Molly Grey Cozy Mystery Collection

by Donna Doyle

  And my article about Albert Barnes? It was never published. "Way too long," Stapleton explained. "I'll take care of it." And that was it. The only mention in the Calmhaven Sentinel about the whole thing was a small article by Jack Stapleton himself, that stated that JJ Barnes solved a very difficult case, and that the people of Calmhaven could rest assured that their enthusiastic police force was watching over them, even in their sleep.

  So I quit.

  I decided journalism wasn't my calling. I am now going for higher mountains.

  Now, I will be a writer. A real good one too. Maybe I’ll even write a mystery or two.

  And Miss Molly Gertrude and Dora?

  To be frank, I am not that fond of Raspberry tea, and I always seem to choke on her cookies. But I must confess, I may need Molly’s Cozy Bridal agency before too long myself, as I met a gorgeous young woman. Her name is Patsy, and she is talking about getting hitched.

  So, if we ever decide to step into that sacred little gondola called marriage, I think I know just the ones to organize the party!

  The Mystery of The Missing Bride

  A Molly Grey Cozy Mystery

  Prologue

  Prologue - An unpleasant visit

  "I don't care about Janice Bell, cats or even rabbits…" Bloomsteyn barked. "…I need my wife, you hear me?"

  JJ Barnes shrugged his shoulders. "How long has she been missing? A day? A week? Can't be that long…?"

  "She went missing last night," Bloomsteyn muttered. “But even though it has only been a few hours, time is of the essence. This is a crime if I ever saw one. A very big crime, and you need to solve it!”

  1

  Three Years Earlier

  Three years earlier

  The marina in Calmhaven

  The knock on the small door of his cabin startled Jeff. It was already getting dark, and he did not expect anybody. Nobody, besides Deborah even knew he was here.

  She had not been all that pleased when he announced at breakfast he would be working late that night. "I'll be staying on the yacht, honey. I need to get our books ready for the tax report, and in the day time I have no time for it. Our accountant insists on it."

  Deborah had cocked her brows. "He's working for us. It's not the other way around, honey. Sometimes, I worry about you. You are just working too hard."

  "I'll be fine," Jeff answered, his mouth full of bread. "Nobody ever died because of good old-fashioned hard work."

  "It's not the work that kills people. It's the stress that does it." Deborah's eyes flashed with concern. "You look so tired these days, Jeff. I see you frown and worry and—"

  "—I am fine, Deb. Really I am," Jeff interrupted his wife. He was not in the mood. They'd had this conversation before and it wasn't helping any. Deborah had no idea what it took to keep his business afloat, and he was going to be fine. No sweat.

  "And what about food?" Deborah wasn't giving up. "Are you just going to resort to chocolate bars and hamburgers again? I've got a good, healthy meal waiting for you at the house, but when you stay on the boat and keep on working, you never eat proper food." There was an actual scowl on her face. "You've got a tummy, Jeff… and it's getting bigger!"

  Jeff sighed. His wife had a point. He wasgetting chubby. But he wasn't the only one. Actually, his friend Leopold was getting more than just chubby, but was actually getting fat. He called it the middle age spread, and said it was normal. "Every man over forty gets hit with it, Jeff. Gaining a few kilo's and pounds is to be expected. Enjoy life, it is over before you know it."

  So, one more night of chocolate bars and hamburgers wasn't going to be such a big deal. Just to get Deborah off his back he had made the promise he would be home for dinner tomorrow, and had asked with pleading puppy eyes if she would prepare his favorite, Sicilian spaghetti with anchovies.

  She had sighed but nodded in agreement and announced that in that case, tonight she would be going out with Charmayne and Annabelle, her friends from the local women's club.

  Again? She'd already seen these women twice this week.

  "Great idea, honey. That way we are both happy."

  Thus he had not gone home that night, but had indeed picked up three hamburgers at Bert's Burger Joint, the greasy spoon restaurant near the harbor. By doing so, he had gained at least two full good hours of work time. And, even better, he had not bought himself a Snickers bar. He had been strong and Deborah would be proud. Working on his health was going well.

  But now there was that unexpected knock on the door, just when he was getting back to work. Most unsettling.

  "Who's there?" he shouted, a little reserved.

  Maybe somebody wanted a donation for the "Save the Australian dingo" fund. Or maybe it was that bent-over little lady from the Salvation Army who was peddling that magazine of theirs. What was it called again? War Hammer or War Cry… He could not remember, but it was something like that. Just to please her and because she was a sweetheart, he always bought one, although he never read it. It always landed on the pile of trash within a day or two.

  He still had a few coins in his coat pocket.

  But the voice that answered was not the weak, high-pitched feminine voice of the Salvation Army lady, but clearly belonged to a man. Deep, dark and demanding. "We need to talk. We want to come in."

  We?

  "What do you want? I’m busy. I don't want to talk. Go away!"

  "Business," came the reply. "We've got an offer you can't resist."

  Jeff frowned. It didn't sound like a collection. He wished it had been. "I don't need anything. I already have everything."

  But that was apparently not the answer the man outside was wanting to hear, as at the same time the door opened with a creak and the silhouette of a bulky man appeared. Jeff shivered. He did not like that man at all, whoever he was. He was dressed in a long, brown overcoat, and a fedora hat was perched over his forehead. He was followed by a smaller, skinnier man, with a pale face and thin lips that held an unlit cigarette. The second character was dressed almost identical to the first.

  "Hello," the bigger of the two said in a deep voice, "…working late?"

  Even though it was fairly dark in that part of the boat, Jeff noticed his stony, chiseled face. A regular goon. All the facial muscles of the man seemed to be tightened to the limit, and his dark, brown eyes shone with an unearthly glow that told of a cold, dark world of wickedness.

  Not a world that Jeff wanted anything to do with. The skinny one seemed more like an errand boy, trying to uphold a form of fierceness that somehow was painfully absent. "W-Who are you?"

  For a moment the man kept silent, and while he licked his lips, he stared at him. Jeff's sense of uneasiness rose as he felt the gaze of the man boring into him… penetrating, unnerving and cruel.

  "Pasqualini," the man said at last.

  Jeff looked puzzled. "Excuse me?"

  "That's my name," the man answered. "I am Antonio Pasqualini, and this…" he turned to his companion, "…is Giovanni Serpentino, also known as 'the Mouse.'

  The Mouse? How weird could it get?

  The thought flashed through Jeff's mind that this was all a big joke. Probably fat Leopold was playing a prank. Leopold was always the foolish one, and would probably be standing behind the door right now while he was cracking up. Of all the stupid jokes.

  "It's all right, boys," Jeff mumbled, hoping he was right. "It's been a lot of fun, but I've got work to do."

  Antoine Pasqualini rested his bulky body against the cherrywood door of Jeff's cabin, took an apple out of his coat pocket and began to rub it. The Mouse chuckled a nervous, high-pitched laugh, planted himself down on the small seat opposite of Jeff's desk, and lit his cigarette.

  "No smoking in my cabin," Jeff veered up and he shook his finger. "Whoever you folks are, I don't want to talk to you. You should leave or I will call the police."

  Pasqualini smiled. A gloomy, wicked smile, just the way a snake would smile, if such a thing were possible. He pointed to Jeff's mo
bile phone that stood in the charger right next to the Mouse. "With… eh… that phone?"

  The Mouse forced a courageous grin on his pale face and leaned a bit to the side while pulling his overcoat aside. Jeff's breath stopped as he stared at the butt of a gun.

  The Mouse, pleased with Jeff's startled reaction, cast him an apologetic look and said, "Come on, be a friend and let me have my cigarette. Just a few drags." Without waiting for Jeff's permission he pulled out his lighter and lit the stump that was hanging out of his mouth.

  Jeff's heart sank. This was not a prank. This was the real thing. These folks were up to no good. He pressed his lips together and tried to control the rising sense of panic in his chest. He should not show them any fear. He had read somewhere that evil would feed on fear. Fear made the enemy stronger.

  No fear. No fear.

  "What is it you want?" Jeff mumbled. "I've got no money here. Just my boat."

  Pasqualini nodded. "You are a wise man, Mr. Smythe. Just your boat."

  "You know my name?"

  "Of course," Pasqualini grinned. "We have been studying you for some time. You are an upright person, and well-respected in the community…" He held the apple under his nose and sniffed it. "You are hardworking, honest and I would say, you are a faithful husband to your wife…" He narrowed his eyes as he peered into Jeff's eyes. "You are, aren't you?"

  "Leave my wife out of this," Jeff fired back. "What is it you want?"

  "You already said it, Mr. Smythe. We need a boat. This one."

  Jeff sighed. He should not have stayed on the yacht alone at night in the marine. He should have gone home to have dinner with Deborah. Now these thugs would be stealing his boat. But, strange as it seemed, knowing these thugs just wanted his boat also brought some relief. It was annoying, irritating, horrible, but not the end of the world. He had good insurance, and the police would catch these folks in a jiffy. If he would just cooperate, give them the keys and walk off, maybe he would come out unharmed.

  Thus, Jeff pushed his chair away and got up from the desk. "I'll leave. You can take the boat. I won't tell anyone… just let me go." He was just about the throw the keys to the engine on the carpet before Pasqualini, when the man scowled and hissed, "Sit down, Smythe. We are notdone here."

  Not done?

  Jeff's heart was now beating so loudly he was certain the crooks could hear it.

  "We don’t just need the boat. We need you too."

  "Me? Why… I don't know anything."

  "It's not what you know, Smythe. It's what you are," Pasqualini said. After he said it he took a bite off his apple and began to chew with great relish. The sound of the crunching apple reminded Jeff of the cracking of bones. What a strange thought to have at such a time.

  "What do you mean?"

  Pasqualini swallowed his bite, licked his lips, and said, "I already told you. You are an honest, upright man, well-loved by the community. Just the profile we need. We need you to pick up a bit of cargo for us."

  "Cargo?" For a moment Jeff forgot his fear and anger rose in his chest. "Drugs, you probably mean. I will never do such a thing. You can steal my boat, but you can't steal my integrity."

  Pasqualini nodded. "We expected as much."

  He pushed his fedora hat back on his head, thus revealing a small scar right above his left eye, and pulled out his mobile phone. "Let me show you something, Smythe."

  Jeff arched his brows. "What?"

  "Just a minute, Smythe," Pasqualini said with a grin while pushing some buttons on his phone. "You seem a little stressed. Stress can kill you, you know. Isn't that what your wife tells you all the time?"

  Jeff felt nausea rising. Who were these folks?

  Pasqualini placed the phone against his ear and waited for a moment.

  Somebody answered.

  "Bambi, is that you?" Pasqualini asked, and he listened intently for a few seconds. "Yeah… I got him right here." A smile slowly formed on his lips and he glanced victoriously at Jeff. "Thank you, Bambi." He walked over to Jeff, showing him the screen of his phone.

  When Jeff glanced at it, another shock coursed through his body. The screen showed a live recording of Deborah's evening with the women's club friends. She, Charmayne and Annabelle were just raising a glass of red wine in some sort of toast. "To the women's club," they shouted in unison, after which they all downed their glasses in one big gulp.

  "H-How do you get this?" Jeff stammered as he gulped. "Are you spying on my wife?"

  "Looking after her," Pasqualini corrected. "We wouldn't want anything bad happening to her, would we?" He smacked his lips and shook his head. "Cars these days are not what they once were, especially not the brakes…" He cast Jeff a jovial smile as he pulled his phone away.

  Jeff jumped up. He wanted to jump on Pasqualini, plant his fists into the man's ugly face, but both Pasqualini and the Mouse were prepared. "Easy, Smythe," Pasqualini hissed as both he and the Mouse pulled out their pistols, and Jeff stared at the frightening barrel of a Glock.

  "Look, Smythe," Pasaqualini groaned, getting a little impatient. "Just be smart. We can do this the hard way, or the easy way. Let's be gentle and humane, shall we? But, of course, it's up to you."

  "Yeah," the Mouse added, while letting out another one of his sickening, high-pitched little laughs. "The easy way or the hard way, Mister Smythe."

  All of a sudden Jeff's head began to hurt, and an unfamiliar dizziness crouched up through his spine. "What is it, you want?"

  "You have connections…," Pasqualini continued, "…that we don’t have. You are friends with the local law-enforcers, we are not. You know the custom officials, we don't, and finally, you are considered to be an outstanding citizen, and we… " his voice trailed off, "… well, let's say, we are not considered the cream of the crop in Calmhaven. So just be smart, use your boat to make a few runs for us, get our stuff through, and who knows, we may even give you a bonus."

  "Yeah," the Mouse spoke up while he shook his finger courageously in the direction of Jeff's face, "and your wife will continue to enjoy her lovely outings with those silly women of her club."

  For a moment nobody spoke. Pasqualini took another bite of his apple and besides the terrifying sound of the crunching fruit, the smacking lips of the intruder, and the sloshing of the water against the hull of the boat, not a sound was heard.

  Pasqualini studied what was left of his apple and wiped his lips clean with his left index finger. "You got a waste basket in here?"

  Jeff didn't answer. He had felt so energetic, so encouraged, but now his strength was fast draining away; almost as if he were a broken bucket, no longer able to hold water.

  "Never mind," Pasqualini snorted as he stared at the waste basket next to Jeff's desk. "I see it already." He narrowed his dark eyes, aimed, and attempted to dump the apple core right into the bin. He missed. The core landed on the edge of the bin and tumbled to the floor. "Always loved baseball," he sneered, "but my Dad forced me into his bakery, so my aim is not what it could have been. Luckily I found a better career path." He tapped with his fingers on the wall, wanting to get it over with. "Well, Smythe… Are you in?"

  "I…I… need to think about it. I need time."

  "Don't take too long, Smythe. But, I think you are a reasonable man," he snorted. "Ever hear of the Golden Dipper?"

  Jeff narrowed his eyes. "The golden what?"

  "Dipper, Smythe. The Golden Dipper. I often come there and—"

  Jeff didn't hear anymore what Pasqualini said. He rasped, and a sharp pain coursed through his chest. It felt as if his lungs were decreasing in size. Breathing became more difficult, and there was pressure on his upper back, almost as if someone was sitting on it. But nobody was. The nausea he had felt rising seemed to have settled permanently in his whole being, and the strange and unfamiliar dizziness that had crept up, only intensified. And why was his head so light? It was almost as if he could just float away. He was so tired… So very tired. If he could just lay his head on the desk… for just a
few seconds, then he would be able to think more clearly…

  Jeff yielded to his desire and gave in. He slouched forward and right before the startled faces of the crooks his head landed precisely on top of his books.

  "No jokes, Smythe…" Pasqualini hissed, but Jeff did not hear it. All of a sudden, he saw the face of his dear wife. Where did she come from? She smiled at him… Was she speaking too?

  Yes, she was. Jeff tried to concentrate, but he was so tired. No, he was exhausted. Still he heard Deborah's sweet voice. "I love you, Jeff… You are a wonderful husband. You know, I think I am the happiest woman in the world."

  Jeff wanted to answer. He wanted to embrace her, lay his weary head on her breast and tell her that he loved her too and that he too was the happiest man on the planet, but he couldn't.

  Right then everything went blank.

  Jeff closed his eyes, and there, in front of the astonished faces of the crooks, his heart stopped beating.

  Jeff Smythe, the gentle husband of Deborah Smythe, was no more.

  2

  Getting ready for the party

  Calmhaven

  The present day

  "Raspberry tea, Dora, or Earl Grey?" Molly Gertrude cast Dora a sideway glance as she stared at her assistant from the kitchen.

  Dora Brightside and Molly Gertrude Grey had just finished their work in the Cozy Bridal Agency. Their work for the day was done and, as had become a daily tradition, Dora was offered a cup of tea, which was usually accompanied by one of Molly Gertrude's home-baked delicacies.

  It was one of the last things Molly Gertrude would do every day. After Dora had finished her tea and had left, Molly Gertrude would feed her white cat Misty, grab a quick sandwich, and climb into her bed with a crime novel.

  Reading detective stories was her passion, and whenever the opportunity presented itself she didn't mind doing a bit of sleuthing herself. She was good at it too, although it was doubtful that this had anything to do with her reading habit, as invariably she would never get much further into her book than two pages at the most. More often than not, the letters on the page would already start dancing and turning after even a few paragraphs, which meant Molly Gertrude was falling asleep.