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

he didn’t know, the cheeks of those he did. His eyes seemed to be everywhere. They settled on her. Again that wink, the obvious appraisal and the salacious smile. The meaning was obvious. I’m game if you are.
    Honey looked away to where Smudger was standing clapping disconsolately, the blue second prize rosette pinned to his chest. If looks could have killed, and cooked the corpse, Oliver Stafford would have been stewed steak there and then.
    There was no time to lose.
    Turning her back on events, she pushed her way through the crowd. ‘Congratulations. You did very well.’
    God, that sounded lame! Honey rethought her strategy. ‘I think you’re due a bonus.’
    Smudger’s scowl returned with a vengeance. ‘I think that bugger’s due a kick in the …’
    ‘Quick,’ she said, as though she hadn’t heard. ‘We’ve got to get to Abbey Green and get the best spot.’
    ‘Clint said he’d do that.’
    His voice lacked interest. His eyes were still fixed on Oliver.
    Clint, real name Rodney Eastwood, was their casual washer-up, odd-jobber, and general help. He had indeed promised to grab a pitch and start setting things up. Smudger needed to occupy himself with something other than stamping on Oliver Stafford’s head.
    ‘But you need to be there to oversee things.’ An even worse excuse.
    Smudger didn’t budge.
    Honey looked to where he was looking. A beaming Oliver Stafford was taking a photo call, holding his silver cup above his head while wedged between two scantily clad blondes.
    ‘Come on. No time to lose.’
    Honey began packing things up, the knives first. They were the most dangerous. A vision of Smudger and the egg whisk flashed into her mind. She found room for that in with the knives.
    ‘Over here, over here.’
    Oliver, the blondes, and a bevy of photographers barged through the crowd to the row of steel tables.
    ‘Behind the table, please chef,’ ordered one of the photographers.
    Before taking up position, Oliver kissed one blonde then the other and gave each a quick squeeze. ‘Won’t be long, darlings. Keep it all hot for me won’t you.’
    Honey grabbed Smudger’s arm. Too late. Stafford was shorter than Smudger. Smudger had hold of him by the ears.
    ‘Let go of me.’
    Some of the photographers carried on clicking.
    Casper pushed through the crowd to where Honey was standing. ‘Please control your chef, madam! How dare he grasp that man’s extremities!’
    ‘Smudger. Let go of his ears!’
    Smudger growled. ‘He should thank his lucky stars it’s only his ears!’
    There was uproar all round and through it all the paparazzi kept snapping. Muttering various reasons why he shouldn’t disconnect Stafford’s ears from his head, she tugged at Smudger’s arm. Angry eyes glared above strawberry pink cheeks – though they weren’t nearly as red as the other chef’s ears. There were only inches between their faces.
    ‘I know what you did, Stafford, and I’ll get you for it. Hear what I say, I’ll get you for it.’
    Finally he let go.
    ‘He’s bloody mad,’ said Stafford, vigorously rubbing at his bright red ears. ‘You’re mad, Smith. Right bloody mad!’
    Up until Stafford had opened his mouth, Smudger had been responding to her urgings to get out. Now he lunged again, fists ready to do some damage to the other chef’s face.
    Honey flung herself forward, arms out in rugby tackle mode. Graceful it was not, though she must have shown some skill judging by the applause from the crowd. Her love for banoffee pie had a lot to answer for, but at least it meant she was carrying enough weight to pull it off, she thought ruefully. Honey certainly felt less than graceful hanging on to Smudger’s waist, cheek resting against his buttock. Legs dragging behind her, Honey clung on for all she was worth, even after she lost both her shoes in the melee.
    ‘Come on, Smudge!’ she muttered against a mouthful of starched cotton chef’s jacket.
    He looked down over his shoulder at her and