Something in the Blood (A Honey Driver Murder Mystery) by Jean G. Goodhind

want to work with me and you still don’t, do you?’
    His expression clouded. ‘It’s nothing personal.’
    ‘No,’ she said, ‘and it won’t ever get that way.’
    Sian came back after Honey had left, her stockings making a rustling sound as she slid one leg over the other.
    Steve Doherty found himself comparing them to Honey Driver’s pins. They weren’t a patch.
    Unaware of his judgement, Sian folded her arms across her uniformed chest and grinned at him.
    ‘You enjoyed that more than you thought you would.’
    He stretched his arms above his head and flexed his muscles. ‘Take that grin off your face.’
    ‘She’s an attractive woman. Getting on a bit, though.’
    He spun to face her and pointed an accusing finger. ‘Not another word, Williams. I still think this hotel liaison nonsense is all a bloody waste of time.’
    She cocked one eyebrow. ‘But she makes it more palatable?’
    Doherty smirked and a lock of dark hair fell onto his forehead.
    Sian Williams went weak at the knees.
    His smile was enough to leave her panting for more. Last night his voice had poured into her ear like thick, dark treacle. She’d scored, but she knew from Doherty’s reputation that she was just another number on his gun.
    Steve Doherty was smiling to himself and whatever thoughts he was thinking were strictly private.
    When he spoke she knew he wasn’t really speaking to her. He was advising his inner self, telling it just what to expect next.
    ‘Leave it with me. A little of the old Doherty charm and she’ll forget all about being Miss bloody Marple. She’ll be putty in my hands. I guarantee it.’

Chapter Six
    Cora Herbert insisted that Honey take Elmer Maxted’s stuff away.
    ‘I can’t have it blocking up my storage facility,’ Cora said indignantly, an unlit cigarette jiggling at the corner of her mouth.
    Honey grimaced at the memory of the dusty, dirty cupboard beneath the stairs. Describing it as a storage facility was stretching credibility. Dust, cobwebs and a haphazard mix of jumbled luggage and discarded furniture.
    It made sense to take it all back to the Green River and do a more thorough check of Elmer’s things.
    Back in her office without a hairy-legged spider in sight she took her time. First she took out his passport, flight tickets and official documents and took them into her office and her private safe. On studying the flight ticket, the return date was only two days hence.
    There was a mystery here. Two days until he flew home? He should be making plans to go right now, checking railway and bus schedules or making arrangements to drop off a hire car – if he’d ever had one.
    And there was something else. If Elmer was tracing his forebears, why no birth, marriage or death certificates, or even a half-completed family tree?
    She couldn’t suppress the tingle of excitement that ran down her back. This was a real conundrum – as the old sleuths of the nineteen twenties would have said. Neither could she throw off her first instinct – that Elmer Maxted was dead. Murdered. But how and by whom? And why?
    The hospitality industry consisted of sixteen-hour days, seven days a week. Public holiday times, like Christmas, Easter and the height of summer, were their busiest times of the year.
    She reminded herself of where he’d been staying and the nature of the people running the place.
    Even during normal times, she rose at dawn and didn’t fall into bed until the early hours of the next day. Tiredness led to short tempers. Had Cora or Mervyn snapped and done something stupid? She thought about it. Cora? No. The woman wasn’t Mrs Cordiality of the Year, but the only murdering that went on in their guest house was probably burning the sausages at breakfast time.
    The door to the office was well oiled, so she didn’t hear Lindsey come in.
    ‘Mother! What are you doing?’
    ‘Are you trying to give me a heart attack?’
    ‘Why would I?’
    Lindsey was wearing her gym kit, her navy and white