrums. Actions spoke louder than words.

‘Where were you on the night he died?’

Richard stopped transferring the meat to the fridge and laid his palms flat on the stainless steel table top.

‘That bastard came back here crowing about beating the pants off the other chefs. He’d been drinking champagne with Mrs Broadbent and was full of himself. He reckoned he was going places and the likes of me wouldn’t be allowed in his kitchen. He started pushing me around. I’d had enough. I went home.’

‘Is there a witness who can verify that you went home?’

He nodded. ‘Two witnesses. The security guard and my girlfriend, Sasha. We’ve got a bedsit in The Old Dispensary.’

‘Why do you think he was boasting like that?’ she asked him.

Carmelli grimaced. ‘He reckoned he’d played his cards right and was becoming a partner in the hotel. I couldn’t see it myself. Why should he be?’

Why should he indeed? Honey looked at the table. Some packs of meat remained.

‘You’ve forgotten some.’

‘That’s pork. They’re stored separately to steak.’

‘The Coronation Chicken smells nice.’

‘It’s not as good as you think. Oliver made it. I’m ditching it and making my own. Have some. Compliments of the house.’

Honey thanked him. Because ‘the house’ was Stella Broadbent, she wouldn’t normally have accepted it. But Richard had such a captivating smile, so she tucked the tub into her bag. The bag was a wonder: she could hide a whole litter of puppies in there, should the mood ever take her. Honey’s bag came with her everywhere.

‘You were saying?’

‘Oliver. Yes.’

She sensed he wanted to get Oliver Stafford and all that he’d stood for off his chest.

‘These chefs whose girls he was knocking off, were any of them competitors in the cooking competition that he won before he died?’

‘Brian Brodie’s wife. It didn’t stop Brian from hanging around Oliver’s coat tails though. Oliver was Brian’s role model. Poor sod!’

She took a breath before asking the young chef the pertinent question, the one that might cause him to grind his teeth or use the ‘f’ word. ‘How do you feel about not getting Oliver’s job?’

Turning from sideways on to face her, Richard Carmelli cocked his head – a sure signal for sudden or deepening suspicion.

‘How come you’re so curious?’

She thought about blustering, but decided to speak the truth. ‘I liaise with the police on behalf of Bath Hotels Association.’

Abject realisation came to his face. ‘Oh! You work for Smudger Smith – sorry! I mean, Smudger works for you.’

Far from needling her, the comment had hit on a well-known truth: a hotel and restaurant’s reputation depended largely on its chef.

Honey smiled and decided she couldn’t help liking this young man. ‘No need to apologise. It does seem the other way round on occasion.’

‘Right.’

She sensed her source of information was closing down. It occurred to her to offer him a job at the Green River if anything came up, but decided now was not the appropriate time. In any case, she’d have to ask Smudger.