Saint Patrick's Day - The Gordonston Ladies Dog Walking Club Part III: A Dark Comedy Cozy Mystery With A Twist

by Duncan Whitehead

  Yours faithfully,

  Kevin

  Kevin. Kevin had been Billy’s friend. Cindy recalled Billy mentioning him a few times. According to Billy, Kevin was training to become a doctor; he also helped starving children in Africa and diseased unfortunates in India. Cindy now doubted that. Kevin was probably a drug addict, or drug dealer…. probably a thief and a liar like Billy. Cindy despised Kevin as she despised everyone, even though she had never met him and despite the fact he had been kind and thoughtful enough, unaware of Billy’s attempt to murder his aunt, to forward his possessions to her.

  So there sat the box containing the last possessions of Billy Malphrus. Cindy had burned everything else. His clothes, his shoes, his sneakers, his passport, and his birth certificate. Even his toiletries had not escaped the pyre she built. Not one photograph of Billy remained in her home, those also thrown into the flames, along with the postcards and letters he had sent her. She had smiled, albeit briefly, as the glowing ashes and embers of the bonfire had ascended into the night sky. It was a symbolic burning, a cleansing and a purging of Billy Malphrus from her home and life.

  For three years there had been no trace of that boy in her home. He had not existed, not to Cindy anyway, and that was just fine with her.

  But now he was back. Well, some of him at least. His things. What those things were, she did not know, nor did she really care. Probably dirty old socks or forged ID’s, stolen checkbooks, fake credit cards, and other tools he no doubt used to cheat and con people. The police had told her what Billy really was--a despicable man with scant regard for anyone but himself. She should burn that box. Throw it in the yard and pour gasoline over it.

  For some reason, Cindy had not destroyed the box, nor simply thrown it unopened into the trash. No. It had sat for three days on her coffee table taunting her, mocking her, daring her to open it. Open me, it was telling her, open me and smell Billy’s dirty socks. Open me and discover more secrets about the boy you loved but who wanted you dead. Find letters he wrote about you and read for yourself how much he despised you. Hated you. Wanted you dead and buried so he could claim your money and your home. Read about his greed. Discover more about the boy who, along with Kelly Hudd, ruined your life, because it is all in me. I promise it is, dare you open me?

  Be brave old woman and discover how he used you for money, how he lied to you, how every charitable penny you ever sent him went to fund his travelling and his deceit. Discover how the money you sent him, in good faith, out of the kindest of your heart, to help impoverished children, dying and hungry Africans, or sickly Indians was only helping and assisting Billy Malphrus. No one else, just him. He loathed you and inside me is more proof that he despised you. I dare you to open me. You foolish stupid old woman, open me. The box mocked her. It had for three days. She should destroy it. She knew she should.

  Cindy sighed and rose from the sofa. She walked to her bureau and retrieved a pair of scissors. Standing over the box, trembling, she steadied herself and took a deep breath. She would open it. She was ready to find out more, if indeed there was more; more details about how Billy had tricked her, lied to her…she would open his damn box.

  Chapter 3

  Two jackets, expensive ones by the looks of them, a couple of DVDs, a few CDs and a pair of shoes. So, this was what she had been scared of? Junk? Cindy chuckled to herself. No diary containing plans on how Billy schemed to con his aunt out of her money. No ramblings scrawled on post-it notes explaining how much he detested the old bitch. Nothing. Billy Malphus’s last few possessions were just like him. Junk. Cindy perused the DVDs and tossed them to one side. The first one she pulled from the box was not her cup of tea at all, a stupid mystery with ridiculous and predictable characters. A load of garbage…and that’s exactly where that particular DVD was headed. The second DVD Cindy didn’t discard. She had seen Desperate Housewives on television. This DVD she would keep. She placed it carefully to one side. She recalled how she enjoyed the show, even if it was totally far-fetched and solely reliant on coincidence and utterly unbelievable scenarios. How could one tiny street produce so much drama with preposterous storylines and even more preposterous characters? But she would watch it anyway. After all, it was entertainment, and surely not meant to be taken seriously.

  The shoes seemed new. It was a shame to throw them out, but she wasn’t going to donate them. That would mean venturing outside and a visit to Goodwill or the Salvation Army store. Sadly, the fine shoes were also destined for the ‘trash pile.’ Cindy didn’t even glance at the CDs she pulled from the box. They went straight to the trash pile. She was positive that her taste in music was not at all comparable with Billy’s.

  Cindy delved back into the box. Next due for inspection were the two jackets, one black and the other blue. They looked as though they could have been part of a suit set. Cindy wondered what had happened to the trousers that had probably once accompanied these fine looking garments, but quickly erased any thoughts of Billy’s pants from her mind. She raised the black jacket upwards, inspecting the material. Again, as with the shoes, it would be a shame to burn it or throw it into the garbage but of course, she had no choice. She removed the blue jacket from the box and, as she had done with the other jacket, raised it for a cursory inspection. She tossed it immediately into the trash pile. Its quality was irrelevant, as, its fate was already sealed. As the jacket flew into the air, headed for the heap of discarded and unwanted possessions, an envelope that had been tucked inside its’ inside left pocket fell to the floor. At first, Cindy didn’t notice it. She was too busy checking that the box was empty, which it was. It was only when she shifted her glance towards the pile of what she regarded as trash did she notice the envelope. Cindy, rather than just discard it, bent forward, picked it up, and inspected it. It was from a hotel, the embossed envelope that had no doubt been part of complimentary stationery set. Out of curiosity and nothing more, Cindy wondered from where Billy had stolen this particular memento.

  If the stationery was anything to go by, then it had been taken from a fine hotel. Le Hotel Bonaparte, read the address on the envelope, Paris, France. Cindy shook her head. A very an expensive place to stay, guessed Cindy. No doubt Billy had stayed there on her dime, while pretending to be in some far-flung hellhole helping save lives. Cindy checked that the envelope was empty, and it contained no note or letter describing how much Billy hated her. He had probably taken everything from that hotel that hadn’t been nailed down. The beast of a boy was a crook and no doubt whatever he had been up to in Paris had been no good.

  Cindy was about just about to wad the envelope into a ball and toss it onto her trash pile when she stopped. The Hotel Bonaparte. Why did it sound so darned familiar? Why was there a voice inside her head telling her to think? Think back, Cindy, think. The Hotel Bonaparte in Paris, France. Why did she known this place? Why was there something in the back of her mind nagging her? What could it be? Think. Paris? France? She had never been, and she knew no one who had been…no one…no one. She knew no one who had been to Paris she was positive…except…except Kelly Hudd. Kelly. She had won that competition thing and had left Tom all on his own. It was all coming back to her. Carla had been appalled that Kelly had deserted Tom, she remembered that. Cindy was going to tell Carla that she was mistaken, that Kelly had not abandoned Tom but she never got around to it. Kelly had returned from Paris and had been sick. Food poisoning she had said, something she ate in France. Or was it a virus, something contagious? That was it, she didn’t leave her house for days, and her doctor had told her to stay indoors. Tom had said she had a rash and a terrible fever from a bug she had picked up in the hotel… Le Hotel Bonaparte.

  Cindy’s mind was racing as she cast her mind back to four, or had it been five, years ago? That was it; the night Tom had collected Billy from the airport, before he went missing and before he was murdered. That’s it. Billy’s plane had been delayed, and Kelly had been due to meet Billy that evening but it had been too late. Cindy had planned to invi
te her around to meet Billy for breakfast but she’d been so sick, she didn’t even get to meet Billy. Not then, not ever.

  Cindy froze, and goose bumps crawled onto her arms. What were the chances? What were the chances of the two people she hated more than any others on the planet, her scheming murdering nephew and the whore who stole her man, were both at the same posh Paris hotel? Then Cindy remembered something else.

  By now, both Walter and Paddy had now joined Cindy in the living room. They each sniffed the pile of discarded CDs, DVD, and pair of shoes, and then promptly slumped down on the rug that adorned the center of Cindy’s ornately decorated parlor. Cindy, still clutching the envelope, appeared to be in a trance, her eyes firmly fixed straight ahead. She was deep in thought. Something was nagging her. Something wasn’t right. Okay, she got it; both Billy and Kelly had both obviously been to the Hotel Bonaparte. No big deal, she thought. Just a coincidence. There was nothing indicating that they had been there at the same time. But there was something else. Something more. Cindy closed her eyes. Think Cindy, think…

  It had been the taller detective.

  “We have spoken to his friend, who had no idea what your nephew was planning. He did tell us, though, what we already suspected. Billy was nothing more than a con artist. His whole life, well the life he told you about, was a lie. We contacted Interpol. It seems he had been traveling around Europe, most recently Paris, pretending to be a count. Apparently, he tricked several women into sleeping with him. We have no idea how many victims, or conned women there have been as a result of your nephew’s actions. However, his friend did tell us that the ‘stupid lying bitch I told you about’, apparently was from here, Savannah. He met her in Paris. He didn’t mention any names that we could trace, but it seems your nephew did use your computer to search for a ‘Gerry Gordonston’… any idea who that may be?” Cindy had shaken her head. She had no idea who Gerry Gordonston was. Odd though, she had thought at the time that her surname was the same as the name of her neighborhood.

  Cindy closed her eyes. There was something else, one last piece of the puzzle. She dug deep into the catacombs of her memory. Something else, think, think. She had handed him the photograph, the photograph of her and Kelly arm in arm, taken by Tom that previous summer all those years ago. Cindy thought back, yes, he had begun to shake. He had said he felt sick, and he had gone pale…he didn’t even finish eating his sandwich. She had thrown it to Paddy.

  Cindy Mopper smiled and actually meant it. It wasn’t a fake smile put on for appearances. It was a smile that gradually turned into a grin, then a chuckle, and then a laugh, a laugh that echoed throughout her home. Paddy and Walter raised their heads from the ground, their afternoon nap disturbed by their mistress’s sudden outburst of laughter, laughter that had not been heard for such a long time. Cindy folded the two jackets neatly and placed them on the sofa. She took the envelope and held it tightly. Gerry Gordonston. How unoriginal, how stupid…. how dumb, how…. Kelly.

  “Oh you stupid, stupid girl,” said Cindy out loud, “I got you, I finally got you.”

  Chapter 4

  One Month before St. Patrick’s Day

  Sam Taylor was enjoying both retirement and his new home. He had purchased the house for half of the listed value, simply because no one wanted to live in the home where Stefan Deripaska had blown his brains out. That hadn’t bothered Sam Taylor one bit. He was an ex-cop, the former police chief, so what if someone died here? People die in houses all the time. No, he was pleased with his new home and his new neighborhood.

  Since retiring six months earlier, Sam had initially devoted much of his time and attention to his wife Sabrina. She had been ecstatic when he had announced his retirement. At long last, they could vacation together, enjoy their combined hobbies of gardening and cooking, and at last spend quality time together without the stresses associated with Sam’s job.

  During the early part of his retirement, he spent much of his time digging gardens, experimenting with Indian food, and visiting relatives, though Sam had another hobby as well: Elliott Miller. He had spent hours researching his former boss’s background, and he had not scrimped on either effort or time in finding out all he could about the man. So much so that lately, he had become, according to his wife at least, ‘obsessed’ with Elliott. After three months of retirement, he had stopped helping his wife in the garden, become disinterested in visiting relatives, and lost all interest in cooking exotic-sounding meals.

  Sam Taylor resented Elliott. Although Elliott hadn’t fired him, Taylor retired on his own terms after qualifying for his pension, disheartened by certain promotions within his department with which he disagreed. He was positive though, that Elliott had secrets, secrets that Sam felt he had to expose. He realized that Elliott wasn’t fully to blame for his department’s failings three years ago, but suspected that Elliott had somehow stalled, or even obstructed the investigation into the disappearance of Tom Hudd. Though he had no proof of any wrongdoing, he just knew that the Mayor’s ‘friendship’ with Jeff Morgan had affected the investigation, and had raised Sam’s suspicions of interference. And of course it could not be overlooked, by Sam at least, that Miller had gone on to marry Hudd’s widow.

  The rise of Jeff Morgan through the ranks of the Savannah Police Department had appalled Sam. Within a week of the murder of Veronica Partridge, the suicide of Deripaska, and the discovery of Hudd’s body, Morgan had been promoted to the rank of sergeant. Six months later, he was a lieutenant, despite Morgan’s objections at his promotion board. Within a year, he had been promoted to captain and appointed Jeff Morgan deputy. So, it had come as no surprise that the current chief of the Savannah Police Department was Jeff Morgan-- Elliott Miller’s man. Sam was ready to admit that Morgan had cleaned up his act a little. He had managed to significantly reduce the crime rate, with the Mayor’s help and extra funding, funding which Sam had requested during his tenure as Chief but had been refused. The statistics were impressive. Morgan, though shy and in Sam’s words a ‘social spastic’ who was not adept at public speaking or comfortable talking with the press, had become popular with local businessmen. The falling crime rate had led to more investment, which had subsequently led to more visitors to the city. This, in turn, had eventually led to more profits for the city as a whole. Savannah was now considered one of the safest places in the whole country to visit. Where once the city had been blighted with a high crime rate, unsolved murders, and a reputation as a dangerous place to visit, it had now become the poster-child of American crime prevention for other cities.

  Of course, this was not all due to Morgan, who was quite popular with many of his officers for his hands-off approach. He allowed his precinct captains, hand-picked by Miller, to make decisions and influence his policy own decisions. He still had a body odor problem, though, and still drove around on his Vespa scooter when not on duty.

  The background checks Sam had conducted, during his own private investigation, had revealed nothing about Elliott Miller that could describe him as bad. There was nothing suspicious, nothing out of the ordinary. Obviously, he had no criminal record, not even a parking ticket. He was, by all intents and purposes, a man of high moral turpitude and good character. There was one thing, though, one thing that had surprised the former policeman. Elliott Miller had once been an author, quite a successful children’s writer at that. His three books, The Bavarian Forest of Magic, The Wizards and The Boy, and Fairies in the Forest and Other Tales, had sold thousands of copies in the late seventies. Sam’s research had uncovered that Elliott had once been tipped to become one of the most successful children’s book authors of his generation, but then, as quickly as he had written his books and been catapulted onto the best seller list, he had stopped writing. No more books. Not one. It seemed as if he had just given up. This puzzled Taylor greatly, and he had one question--why? Why had Elliott suddenly abandoned a lucrative career, and his fame and recognition as a fantastic storyteller? According to the reviews he had found online after
hours of research, the books, while not that well-written, were praised for their magnificent stories and plots.

  He had managed to track down copies of all three books, via the Internet, bidding an outrageously high amount of money on eBay for the now, extremely-rare books. According to the seller, there were probably only a handful of copies left, and to have all three for sale at the same time had been fortuitous for Sam Taylor. Not as fortuitous for his bank account though, after Sam had paid over $900 for the trio of books.

  The three books had been delivered by special courier (Sam had insisted on this) earlier that morning, and they now sat on the desk in his study. His urge to read them was great, and he only needed a few quiet and undisturbed hours to browse through them, and maybe find the skeleton in Elliott Miler’s otherwise empty closet.

  Sam Taylor’s hopes of a quiet afternoon reading Elliott Miller’s books were short-lived as he heard his wife enter the house. He had hoped she would be out for the day. She usually was, either shopping or with friends, generally at the same time. Unluckily for Sam, she was home earlier than he had expected.

  “Sam, Sam…he left another note on my car this morning.”

  “Who did?” he replied, as he leaned his head back so he could see his wife as she entered his study from the living room, a bag of groceries in each hand.

  “The neighbor. You know, the one with the silly looking beard. The one who lives with his ‘friend’ next door. The ones we hate.”

  “The ones you hate.”

  “Well, what are you going to do about it?” demanded Sabrina Taylor. “Don’t they know that you were the chief of police? How dare they? They don’t own the road or the grass outside their house. I can park anywhere I want to. It is becoming very annoying Sam. Very annoying indeed.”

  “Well, technically, if you parked on the grass outside his house, really dear, you were in the wrong. Though owned by the city, they are responsible for its maintenance... How would you feel if they parked in front of our house, despite having space in their driveway? Wouldn’t you be a little annoyed about it? I just don’t know why you didn’t just park in our driveway.”