Molly Grey Cozy Mystery Collection

by Donna Doyle

  "Toilets are nice and cl—" Digby said, still with the door handle in his hand, but Dora pushed him outside again.

  "—Not a good time for the Golden Dipper," she whispered. "Quick… to your car."

  "W-What's happening," Digby stared at her. "Did your parents not pay their bill twenty years ago?"

  Dora had no time to explain. She grabbed Digby's hand and pulled him in the direction of the car.

  Not a second too late, as just when they arrived at their car, hidden out of sight, the front door opened again and the proprietor, helped by the other fellow, literally threw Bloomsteyn out. The man landed in the sand, stirring up a cloud of dust.

  Digby frowned. "Is… Is that Bloomsteyn?" he mumbled more to himself than to Dora.

  "Yes, you are right, Digby… and something strange is going on here."

  *Not in here you, fools. Talk in the basement.

  7

  Bloomsteyn’s Blues

  It didn't take Molly Gertrude long to find the place she was looking for.

  Number 14 was right near the spot where Gopal Gupta had dropped her off. The abode was a European style, brick house with two floors and a well-kept garden, although not nearly as impressive as Green Acre manor. The downstairs was lined with a row of freshly painted windows, and near the end, leading to a pretty stone pavilion, there were sliding doors. That was probably where the living room was situated, and Molly could easily envision how Deborah and her late husband would have sat there together on a starry summer night, gazing up into the heavens, and listening to classical music.

  Would she be as happy doing such things with Bernard Bloomsteyn? Maybe she knew she wouldn't, and that's why she had run away. Although though the paint that was smeared on Bloomsteyn's fancy house seemed to suggest something far more foul.

  The place was clean, organized and kept in pristine condition. Still, the overall impression was one of simplicity. Her late husband Jeff, although rich, had never been much of a show-off, and it appeared Deborah didn't like to advertise her riches either.

  So, this was where Deborah lived…

  What now?

  Molly Gertrude pushed on the metal gate. It wasn't locked, and it opened with a small creak.

  Should she go in?

  If she wouldn't do anything, then what was the point of her coming here in the first place?

  Come on, Molly. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

  Without further ado, Molly Gertrude pushed the gate open further, slipped through and walked in the direction of the front door. First, she would just ring the bell. One could never know, maybe Deborah had a maid that happened to be cleaning.

  The path that led to the entrance was covered with small pebbles and they crackled under her feet as she slowly made her way to the house. Molly Gertrude didn't like the sound much. It had a bit of lonely wail to it, and it made her realize even more she really was all alone, if something sinister would happen.

  "Can I help you?"

  A deep, male voice stopped her in her tracks, and Molly Gertrude turned in the direction of the voice. And there, about thirty feet away, halfway hidden behind a giant butterfly bush stood a man who, judging by his outfit and the shovel upon which he was leaning, was the gardener. He was wearing a straw hat to protect his head from the sun and stared at Molly Gertrude with curious eyes. "I know you," he said, as he narrowed his bushy eyebrows and tilted his head. "You’re that wedding lady. Are you here to check on Mrs. Smythe?"

  Molly Gertrude gave him a motherly smile. "In fact, I am… Do you know where she is?"

  "Wish I knew," he replied while he wrinkled his nose. "She should have paid me two days ago, but she never showed up."

  Molly Gertrude nodded. "It appears Mrs. Smythe has disappeared, and since the wedding is supposed to be tomorrow, I wanted to see if I could find out what happened to her."

  The man dropped his shovel and walked over to Molly Gertrude. "Gregory Goldenrod," he said. "I am the gardener here. Have been for many years, but this is the first time she hasn't paid me on time. It's a mighty shame." He offered Molly Gertrude his hand, but realized just in time his hand was full of mud and so he pulled it back. "Sorry, I am at work," he mumbled. "Do you reckon she'll be back soon?"

  Molly Gertrude pressed her lips together. "I really can't tell you, Gregory. As I said, the wedding is tomorrow, so normally speaking you would think both the bride and the groom are just counting the hours, unless…" Molly Gertrude let her voice trail off.

  "…She ran," Gregory finished Molly's sentence. "And, I wouldn't blame her," he continued. "If you'd ask me, she could get a better man, although…," he thought for a moment, "…he seems to be very rich. Did you know he lives on Greenacre Manor?"

  Molly Gertrude nodded.

  "But really," Gregory continued, "I don't like that man. Of course, it's none of my business but that's my view on the matter, if anybody would be interested." He pulled his straw hat a little tighter over his forehead and said, "But nobody is of course. I actually forgot his name. Boomstone or something… can't quite remember."

  "Bloomsteyn," Molly Gertrude said, trying to be helpful. "And… why don't you like him?"

  Gregory shrugged his shoulders. "My Mom always taught me not to gossip but this isn't gossip, is it?"

  "No Gregory, it isn't."

  "Mrs. Smythe is a tenderhearted woman. I've known her for many years, but I think the loneliness has gotten to her. She still misses her husband terribly. He had a heart attack, you know."

  "I heard as much," Molly Gertrude said, just so she could keep the conversation going.

  "And now there's this boombox, and he swept her off her feet. She's all starry eyed and gooey, and she acts weird when he comes around. But, as I said, it's none of my business."

  "People in love can seem a little funny at times," Molly Gertrude suggested.

  "You think so?" Gregory asked, while he pulled out a package of tobacco from the pocket of his coveralls and began rolling a cigarette. "Want some?" he offered the package to Molly Gertrude.

  She wrinkled her nose. "Those things can kill you, Gregory. You should spend your money on better things."

  "I know," Gregory mumbled, "I will stop one day. Maybe even tomorrow… who knows."

  "So you have no idea what could have happened to Mrs. Smythe?" Molly Gertrude asked again.

  Gregory shook his head while he kept on rolling. "Nope." But then he looked up, and while he held his half-rolled cigarette in between the fingers of his one hand, he lifted up the index finger of his other hand and said, "But they didhave a quarrel."

  Molly Gertrude arched her brows. "You mean Mr. Bloomsteyn and Mrs. Smythe had an argument?"

  "Yeah, that's what I mean. I was surprised, as Mrs. Smythe is usually rather soft spoken, but she said some terrible things…"

  "Like what?"

  Gregory pressed his lips together. "I am not a snoop, Mrs. eh…I didn't get your name?"

  "Miss Molly Gertrude Grey," Molly Gertrude said.

  "All right. Well, as I said, I am not a snoop, Miss Grey, so I usually try not to listen to a conversation that is not meant for my ears. My mother taught me as much, you know."

  "She seems like a good woman," Molly Gertrude said.

  "Right," Gregory continued, "she is. But just so you know, I don't know much. I was here watering the plants. It's hot right now, and Mrs. Smythe asked me to make sure I would water the plants faithfully. Well, a few days ago I forgot. I was just sitting home watching the New York Yankees, feet on the table, beer in my hand, and then I remembered I forgot.

  "You forgot to water the plants?"

  "Right. I didn't really want to go, but my Mom said I should… so I did."

  "And?"

  "The window was open and when I walked across the lawn to connect the sprinklers, I heard Bloombox and Mrs. Smythe arguing. You see, the garden faucet is not too far from their sliding doors and they were open. I couldn't help it, but I sort of hadto hear what they said. I really wasn't snoopi
ng around."

  "Of course you weren't," Molly Gertrude said again in her most motherly tone. "So, what did they say?"

  Gregory frowned. "It wasn't so much what Mrs. Smythe said," Gregory articulated the last word and his eyes got round and big as he recalled that night. "It was what she did."

  "Really? What did she do?"

  He lowered his voice, and looked around just to make sure no one had unexpectedly snuck up on them and whispered, "She slapped him… in the face."

  Now it was Molly's turn to widen her eyes. "Mrs. Smythe slapped Mr. Bloomsteyn? And I thought you said she was so starry eyed over him. "

  "Yep," Gregory said simply, as if it was the most normal thing in the world. He had just finished rolling his cigarette and stuck the thing in between his lips while he repeated his statement as if he were a school teacher lecturing a student. "She slapped him in the face… Just like a butcher slaps on his hamburgers."

  Molly Gertrude felt alarm rising. "So you not only heard them, but you actually saw them?"

  Gregory's ears reddened. "Just a little." Then he added quickly, "Bloombox yelled back that she shouldn't be so fearful and that he was the boss."

  "What was she afraid of?"

  "How should I know?" Gregory lit his cigarette and took a long drag while he nodded. "It was quite a scene, Miss Grey." He thought for some time, and narrowed his eyes. "There's one more thing, I heard."

  "What?"

  "I heard him say Chardonnay was just lying."

  "Excuse me? I don't understand."

  He shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know. That's just what he said."

  "Chardonnay? That's a good brand of wine. Had they been drinking?"

  "How should I know?" he said with a scowl.

  Molly Gertrude thought for some time. Then a thought came to her. "Could it be…," she said slowly as she peered at Gregory, "… that he said 'Charmayne was just lying'?

  "Yes," Gregory said, and his eyes lit up. "That's what he screamed. 'Charmayne was just lying.' I knew it was something that started with Char…"

  Molly Gertrude nodded. "Well, that's something. And then? Was there more?"

  "I left, Miss Grey," he said, and he puffed a bluish cloud well over Molly Gertrude's head, "I knew I wasn't supposed to be there, so I left. I didn't even water the plants that night."

  "Did you tell the police?"

  He frowned. "The police? No… why should I? You are the first person that came around. And besides her slapping him in the face, I didn't witness anything bad. Having an argument is no crime, is it?"

  "Guess not," Molly Gertrude said, barely audible. She pressed her lips together and thought out loud. "Wish I could take a look inside the house."

  Gregory looked up. "What did you say, Miss Grey?"

  "It's nothing, Gregory," she answered. "I was mumbling to myself that I wouldn't mind taking a look inside. I am getting quite concerned about Mrs. Smythe's well-being."

  Gregory's shoulders tightened. "You really think Bloombox did something to her?"

  Molly Gertrude shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know, Gregory… but something just isn't right and I don't know what it is."

  "It's bad, isn't it, Mrs. Grey?"

  Molly Gertrude just pressed her lips, but she didn't answer.

  "I know where there's a key," Gregory whispered.

  Molly cocked her brow. "A key to the house?"

  "Yes," Gregory whispered. "There's a spare key under a flower pot. She has it there in case she would lose the other one. I saw her putting it there."

  "Which flower pot?"

  Gregory hesitated. "Going in her house would be like breaking in, wouldn't it? I don't like Bloombox, but I sure don't like JJ Barnes either. I don't want to mess with him. Breaking in is against the law." He nervously dragged on his cigarette.

  Molly Gertrude agreed with him. "Technically you are right," she told him, which is why you stay in the garden while I will go in."

  Gregory inhaled so hard on his cigarette that way too much smoke entered his lungs, and he began to cough almost uncontrollably.

  "I told you these things will kill you," Molly Gertrude sneered. "Now, show me the flower pot."

  "Over there," Gregory pointed with an unsteady hand to a big clay pot with a beautiful rosebush, right next to the front door.

  "Would you be so kind as to tip over the pot," Molly Gertrude asked him, still upholding her motherly tone. "That thing is way too heavy for me."

  "But…," Gregory stammered and he licked his lips, "If you get caught, I am an accomplish."

  "Gregory," Molly Gertrude said in a firm voice, "You don't have to come, Gregory," she reassured him. “I am only trying to help Mrs. Smythe. We need to find out what happened to her, and time could be of the essence. This is not a time to be afraid. What's more, these flowers really need watering. They look awfully neglected, if you ask me.

  Just stay outside. Besides, have you already watered the other plants? They too look a little sad, if you ask me?"

  Gregory nodded and stepped over to the flowerpot.

  Seconds later Molly stood inside the hallway of Deborah Smythe's house and Gregory focused his attention again on his job as a gardener. He had taken up her advice and had started the sprinklers on the lawn and now he was filling up the watering can so he could water all the bushes and flowers individually.

  Molly Gertrude had the house to herself.

  Dear Lord, show me where to look.

  Dora and Digby kept out of sight while Bloomsteyn scrambled back to his feet. He shook the dust off his clothes as good as he could, and then hobbled to his shiny white BMW that was parked close to the restaurant.

  "What do we do now?" Dora whispered. "I don't think he has spotted us."

  "Let's wait and see where he is going," Digby answered in equally soft tones, as he peered at Bloomsteyn. The man made a despondent impression. Even a sack of manure for the garden had a more joyful appearance.

  No sooner was he in his car, or he roared off in a huff with screeching tires, causing a spray of pebbles and dirt to fly over the parking lot.

  But he did not take the road back to Calmhaven as both Digby and Dora had expected. Instead, he raced into the other direction, towards Boulder Valley.

  "Where is he going?" Dora mumbled.

  Digby pressed his lips together and shook his head. "I really don't know, Dora, but he is certainly breaking the speed limit. How about if we follow him from a distance."

  "What's the point," Dora wondered. "He's going 100 miles an hour. We can never catch up with him."

  "Let's see about that," Digby chuckled. He stepped to his squad car and turned on the police radio. Instantly the car filled with beeping noises, whizzing sounds and the crackling of static. Digby pushed a few buttons and then said in a clear, commanding voice, "Calling all units. A 211 at 675 Main- Road to Boulder Valley. All available units…"

  For a few seconds nothing happened, but then a male voice broke through the static.

  "Hello. BR 17 from Boulder Valley. What's up?"

  "A speeder coming your way. License plate 648-TBH. Request a checkup. Give him a C25."

  More static, more crackling noises, but there was the voice again. "Copy that."

  The conversation was over. Digby turned to Dora and gave her a confident smile. "The Boulder Valley police will stop him somewhere down the road, and give him a boatload of trouble. They will question him, and in the meantime we'll catch up with him.”

  Dora stared with admiration at Digby. "You are one smart police officer."

  Digby's face radiated with joy. "It's nothing really," he mumbled. "Just using the available technology." He thought for a moment and then said, "We had best be going. We'll have that coffee another day. If we want to catch up with Bloomsteyn we should not linger too long."

  "Let's go," Dora said, but she was not so unhappy at missing her coffee. Chasing crooks alongside Digby was a great deal more exciting than a cup of coffee, even with a donut."

 
; Just five miles before Boulder Valley they caught up with Bloomsteyn.

  They could spot him from quite a distance away, and Digby slowed down his car, so as to stay out of sight. A squad car with flashing blue lights was parked right in front of his BMW and Bloomsteyn leaned against the side of his car, his arms folded and his head hung low.

  The hood of his BMW was open and two police officers were checking his motor.

  Even though they were a good hundred yards away, Dora began to whisper as she peered intently at the scene before them. "What are they doing?"

  Digby licked his lips. “A C25 is a thorough check. Drugs, weapons, you name it… No doubt they have already given him a fat ticket for speeding, but I thought it may prove to be helpful if we let our colleagues check out his car."

  "And then?"

  "We'll see," Digby replied. "If my colleagues don't find anything, they will let him go, but he won't be speeding anymore. Soon, I'll talk to them over the radio."

  Dora kept her eyes glued at the scene before them.

  One of the officers slammed the hood of the BMW closed while the other handed Bloomsteyn a paper.

  "That's a fine," Digby chuckled. "I guess they are done, and they will let him go."

  Digby was right. Bloomsteyn appeared as meek as a newborn lamb and shook the officer's hand. Then he walked over to his BMW, started the car, waved one more time to the officers and drove off way slower than the speed limit.

  "We need to go too," Dora said, "or we may lose him."

  Digby nodded and started the car as well, but he also clicked his radio back on and sought contact with the officers that had just checked out Bloomsteyn. Just as they drove off, the male voice that had talked to Digby before, blared through the air again.

  Dora tried to make sense of what was being said, but she did not understand. Digby and his colleague were speaking in short, coded sentences, but she figured Digby would tell her soon enough.

  "Thanks IR34," Digby said at last. "Over and out." Digby turned a button on his radio and the peaceful silence was restored in the car. The conversation was over.