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

insight which, in Honey’s opinion, wasn’t right in a girl of her age.
    ‘Mother, you’re blushing.’
    ‘No, no, no, no, no. It’s my age.’ She waved her hand in front of her face. ‘Hot flushes. See?’
    Lindsey stood by the door, a glint in her eye, her brown legs smooth and shiny. ‘You may be my mother, but you’re also a woman. I think it’s time you lived for yourself not for me. Have a slice of romance, mother. You deserve it.’
    Honey gaped. When Carl died in a boating accident, Honey had promised herself that she would put Lindsey first in everything. For that reason she’d shied off permanent relationships. She’d seen the problems they could cause. She’d never voiced that promise, so it came as something of a surprise that Lindsey was aware of her sacrifice. And now?
    Like a thickly iced cream slice, Doherty came to mind again. Naughty, but nice.
    Perceptive as ever, Lindsey winked. ‘That good, huh?’
    Once she was alone, Honey dragged her thoughts back to the missing tourist. Cupping her chin in her hand she stared out at the blank wall beyond the small window. If he had been murdered, where was the body?
    She shook the thoughts from her head, zipped up the bags and shifted them into a far corner.
    There were other possibilities of course. He could just have gone walkabouts. Perhaps he’d met some old relative while tracing his family tree and was making up for lost time.
    As she shut the door behind her and prepared to check in a nice couple from Ontario, another thought crossed her mind. Would a man seriously searching his family tree leave the paperwork behind? Perhaps that might explain there being none in his luggage. But if that were the case, why leave his passport and airline tickets?
    She shook her head, her mind in overdrive.
    ‘We have a room booked in the name of Whittaker,’ said the nice middle-aged man.
    Plastering a smile on her face, she entered their names on the system, checked their passports and handed them their room keys, menu cards and a map of the city.
    ‘There’s plenty of information in the folder in your room,’ she added, ‘but don’t hesitate to ask if there’s anything else you require.’
    They thanked her before moving off, Daniel, porter, handyman, native of Croatia, helping them with their luggage.
    Her phone rang.
    ‘DS Doherty here.’
    Blue eyes, dark stubble. ‘I was wondering …’
    ‘So was I. If Mr or Mrs Herbert had murdered Elmer Weinstock, Maxted or whatever his name is, where would they bury him?’
    ‘That wasn’t what I was going to ask you.’ He sounded disappointed.
    ‘I suppose if you were looking for a body, you’d dig the garden up first, wouldn’t you?’
    Steve Doherty prided himself on being a bit of a ladies man. No woman could fail to fall for his suave looks, his rough, masculine charm. So why wasn’t she listening to him? He was about to tell her to forget it when an idea occurred to him. Humour her. Make her think this really was going to be a serious case.
    ‘I’ve had second thoughts about this case and a few possible theories. Can we meet for dinner and talk about it, you know, away from interruptions?’
    ‘You do think he was murdered!’
    Doherty felt himself being drawn in by her enthusiasm. It wouldn’t be in his interest to contradict her, so he didn’t.
    He smiled in that secretive way he’d practised in front of the mirror, the sort of smile Bogart used to use. Left-hand corner of mouth lifted, right-hand corner turned downwards. He’d throw it at her in the flesh once they were alone together.
    ‘Let’s just say I have a hunch.’
    Honey was all ears. This was just what she wanted to hear. Getting involved in murder beat washing dishes hands down.
    Slumped back in his green leather office chair, Steve Doherty kicked at his desk which sent him spinning in the chair. She was putty in his hands.
    ‘Great. Where and what time?’
    ‘Sometime after midnight, say about 12.30? The