Molly Grey Cozy Mystery Collection

by Donna Doyle

  "So?" Dora asked, her eyes round and wide. "Did you learn anything interesting?"

  "No drugs, no weapons, no counterfeit money… nothing out of the ordinary. They fined him for speeding… and here's the best thing…" He turned to look at Dora and gave her a mysterious smile.

  "What? Tell me."

  "He told the officers he was going to the Marquasy district in Boulder Valley. Family matters, he said."

  Dora shook her head. "You are kidding me? He's going to Marquasy Quedell Avenue. He's going to see his ex-wife Marilyn?"

  “And only the good Lord knows why he would be doing that. He knows we have his ex-wife’s address, and after he accused his wife of having painted that horrible warning on his wall, he should just let us handle the whole thing."

  Dora pressed her lips together and sighed. "He must be very, very desperate."

  8

  A ‘Safe’ Meeting with Marilyn

  It felt empty and strange to stand all alone in the hallway of Deborah Smythe's house.

  Molly Gertrude looked around. At first glance everything seemed to be in order. The hallway, with its marble floor, was clean although it smelled a bit musty. That was possibly because nobody had opened the windows for a couple of days. To her right, a spiral staircase was leading up, and to her left, a giant glass door gave entrance to the living room.

  She could look straight through the living room and spotted the sliding doors on the other side. That's where Bloomsteyn and Deborah had been arguing.

  She pushed down the handle of the glass door and stepped inside the living room.

  Here, it smelled fresh. No wonder, as she spotted several top windows that were open.

  The interior was exquisite. Heavy, stylish furniture, all made out of dark oak wood, paintings by young talented artists, and rare and sensitive tropical plants. Deborah loved plants, and, according to her own words, had spent quite a fortune on acquiring them. Surely she would not just leave them unattended.

  On the side was the walkway to an open kitchen. Still, nothing caught Molly Gertrude's attention.

  Right against the blind wall was an elaborate bookcase, that stretched all the way to the ceiling. How would she ever be able to reach books that were at the very top? There seemed to be no ladder.

  Molly Gertrude glanced at the titles. It was a strange mixture of psychology books like I am Ok, You're OK andStumbling upon Happiness, travelogues like, Borneo in a Jiffy,nature books(The secret love life of Penguins),and to Molly Gertrude's great joy a great assortment of crime novels, including all her favorites like John Grisham and Agatha Christie.

  For just a moment, Molly Gertrude had to fight the urge to pull out one of the books she had not yet read. How nice it would be to sink down in the luscious, leather armchair with the comfortable footrest that was overlooking the lawn. She should get one of those, although her own place was maybe just a wee bit too small.

  Come on Molly… keep focused.

  Nothing was out of the ordinary here in the living room. Nothing was strange. All the right magazines were displayed on the table, no dirty coffee cups or empty wine glasses, and no sign of a struggle.

  On first glance, the kitchen too seemed immaculate. How about the bedroom?

  Molly Gertrude walked back to the hallway in search of the bedroom. Would it be upstairs? She stared at the steep spiral staircase… that was going to be quite a climb, and dangerous too, as she felt particularly wobbly today. At that instant she noticed another door, a bit towards the back. Maybe she should check that out first.

  Bingo.It was the bedroom.

  Even though her late husband Jeff had died over three years ago, Deborah Smythe still slept in a gorgeous, upholstered and antique looking panel bed. The bed, a sight to behold with its intricate woodcarvings at the headpiece and the carved-out fir cones that crowned the legs, surely came from the time before his heart attack. Just the thought that Bloomsteyn intended to slide his unyielded bulk in between the silk sheets, next to Deborah Smythe, caused a sentiment of rebellion to well up in Molly Gertrude's heart.

  But here, not all was as it should be.

  The door of the wardrobe was hanging open and several items of clothing were sprawled out over the floor. A green sweater, slacks… a dress.

  And there, in the corner near the window, were the remains of what once had been a beautiful Japanese vase. The decoration had been carelessly knocked down off a wall shelf, and the colorful sherds were scattered all over the floor. The place had clearly been ransacked.

  Molly Gertrude began to breathe a little faster. If Deborah had run off by herself she would have simply packed her stuff, and her bedroom would not have looked like this. She did not know Deborah very well, but judging by the looks of the rest of the house, the lady was as clean as an ermine. No, somebody else had been here too.

  And then there was that painting on the wall… That was strange too, for there, on the opposite wall of the bed, was a strangely skewed painting.

  Molly Gertrude stared at it for a moment. It was an original, an oil painting of a tranquil mountain lake with majestic, snowcapped mountains in the distance. A muscled deer with massive antlers was standing at the edge, while checking if it was safe to take a drink.

  A beautiful work of art, but skewed and that was not normal.

  She walked over to the painting and lifted her hands in an effort to push it aside, half expecting to see something hidden behind it.

  Bingo again.

  Behind the painting was a grey metal safe. Molly Gertrude chuckled. It seemed just about everyone that had any money to speak of would hide it in a safe behind a painting. Deborah was clearly no exception.

  From where she was standing, it looked like the safe was even open, but it wasn't going to be easy to take a look. The painting was heavy and hung right before it. She would have to remove the thing altogether to take a better look, and that meant she had to stand on something. Standing on ladders or stools at her age was risky. Dora had made her promise she would not endanger herself by doing weird acrobatics.

  "If you break your hip, or your arm," she had hissed while shaking her finger into Molly Gertrude's face one day, "we may as well close our shop. At your age, you never fully recover." That had been on the day Molly Gertrude had insisted on hanging up her own net curtains, as she had felt quite capable… still Dora had been right of course.

  But she really wanted to look inside that safe, and standing on a sturdy kitchen stool, removing a painting from the wall, wasn't the same as doing acrobatics.What was more, Dora was having her heyday with that young, promising police officer Digby, and she wasn't here to remove the painting for her.

  Had she not seen a small, sturdy stool in the kitchen?

  Minutes later, Molly Gertrude had dragged the kitchen stool to the bedroom and climbed up. The painting was not very heavy and could easily be removed. Thus, when the old sleuth had placed it against the wall on the floor, she began her investigation of the safe.

  It was open indeed, just as she thought.

  And, as was to be expected, except for some ownership papers and a few legal documents, it was empty. No money, no jewels and not anything that had any direct value. If something of value had been in the safe, it was now gone.

  Had Bloomsteyn done it? If he had, then why would he have asked the police to search for her? That didn't make sense. But who else could it be?

  Just as Molly Gertrude wanted to step down, she spotted something else in the safe.

  A business card. She fished it out and studied it.

  Antonio Pasqualini

  Glondale Road 34

  7654 Boulder Valley

  0547-2317953

  Accounting and taxation

  IRS Problem resolution

  Estates and trusts

  Business formation

  Real estate.

  Trust is the name of the game

  Antonio Pasqualini?

  That must be Deborah's Smythe's accountant. Molly Gertrud
e, while leaning with one hand on the wall, stepped down from the kitchen stool with some difficulty. She safely made it down. Dora would not have to get angry.

  She walked over to her purse, and pulled out a small note pad. This was an address that she should hang on to. Mr. Pasqualini surely would be able to shed more light on this situation.

  Had there been money in the safe? And if Deborah had run off, then why was her bedroom in such a state of disarray?

  Questions, questions, questions, but Molly Gertrude was determined to find all the appropriate answers, and Lord willing, she would need to find them soon.

  She took one last look at the place, but had seen enough. It was time to go back. Surely, Deborah would not object to her using the home phone, and thus Molly Gertrude picked up the phone and dialed the number of Buster's Safe Speeding.

  Minutes later she opened the front door and waved with the key to Gregory Goldenrod who was just watering a rosebush near the gate. "Gregory…, thank you! Would you mind placing the key back under the flower pot?"

  Gregory stared at her for a moment and scratched his head. He waved back and nodded. "Did you find anything?" he shouted over the lawn.

  Molly Gertrude shrugged her shoulders. "Not really." She did not feel like telling the man anything. At this stage nothing was very clear. She walked over to him on the garden path and handed him the key. "Thank you, Gregory, you have been most helpful. Have a good day."

  At that moment another yellow Mercedes came to a halt before the gate. Molly Gertrude smiled. "My taxi," she said, and she stepped out the gate. Gregory Goldenrod's eyes widened as Molly Gertrude climbed into the cab and she gave him a small, little wave, until they disappeared around the corner.

  This time she wasn't driven by Gopal Gupta, but by a rather chubby man. Judging by the bulk of the man, which more than filled the driver's seat and the big bag of potato chips, strategically positioned next to him on the dashboard, Molly Gertrude figured that the man's motto, contrary to any medical advice, was eat more, exercise less. "

  But he knew how to drive and within record speed, he safely delivered Molly Gertrude at her house.

  About half an hour later, Digby and Dora arrived near Marquasy Quedell Avenue.

  "What now?" Dora asked, not wanting to do anything rash.

  Digby licked his lips and scanned the street before them. Then he let out a victorious little cry. "You see… there…" He pointed into the street, and there, squeezed in between a tree and a minivan, stood a shiny, white BMW. The license plate read 648-TBH."

  "We were right," he whispered. "Bloomsteyn is paying his ex-wife a visit."

  "What now?" Dora could hardly get the words out of her mouth as her heart began to beat a little faster.

  "We'll wait," Digby answered. "Let's just see how this pans out. In the meantime, let's park our car, so we don't attract any unnecessary attention."

  On their right was a small parking lot, belonging to Jack Beamer's Car Parts And Audio Supplies. It had lots of space and they would be hidden out of sight, while still being able to keep an eye on the house of Bloomsteyn's ex-wife.

  "We'll park the car over there," Digby mumbled while he nodded in the direction of the place.

  "Can we just park there?" Dora arched her brows.

  "Sure we can," Digby said with a grin. "We are the police…" But then he gave Dora a reassuring nod and clarified, "We'll ask the man in charge. I am sure he won't mind."

  And Digby was right.

  The man at the desk, Jack Beamer himself as it turned out, had no objections as long as they wouldn't stay too long.

  "I'll always help the police," the unshaven man, who was wearing a baseball cap of the Boston Red Sox, mumbled. "But not too long. Not good for business."

  "No problem," Digby answered him with a polite smile. "We wouldn't want to harm your business."

  The man grunted his approval and minutes later Digby and Dora were all set.

  At first nothing much happened, and Digby and Dora got involved in a bit of small talk. Dora told Digby a bit about her family, and about her desire to get a dog one day. "A cat is nice too," she said, "but I am more of a dog person."

  "Your boss, Miss Molly Gertrude, doesn't she have a cat?" Digby asked.

  "She does. The cat's name is Misty and she is a good mouse-catcher. But as far as being friendly to others besides Miss Molly Gertrude, I believe she's got a bit of learning to do."

  "And so does Bernard Bloomsteyn," Digby interrupted her, as something was happening. Both Digby and Dora stopped talking and stared intently at the house.

  The front door had opened and Bloomsteyn had appeared. He seemed furious and while he turned around they could see him waving his fist. Then somebody whom they couldn't see slammed the door closed in his face. Bloomsteyn walked back over to the door and kicked it hard and violently with his foot.

  Digby shook his head. "Gone are all his suave manners."

  "And then to think," Dora whispered, "that he had me fooled as well."

  In spite of his ranting and raving, and kicking against the door, nothing more happened. The door did not open again. They could see Bloomsteyn scowl. Then he walked over to his car and got in.

  "What do we do," Dora whispered. "Do we follow him?"

  Digby shook his head. "No, we will not. Remember, our job is to question his wife. As soon as Bloomsteyn is gone, we'll knock on the door. I am sure his ex-wife has an interesting story to tell."

  After Bloomsteyn had roared off in his BMW, Digby and Dora stepped out of their car and walked over to number 14-b. The house, a three-story apartment building sandwiched in between a pharmacy and a bar, was not very big, and compared to the majestic Greenacre Manor, the dwelling looked almost laughable. Clearly Bloomsteyn, after their divorce, had gotten the better deal in life. Digby licked his lips as they stood before the front door with the peeling paint, his finger resting on the grimy button of the intercom.

  "Ready, Dora?" he asked.

  Dora nodded, and Digby pushed the button.

  "Get lost," a woman's voice blared through the intercom. "If you don't leave I'll call the police."

  Digby rearranged his police cap and cleared his throat. "Excuse me, Ma'am… we are the police."

  It was silent for some seconds. Clearly it took the woman some time to process the new information. There was her blaring voice again. "What do you want?" Apparently, knowing that Digby and Dora were not Bloomsteyn had done nothing to soften her up. She sounded as harsh and unfriendly as before.

  "We want to talk, Ma'am. Open the door, please."

  "I've got nothing to say," she fired back. "I've done nothing wrong."

  "Please, Ma'am," Digby said, in as sweet a voice as he could muster, "It's best if you let us in."

  The front door clicked open. Dora pushed it open all the way and they both entered the musty, dark hallway. It smelled like garbage that had not been properly cleaned up, and Dora wrinkled her nose. In front of them was the door of an elevator. It had been recently repainted in shiny green, but it had not been done with a lot of care and skill. Whoever had done the work had missed several spots. The old color, a rusty red, still shone through the new layer, and blobs of dried up green paint now decorated the faded red carpet.

  Digby swung open the elevator door and they both got in. Dora shivered. Working with Miss Molly Gertrude had taught her a thing or two, and she had been in a few strange places; nevertheless, she still did not consider herself much of a hero. But, standing here, pressed against Digby's strong body in the narrow space of the elevator, made her feel safe and secure. Surely, this too would work out fine.

  Digby had pushed the button for the second floor. He figured that would likely lead them to Marilyn's place, and as soon as the elevator had come to a screechy halt and he had pushed the door open, he knew it had been the right choice. There, glaring at them in the open doorway of apartment 14b stood a woman.

  She looked thin, angry and wild. She was dressed in ripped jeans, slippers
, and a loose-fitting red sweater with the message that New York was the city to love. Her hair was undone and hanging in loose strings over her shoulders, and her eyes were shooting sparks of resentment and anger. And yet, Dora could imagine that with a bit of work, this woman could be quite charming, possibly even beautiful.

  But not now. Not today, as she clearly wasn’t concerned for a second what people thought of her at present.

  Mrs. Marilyn Bloomsteyn?

  "Not Bloomsteyn," she fired back. "Tucker. I am Marilyn Tucker, since I divorced that low life."

  "All right," Digby nodded, "Please to meet you, Mrs. Tucker. May we come in?"

  "Why?" Marilyn said defensively as she put both of her hands on her hips. "Did Bernard contact you with his lies?"

  Digby shook his head. "He did not, Mrs. Tucker. My name is Digby and I am working for the Calmhaven police force.”

  He tipped his hat and introduced Dora. "And this is Miss Dora Brightside. She is assisting me today."

  "So? What does that have to do with me?" She kept on glaring and then asked, "Show me your badge."

  "No problem, Ma'am," Digby said politely, and he took out his badge, and stuck it under Marilyn Tucker's nose. Dora marveled at how polite Digby was in handling the woman.

  Marilyn grunted, wrinkled her nose, and stepped back. "I am very busy. You've got five minutes."

  "It's all we need, Mrs. Tucker."

  As they stepped inside, Dora couldn't help but wonder about Marilyn Tucker's living conditions. Her apartment was as dingy and grubby as the whole building. The rug in the hallway was old and threadbare, the wallpaper faded and peeling, and the scent of cigarette smoke and cooked sausage permeated the air.

  How was it possible that someone as refined as Bernard Bloomsteyn had been married to Marilyn Tucker?

  Clearly Digby had the same thoughts, as it was the first thing he asked after they had taken place at Marilyn's wobbly kitchen table. "Knowing your former husband is the owner of Greenacre Manor, and seeing how you live, I can understand your anger, Mrs. Tucker."