Meet the Original: CD Grimes PI, #1

By C. D. Moulton

Introduces the original CD Grimes, PI, grandfather of the present CD Grimes, PI

Critic comment: 1984
The kind of stuff you'd find in those older magazines. Most of them were average, but a couple were pretty good. Certainly worth the price
JM Rtng: I'd buy it

Critic comment: 2011
Agree totally with JM. I read this on a trip between Ontario and Los Angeles, was almost through, and sat in the terminal forty minutes to finish. I recommend this book to all who like the old style mysteries.
Alton F. rating: ***½

• Language: English
• Publisher: C. D. Moulton
• Release date: Jul 19, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201280932

Book preview

C D Grimes

Book one

Meet the Original

14 Shorts

© 1985 & 2012 by C. D. Moulton

all rights reserved: no part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any other information retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright holder/ publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblances to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental

Introduces the original CD Grimes, PI, grandfather of the present CD Grimes, PI

Critic comment: 1984

The kind of stuff you’d find in those older magazines. Most of them were average, but a couple were pretty good. Certainly worth the price

JM Rtng: I’d buy it

Critic comment: 2011

Agree totally with JM. I read this on a trip between Ontario and Los Angeles, was almost through, and sat in the terminal forty minutes to finish. I recommend this book to all who like the old style mysteries.

Alton F. rating: ***½

Contents

About the author

Fun With Blondes

Vote of Confidence

Small Town

Orchids to You

In the Swim of Things

High Flyer

Retribution

Changes

Dangerous Game

Goodbye and Good Riddance!

So There!

A Sensitive Problem

Countdown

Reunion

Shades of Dr. Fell

About the Author

CD was born in Lakeland, Florida, in 1938. He is educated in genetics and botany. He has traveled over much of the world, particularly when he was in music as a rock rhythm guitarist with some well-known bands in the late sixties and early seventies. He has worked as a high steel worker and as a longshoreman, clerk, orchidist, bar owner, salvage yard manager and landscaper – among other things.

CD began writing fiction in 1984 and has more than 300 books published as of 3/15/16 in SciFi, murder, orchid culture and various other fields.

He now resides in Gualaca, Chiriqui, Panamá, where he continues research into epiphytic plants and plays music with friends. He loves the culture of the indigenous people and counts a majority of his closer friends among that group. Several have adopted him as their father. He funds those he can afford through the universities where they have all excelled. The Indios are very intelligent people, they are simply too poor (in material things and money. Culturally, they are very wealthy) to pursue higher education.

CD loves Panamá and the people, despite horrendous experiences (Free e-book; Fading Paradise). He plans to spend the rest of his life in the paradise that is Panamá

- Estrelita Suarez V. de Jaramillo – 3/15/2016

CD is involved in research of natural cancer cure at this time. It has proven effective in all cases, so far. It is based on a plant that has been in use for thousands of years, is safe, available, and cheap. He has studied botany, and was cured of a serious lymphoma with use of the plant, Ambrosia peruviana.

Information about this cure is free on the FaceBook group, Natural medicine research. CD asks only that all who try it please report on its effectiveness on that group.

Fun With Blondes

This was one hell of a thing to have to waste my time on!

It's not like I mind wasting time, it just seemed to be one of those things you know from the start you're not going to get paid for.

When Sheila Crane came into my office, I could smell trouble. She was one of those classy broads who are just a little too goodlooking. She was dressed a bit too well, and wore jewelry that was just a touch too expensive.

Despite the fact I knew right then I was hopelessly in love with her, she seemed to be the type who came from nowhere and married a lot of money. She wanted class, but she didn't have quite all the necessary credentials – though she sure looked class and talked class. It was that kind of day.

Mr. Grimes? she asked. I'm Sheila Crane.

Call me CD, I answered. "I'll Sherlock a little bit to save time. Tell me how close I am.

"You recently married J. R. Crane, and settled down for the perfect life of ease at his estate out by the lake. I know the place.

Old JR is head over heels, and now somebody from your sordid past in Podunk Corners showed up and is threatening you with blackmail. You want me to stop him. It was all a setup anyway, and you've done nothing you're ashamed of, but you're afraid that dear, dear little old JR might take it the wrong way so I just have to do something!

You're good! That would be fairly close, she agreed with a lopsided little grin. "Except that dear, dear little old JR is my father, I've lived most of my life on the estate, I don't have a sordid past except in Paris and that was in all the papers at the time and was all bull anyhow – and you're right. I'm not the least bit ashamed of anything I've done.

"I never married dear, dear little old JR or anybody else! (that excited me, even if I didn't stand a snowflake's chance with a woman like her!)

"Now I'll Sherlock a little and you tell me how close I have you figured.

You're about to go broke from expenses being far above your income, you drink too much, smoke too much and are what could generally be cliched as a male chauvinist pig. You're a generally disagreeable slob who spends a lot of time feeling sorry for yourself and the terrible way the world's treated you since you were dropped on your head at six years of age!

It was at four years, but you're probably closer than I want to admit. I guess this means you'll have to tell me why you came here or I'll never know.

I’d planned on hiring a private investigator to locate my missing sister. Instead, I found a gumshoe slob – but you could still maybe find Irene.

Again, I agreed with her. I needed the dough, as she so very astutely noted, and I'm not so bad a detective.

It seems her younger sister had come to Nicely (Lord! I hate that name!) to visit her father and to sit around to reminisce about the good old times. She came into town three days ago to do some shopping and never returned to the estate. No one sent any kidnap note and they hadn't heard from her so were getting a little worried.

Let me get this story straight, I said. "I'm supposed to believe your dear little sister came here three days ago, never went back home and you're `a little worried' about her now?

What about the cops? They've got a whole department for that kind of crap. They can send out a hotline and canvas the whole state in a few hours!

If you knew Irene you'd know why. She screwed up her exceptionally nice face. She has a sordid past, present and future. I won't be a bit surprised if she met some local character in a bar and moved in with him – or her – to `investigate' a new lifestyle or something such. We just want to know if she's all right and to get her back to Europe or somewhere before she damages the family name more than she already has. She seeks headlines and scandals. She wants to be a film actress or something and says the publicity's good for her career. It's crap!

I get fifty plus per day. Gimme an advance and I'll try to find her. I need a picture.

I almost fell off the chair! Talk about a built broad, this sister was all of that! It wasn't the usual put-on stuff, either. The picture was of a tall, slinky blonde, coming out of a marble swimming pool. She had long silky hair and all the necessary parts in all the right places in all the correct ratios one to another. Her shape wasn't a part of the outfit 'cause there wasn't any outfit. (She was a real blonde, too!)

I took the photo (in full, glorious Kodacolor) with a shaking hand and said, I'll get right on it. She gave me half a grand for a retainer and left.

If the shape that seemed to be revealed by the loose dress she was wearing was hers, her sister didn't have a thing on her!

I got off my duff to go to the police station. There weren't any Jane Doe bodies, but Lt. Buford said no one could miss a body like the one in the picture.

There was nothing at the hospital.

Sweet Irene had come to town to shop so I hit all the stores in the downtown section and learned she had used her personal charge plate at two of the most expensive shops in the area. She bought one small two carat ruby ring and a pair of rather nice little shoes that were on sale for a mere hundred bucks!

When you have someone who uses charge plates for money you find it easy to track them down later because those slips are all still at the stores. You introduce yourself as Detective Grimes and flash your ID. They’ll let you rummage through the slips for the past three days. It's a convenient way to find just where a person's been. I know I'll never use charge plates if I ever decide I want to disappear for any reason!

The two stores were the only places I could find in town so I went to the fancy exclusive shops on Lakeshore Plaza where you buy most things by appointment only. She'd ordered a fancy bracelet made, but it wouldn't be ready until Monday, which gave four days before she was expected back. I checked the bars in the area, then went back toward town where I found she'd been in The First Cabin for about an hour Monday afternoon late, but had left when there wasn't any action around so early.

I played a hunch then. This broad was looking for action in the afternoon and there was only one place where she might find it. The Pirate's Cove was once a pretty high-class joint over in Warmoth, just across the county line. It looks nice enough when you walk in but, if you hang around much, you begin to smell a rat in the molding. The clientele goes for the games in the back rooms, not the booze or atmosphere. They run poker, roulette and all types of off-track betting. Sheriff Tuckey over there raids the place about three times a year, but has never found anything wrong – which could maybe be because he announces the day before that he needs the county volunteer posse to help him round up the gamblers and moonshiners in the county.

He has a great place on the lake with a yacht that cost better than fifty thousand bucks. He makes sixteen eight a year.

Yeah, right and uh-huh. I'm like everyone else around here and can add one and one and get seventy two point six.

I sat at the bar to order a Jim Beam straight up and waited until Bobby Teller managed to slide next to me.

Buy me a drink, Sweets, he lisped. Tell little ol' Bobsey what you're doin' way over here.

Yeah. I bought him – it – whatever, a drink and showed him the picture.

"Lord, what I'd give for a figure like that rich slut! And to leave here with Samuel Madison like she did Monday night!"

I laughed and asked if he knew where she was now.

Oh, let's see. He held out a hand, which I laid a ten into.

You already got that much shit, Charlie! he snarled.

The thing that scared me about him was he could be the one meanest SOB you ever ran across one minute and a swishy fruit the next.

You know I pay for what I get, not what you ain't got.

He grinned, and said, Nobody's seen her or Sam since Monday night. Believe me, I would know if Sam had been around.

He'd been trying to get to Sam for more than a year, ever since the guy came to the area. Sam was always nice enough and made a joke of it, but you could tell he didn't like the fruit around him.

I nodded and handed him another ten. What the hell, it was going on expenses, anyhow.

I drove to Sam's log cabin by the creek that emptied into the lake, but there was no one around and no cars. No tire marks since the heavy rain yesterday morning. It did give me an idea so I called the estate and talked to a butler or something. Irene was driving the brown Bentley he believed.

Butlers, when handled right, can tell you some very damned important things. You have to flatter them while seeming to be sincere.

It was a brown (mahogany) '51 Bentley four door touring car and they always used Amoco gas if the card's receipts were to be believed.

Now the hard part started, but at least a Bentley would tend to stick in a gas jockey's mind – particularly if this broad was driving.

It took two more days to find a station that had serviced the car. It took one hundred eleven phone calls. I called each station in an expanding circle from Nicely (God! I hate that name!) until I found where they got gas outside of Goring, two hundred miles west. Gas was put into two cars – the Bentley and an Olds – on the same slip.

I got the license number of the Olds and called Buford, who said he didn't need to look that one up. He gave Sam Madison a speeding ticket in that car less than two weeks ago. It was a black '49 Super 88. Full blown.

I got out a map to try to decide where they were going. They weren't going anywhere in the direction they were traveling. There was nothing until the mountains, and only second or third-rate ski villages there. No one went skiing in July – not on nonexistent snow!

I had to figure where to go with this crap next. I'd found a general direction and there wasn't any reason to think Irene was in any danger and Sam Madison wasn't important enough to cause any scandals. I called the estate to inform Sheila her little sister was headed toward the mountains with a man who wasn't the type to cause trouble so she owed me nothing and I would send the change from her half-thousand. She said to keep it.

I didn't think anymore about it except to wonder what I'd do if I had any real chance to date someone like Sheila Crane. Even her sister. Money, looks, no morals – what more could a slobby male chauvinist pig ask?

I checked with the fancy shop at Lakeside on Tuesday, but Irene hadn't picked up the fancies.

Wednesday's paper had headlines screaming:

Prominent Socialite Found Murdered

Last evening at approximately ten o'clock the body of popular young socialite Irene Marie Crane was discovered in her new Rolls Royce automobile, secreted in a small rocky canyon near Cambern Mountain Resort.

Evidence at the scene indicated the strangled young woman's body had been brought to that canyon after her death. The postmortem lividity patterns showed she had been laying on her back for a time after death, but she was found  in a seated position behind the wheel of the vehicle.

Dr. Lee Anderson, the county coroner, said evidence gathered at the scene suggested she had been dead for eighteen to twenty two  hours.

Police are seeking another person driving a 1949 Oldsmobile Super 88, black, with a 31 yr. old male driver carrying the identification of Mr. Samuel A. Madison for questioning regarding this case. Mr. Madison was seen in the company of Miss Crane earlier.

There was the usual message in a little box that anyone having any information, etc. etc.

I didn't like the smell of this crap. At all!  I sat around to rethink the facts I had. It just didn't add up! I had been hired to find this broad and her runaway boyfriend, had done so, reported it to dear sister and she was bumped two days later?

Sure! I got off the boat this damned morning!  I called the Crane estate and got the butler. Miss Sheila had left last evening for the mountains to claim her sister's body and wasn't it all just too terrible!

I thanked him, then sat around to think some more. Three and a half hours later I was renting an old car in Cambern, after which I headed for the ski resort. The county sheriff was there with the coroner, Sheila Crane, and her sister's body. Sheila Baby got a bad case of the stutters when I walked in, but recovered fast. Wasn't it all too terrible?!

It is for me, I said. You pay me to find her, I do, and she's dead within a coupla hours. I was born yesterday. You want to talk here or somewhere private?  We went to the coffee shop and swilled some vile mud. They weren't open this time of the year so....

I let her tell about six ridiculous stories.

You don't think too fast, do you? I asked. I'd think you'd rehearse a story and stick to it by now. You had to know I'd read all about this in the papers. You also had to know I'd blow the whistle. I just want to know what the game is before I have your very pretty little body locked away for the next twenty to life!

I swear! I had nothing to do with it! I know how it looks! That's why I'm so scared! I was set up for this!

By who – whom?

I don't know. Oh. Mr. Grimes! I don't know! I hired you to help us stop another family scandal and now this! I'm scared! I had nothing to do with it!

I looked at her sitting there and wringing her cute little lace hankie into knots. I believed her.

Look, Honey, I said, making up my mind about her. "Let's get everything out in the open, then we can figure a way to get your neck out of the noose. I believe you to an extent – if only because nobody would be dumb enough to do anything so stupidly obvious.

Who knew you were looking for little sis?

Just the few people staying at the house. We most certainly didn't want to advertise this!

That's who?

Me and dad, the staff, Aunt Celia and Uncle Tim, Jenny and Bob.

Who are Celia, Tim, Jenny and Bob? I shot back.

"Celia and Tim are my father's brother and Tim's wife. They just sort of hang around and live off dad, but nobody much cares. We have plenty. Celia would look down her nose at Irene, but she really isn't the type to do her any harm – other than through gossip. Tim just sips his whiskey and sits around. He's never really drunk, but he's never really sober. He reads all the time.

"Jenny's a friend who's visiting from Clayton, where we all grew up together. Both her parents were killed in an automobile accident about a year ago. She's been at the house for about a month now.

"Bob's my brother. He sort of ... he's your basic rich bum. He flies around the world and tries to spend money faster than dad makes it. He's really worthless, but we all like him, anyway. He's very charming.

I'm sure the staff has nothing to do with it. I'm sure.

How many of you knew I'd found Irene and where she was?

"Mr. Cliff – he's the butler – was serving drinks when I told the rest you'd located her and where