A Taste To Die For - A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries) by Jean G. Goodhind

and a resounding snore erupted from his open mouth.
    ‘Shall I wake him up?’ asked Lindsey.
    Her mother shook her head. ‘Not yet. Give me a head start. Then do it.’

Chapter Six
    On her way to the underground garage where she’d parked her car, Honey conjured up how best to put Bling Broadbent in her place. Arresting her on suspicion of murdering her own chef would be good. The delicious vision of wiping that supercilious smile from Stella’s scarlet lips would not go away. A citizen’s arrest! Unfortunately she had no evidence to support that particular theory, except that she’d heard that Stella was a middle-aged nymphomaniac. Perhaps she’d had the hots for Stafford. Jealousy was always a good motive for murder.
    As she folded her legs into her car she daydreamed that Smudger had won the B.I.T.E. competition. Now that would have sent the woman heading for cover! Stella was one of those people who had to be like the Christmas fairy, always on top of the tree looking down at everyone else.
    Her reverie was interrupted by yet another call from Casper.
    ‘I need you here.’ He spoke low, deep and slow, the last word as drawn out as the string on a bow.
    ‘I’ll be right there as soon as I’ve spoken to Bling … I’m sorry, Stella Broadbent.’
    ‘Here. Now !’
    There was something pleading in his voice. There was the usual class and confidence, too, but today there was also something else. Puzzlement? Confusion?
    Her eyes caught sight of a notice board and her intention of calling on Stella Broadbent flew out of the open car window. Bonhams, were holding an auction of collectables at their premises in Little King Street. Clothes were included.
    She spoke into her phone. ‘Casper, I won’t be long.’
    ‘Honey? Honey?’
    A car pulled off the single yellow lines in Queen Square and she pulled into the space, turned off the engine and locked up. With a spring in her step, she dodged the traffic to the other side of the road and into Bonhams.
    ‘More voluptuous underwear, hen?’ asked the Scottish clerk behind the counter. His smirk of approval was lost within the confines of a bright ginger beard.
    The last time she’d been in Bonhams, Jollys as it had been, she’d purchased a particularly large pair of undergarments, said to have been worn by Queen Victoria. Alistair remembered the purchase. He knew what items interested her. He knew what everyone collected.
    She paid for a catalogue.
    ‘Anything interesting?’ she asked as she thumbed through the shiny pages. If there was anything, the employees of the company would have spotted it. Experience equals grandstand knowledge.
    ‘I did see a very nice pair of garters. Fashioned from French lace and festooned with ribbons in a particularly fetching strawberry shade.’ He spoke slowly and eloquently. As always, the richness of his Scottish accent turned the verbal equivalent of dry toast into fruit-filled Genoa cake.
    ‘You sound as though they quite took your fancy.’
    Standing well over six feet, Alistair smiled through his thick red beard. ‘Not for me, hen. I would have preferred blue myself – to match my eyes you understand.’
    ‘Anything else?’
    He clapped his hands over his chest. ‘A salmon pink Berlei bra from the fifties.’ He used his finger to describe it. ‘Sewn round and round, and round and round, into a conical shape. Just like the ones Madonna used to wear at the height of her career. Only bigger. Much bigger.’
    Her phone rang again as she headed into the auction room. Bidding had already started. She didn’t have time for a proper look round so would have to trust Alistair’s judgement. The garters came first. Bidding started at twenty pounds, a ludicrous amount for apparel never likely to be seen.
    Bidding climbed steadily. There was a middling crowd. If she craned her neck she’d see who she was bidding against. But she wouldn’t. Bidding called for deep concentration. All that mattered was getting what you came