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

for.
    She waited until the bidding reached thirty-five before going in at forty.
    ‘Forty. Do I see forty-five? Forty-five anywhere? Now come on. These were said to have been worn by a dancer at the Windmill Theatre in London. During the war it boasted that it never closed. Got to be worth more than forty, surely?’
    The auctioneer’s eyes scoured the room for a potential punter. No one stepped in. She smiled. The garters were hers.
    ‘Going once, going twice … Fifty, madam? Fifty pounds. A fresh bidder at fifty pounds.’
    Honey bid fifty-five. The other party bid sixty. Honey bid sixty-five. Her rival bid seventy.
    Seventy? For a pair of faded garters?
    Despite the condition of the intriguing items, she might have pushed the bidding further if her phone hadn’t rung again.
    ‘I need you here right now!’
    Casper!
    ‘Casper, there’s just one more lot …’
    ‘Honey. I have a man here who I think you should speak to. Remember, my dear, you’re the one liaising with the police on behalf of the Hotels Association. Do I have to remind you of the benefits?’
    Perks came with the job. She got priority bookings via the committee, recompense for involving herself in tourist related crime. Honey sighed.
    ‘I’ll be right there.’
    So much for the garters. There was still hope for the salmon pink brassiere with conical stitching.
    Alistair had come out from behind his counter and was standing at the back of the room. She knew he would be bidding on behalf of people who for whatever reason couldn’t be there. It was a fair bet none of them were involved in a murder investigation.
    She handed him her bidding card. ‘Last bid for lot 132. Go up to fifty for the Victorian christening dress and ten pounds for the satin corset.’
    ‘Och! You couldn’t resist the brazier could you, hen.’ His lips grinned. His eyes remained fixed on the auctioneer.
    Getting his meaning ( brazier being his pronunciation of brassiere ), Honey responded. ‘No, I couldn’t. Aren’t you going to ask me if I’ll be wearing it?’
    ‘Oh, no. You won’t be doing that, hen. Not unless your breasts are considerably more than an honest man’s handful. Though you could use them as a bowling ball carrier …’
    Her eyes widened. ‘That big?’
    He nodded. ‘What the Germans would call a bustenhalter .’
    Enough was enough. ‘Don’t bother.’ She grabbed the ticket from the bunch he was clutching and tore it into shreds.
    ‘See you, hen,’ said Alistair, his eyes still fixed on the auctioneer and his head nodding in time with the bids.
    Casper’s hotel, La Reine Rouge, was a stone’s throw from Pulteney Weir and a pleasant walk from Bonhams Auction Rooms, just off Queen Square.
    Honey darted between people aiming digital cameras and around a party of Dutch students, barely missing being run down by a hire car driving on the wrong side of the road. The driver wound his window down.
    ‘Excuse me, can you tell me where the Pump Rooms are?’
    She pointed round into Quiet Street. ‘That way, but you’ll have …’ Too late. The window was wound up. The last she saw was the car mounting the pavement barring its access to Quiet Street. Horns were blowing. People were shouting. Quiet Street was far from quiet.
    Never mind. The air was balmy, summer was here and everyone was out enjoying themselves.
    Neville, Casper’s head receptionist, was on duty behind the highly polished mahogany desk. Honey glanced at her watch as a brass-faced grandfather clock struck eleven. So did the wall clocks lining the stairs to the upper floors. Casper collected clocks.
    Neville was resplendent in a red silk waistcoat embroidered with birds of paradise. Regency style was de rigueur at La Reine Rouge, as it suited the ambience of the elegant building. The tourists loved it.
    He never gave her chance to say good morning. ‘You think this is a flamboyant outfit,’ he said, pointing at his waistcoat and tight breeches. ‘Wait till you see what’s