A Taste To Die For - A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries) Read Free

high-class cuisine on offer. Bath depended heavily on foreign tourists visiting the Roman Baths, the Pump Rooms and the elegant crescents and squares. Businesses, especially those in the hospitality trade, knew the negative power of bad press on visitor numbers.
    If a show had to be put on, Casper was the one to do it. It was Casper who had instigated the police ‘thingy’ her mother referred to, which had turned out to be more than just liaison. She’d actually got involved in a criminal case and been instrumental in solving it. Most of the liaison side of things happened between her and Detective Inspector Steve Doherty, and those liaisons weren’t entirely professional. There was definitely an undercurrent burning between them. It was just a matter of time before they lit the fuse.
    Running a hotel was not the glamorous job it was cracked up to be; all grateful clients and huge tips, celebrity guests and champagne lifestyle. Routine was the best way to describe it. Order meat on a Monday, order vegetables on a Tuesday, see the wine rep on a Wednesday … and in between lay tables, fold napkins and deal with guests who’d sampled too much Highland malt.
    She’d been hankering after a secondary career for a while. Her duties as Crime Liaison Officer helped alleviate her humdrum existence. So did Steve Doherty.
    The three judges stopped at each table, tasted, and muttered amongst themselves, nodding like donkeys dining at the same manger. Coming to an agreement, they then jotted their deliberations on to their clipboards.
    Not once did their focus drift from the food, their clipboards or each other. All the dishes were based around chicken; the rest of the ingredients were up to each individual chef. All that mattered to the judges was the taste and presentation of the dish. Eyes, nose and mouth; sight, smell and taste. The judges nibbled, poked and prodded the meat, dismembered the displays, sipped at the sauces using nothing bigger than a teaspoon.
    At last their decision was made. Filing one after the other through the crowd of hotel owners, food journalists and hungry hordes from the outside world, they made their way to a raised platform. On normal weekdays this was where a string trio played Handel for the diners sipping tea and munching cream buns. Today there wasn’t a cream bun in sight – perish the thought!
    Honey said a silent prayer and crossed her fingers. She glanced over to a smirking Stella Broadbent and crossed her legs. Something bad was about to happen. She could feel it in the pit of her stomach.
    Naturally, Casper was the spokesman. Craning his long neck to reach the microphone, he resembled a giraffe about to devour a large, black plum.
    ‘Ladies and gentlemen.’
    His voice was crystal clear, ringing across the rococo ceiling and ricocheting off the high arched windows. His piercing gaze brought the gathering to attention.
    ‘The best chefs in Bath were given the task of producing a dish using chicken as its main component. They were allowed to choose the rest of the ingredients themselves …’
    Honey looked at Smudger. His eyes were fixed on Casper, almost daring him not to pick him. Usually his complexion was pink; it was presently paler than super-refined white flour.
    Setting down her wineglass, Honey stuffed her fingers in her ears and closed her eyes. What would it be? Celebration or commiseration?
    Applause filtered through her fingers. She opened her eyes to see the top of a white toque bobbing up to the platform. Her heart sank.
    Not Smudger. Smudger was about five feet ten. If he’d won she would have seen his blushing complexion and his corn-coloured hair over the crowd.
    A beaming Oliver Stafford, five feet seven, possibly five eight in his white kitchen clogs, stepped up on to the stage, accepted his prize and blew kisses at the audience.
    ‘The best man won,’ he shouted.
    Applause erupted. Oliver Stafford played to the crowd, shaking men’s hands, kissing those of women