There are plenty of mysteries out there that are dark and somber, but seriously how many stories have you read about the endangered lives of begonias? The Begonia Killer is a hilarious mystery about that weird neighbor you’re just not sure of. You know the guy. Today we have an excerpt and a giveaway for The Begonia Killer.
Synopsis:

You know Molly McGill from her death-defying escapes in Anarchy of the Mice, book one of the Third Chance Enterprises series. Now ride along for her first standalone caper, The Begonia Killer.
When Martha Dodson hires McGill Investigators to look into an odd neighbor, Molly feels optimistic about the case â right up until Martha reveals her theory that Kent Kirkland, the neighbor, is holding two boys hostage in his papered-over upstairs bedroom.
Marthaâs husband thinks she needs a hobby. Detective Art Judd, who Molly visits on her clientâs behalf, sees no evidence worthy of devoting police resources.
But Molly feels a kinship with the Yancy Park housewife and bone-deep concern for the missing boys.
She forges ahead with the investigation, navigating her own headstrong kids, an unlikely romance with Detective Judd, and a suspect in Kent Kirkland every bit as terrifying as the supervillains sheâs battled before alongside Quaid Rafferty and Durwood Oak Jones.
The Begonia Killer is not your grandparentsâ cozy mystery.
Book Details:
Genre: Mystery — Cozy/Romance
Published by: Jeff Bond Books
You can find The Begonia Killer at these websites: Amazon | Goodreads
Read an excerpt:
THE BEGONIA KILLER
By Jeff Bond
Chapter One
After twenty minutes on Martha Dodsonâs couch, listening to her suspicions about the neighbor, I respected the woman. She was no idle snoop. Sheâd noticed his compulsive begonia care out the window while making lavender sachets from burlap scraps. She hadnât even been aware of the papered-over bedroom above his garage until her postal carrier had commented.
I asked, âAnd the day he removed the begonias, how did you happen to see that?â
Martha set tea before me on a coaster, twisting the cup so its handle faced me. âZiggy and I were out for a walkâheâd just done his business. I stood up to knot the bagâŠâ
Her kindly face curdled, and I thought she might be remembering the product of Ziggyâs âbusinessâ until she finished, âThen we saw him start hacking, and scowling, and thrusting those clippers at his flowers.â
Her eyes, a pleasing hazel shade, darkened at the memory.
She added, âAt his own flowers.â
I shifted my skirt, giving her a moment. âThe begonias were in a mailbox planter?â
âRight by the street, yes. The whole incident happened just a few feet from passing cars, from the sidewalk where parents push babies in strollers.â
âDid he dispose of the mess afterward?â
âImmediately,â Martha said. âHe looked at his clippers for a secondâthe blades were streaked with green from all those leaves and stems heâd destroyedâthen he sort of recovered. He picked everything up and placed it in the yard-waste bin. Every last petal.â
âHe sounds meticulous.â
âExtremely.â
I jotted Cleaned up begonia mess in my notebook.
Maybe because of my psychology backgroundâIâm twelve credit-hours shy of a PhDâI like to start these introductory interviews by allowing clients time to just talk, open-ended. I want to know what they feel is important. Often this tells as much about them as it does about whatever theyâre asking me to/ investigate.
Martha Dodson had talked about children first. Hers were in college. Did I have little ones? Iâd waived my usual practice of withholding personal information and said yes, six and fourteen. Sheâd clapped and rubbed her hands. Wonderful! Where did they go to school?
Next weâd talked crafting. Martha liked to knit and make felt flowers for centerpieces, for vase arrangements, even to decorate shoesâthat type of crafter whose creativity spills beyond the available mediums and fills a house, infusing every shelf and surface.
Only with this groundwork lain had she told me about the case itself, describing the various oddities of her neighbor three doors down, Kent Kirkland.
I was still waiting to hear the crux of her problem, the reason she wanted to hire McGill Investigators. (Full disclosureâalthough the name is plural, thereâs only one investigator: Molly McGill. Me.)
âThat sounds like an intense, visceral moment,â I said, squaring myself to Martha on the couch. âSo has he done something to your flowers? Are you engaged in a dispute with him?â
Martha shook her head. Then, with perfect composure, she said, âI think heâs keeping a boy in the bedroom over his garage.â
I felt like somebody had blasted jets of freezing air into both my ears. The pen Iâd been taking notes with tumbled from my hand to the carpet.
âWait, keeping a boy?â I said.
âYes.â
âAgainst his will? As in, kidnapping?â
Martha nodded.
I was having trouble reconciling this woman in front of meâcardigan sweater, hair in a layered cropâwith the accusation sheâd just uttered. We were sitting in a nice New Jersey neighborhood. Nicer than mine. We were drinking tea.
She said, âThere might be two.â
Now my notebook dropped to the carpet.
âTwo?â I said. âYou think this man is holding two boys hostage?â
âI donât know for sure,â she said. âIf I knew for sure, Iâd be over there breaking down the door myself. But I suspect it.â
She explained that a ten-year-old boy from the next town over had gone missing six months ago. The parents had been quoted as saying they âlost track ofâ their son. They hadnât reported his disappearance until the evening after theyâd last seen him.
âThe mother told reporters he wanted a scooter for Christmas, one of those cute kick scooters.â Martha sniffled at the memory. âGuess what I saw the UPS driver drop off on Kent Kirklandâs porch two weeks ago?â
âA scooter,â I said.
Her eyes flashed. âA very large box from a company that makes scooters.â
Having retrieved my notebook, I jotted, box delivery (scooter?) . We talked a bit about this scooter companyâwhich also made bikes, dehumidifiers, and air fryers.
Scooter or not, there remained about a million dots to be connected from this boyâs case, which I vaguely remembered from news reports, to Kent Kirkland.
I left the dots aside for now. âHow do you get to two boys?â
âThere was another missing boy, about the same age. During the summer.â Marthaâs mouth moved in place like she was counting up how many jars of tomatoes sheâd canned yesterday. âHe lived close, too. That case was complicated because the parents had just divorced, and the dadâwho was a native Venezuelanâhad just moved back. People suspected him of taking the boy with him.â
âTo Venezuela?â
âYes. Apparently the State Department couldnât get any answers.â
I nodded, not because I accepted all that she was telling me, but because there was no other polite response available.
Neither of us spoke. Our eyes drifted together down the street to Kent Kirklandâs two-story saltbox home. Pale yellow vinyl siding. Tall privacy fence. Three separate posted notices to âPlease pick up after your pet.â Neighborhood Watch sign at the corner.
Finally, I said, âLook, Mrs. Dodson. Martha. Most of the cases we handle at McGill Investigators are domestic in nature. Straying husbands. Teenagers mixed up with the wrong crowd. Iâm a mother myself, and Iâve been a wife. Twice.â I softened this disclosure with a smirk. âI generally take cases where my own life experiences can be brought to bear.â
âBut thatâs why I chose you.â Martha worried her hands in her lap. âYour website says, âEvery case will be treated with dignity and discretion.â Thatâs all I ask.â
I looked into her eyes and said, âOkay.â
She seemed to sense my reluctance and started, rushing, âThose bedroom windows are papered-over twenty-four hours a day! And the begonias, you didnât see him destroy those begonias! I saw how he severed their stalks and shredded their root systems. You donât do that to flowers youâve tended for an entire season. Not if youâre a person of sound mind.â
âGardening is more challenging for some than others. I love rhododendrons, but I canât keep them alive. I over-water, I under-water. I plant them in the wrong spot.â
âHave you ever massacred them in a fit of rage?â
âNo.â I smiled. âBut Iâve wanted to.â
Martha couldnât help returning the smile. But her eyes stayed on Kent Kirklandâs house.
I said, âSome men arenât blessed with impulse control. Maybe he was a lousy gardener, heâd tried fertilizing and everything else, and the plants just refused toââ
âBut he wasnât a lousy gardener. He was excellent. I think he grew those begonias from seed. He wanted them to be perennials, is my theory, but weâre in zone sevenâtheyâre annuals here. He couldnât accept them dying off.â
Again, I was at a loss. I liked Martha Dodson. She had seemed like a reasonable person, right up until sheâd started talking about kidnappings and Venezuela.
She scooted closer on the couch. âYou didnât see the rage, Miss McGill. I saw it. I saw him that day. He walked out of the garage with hand pruners, but he took one look at those begoniasâleaves browning at the edges, stems tangled like green wormsâand flipped out. He turned right around, put away the hand pruners and came back with clippers.â
She mimed viciously snapping a pair of clippers closed.
âRage is one thing,â I said. âKidnapping is another.â
âOf course,â Martha said. âThatâs why Iâd like to hire you: to figure out what he might be capable of.â
Her pupils seemed to pulse in place.
âI want to help you out, honestly.â I took her hand. âI do.â
âIs it money? IâI could pay you more. A little.â
Saying this, she seemed to linger on my jacket. Iâd recently swapped out my boiled wool standby for this slightly flashier one, red leather with zippers. I had no great ambitions about an image upgrade; itâd just felt like time for a change.
âThe fee we discussed will be sufficient,â I said. Martha had mentioned she was paying out of her own pocket, not from her and her husbandâs joint account. âMy concern is more about the substance of the case. It feels a bit outside my expertise.â
She clasped her hands at her waist. âIs it a question of danger? Do you not handle dangerous jobs?â
I balked. In fact, Iâd done extremely dangerous jobs before, but only as part of Third Chance Enterprises, the freelance small-force, private arms team led by Quaid Rafferty and Durwood Oak Jones. Weâd stopped an art heist in Italy. Weâd saved the world from anarchist-hackers. Sometimes I can hardly believe our missions happened. They feel like half dream, half blockbuster movies starring me. Every couple years, just about the time I start thinking they really might be dreams, Quaid shows up again on my front porch.
âI donât mind facing danger on a clientâs behalf,â I said. âBut McGill Investigators isnât meant to replace the proper authorities. If you believe Mr. Kirkland is involved in these disappearances, your first stop should be the police.â
âMm.â Marthaâs face wilted, reminding me of those unlucky begonias. âActually, it was.â
âYou spoke with the police?â
She nodded. âYes. Well, more of a front desk person. I told him exactly what Iâve been telling you today.â
âHow did he respond?â
There was a floor loom beside the couch. Martha threaded her fingers through its empty spindles, seeming to need its feel.
âHe said the department would âgive the tip its due attention.â Then on my way out, he asked if Iâd ever read anything by J.D. Robb.â
âThe mystery writer?â I asked.
âRight. He told me J.D. Robb was really Nora Roberts, the romance novelist. He said I should try them. He had a hunch Iâd like them.â
My teeth were grinding.
I said, âSome men are idiots.â
Marthaâs face eased gratefully. âOh, my husband thinks the same. Iâm a Yancy Park housewife with too much time on her hands. He says Kirklandâs just an odd duck. When I told him about the begonias, he got this confused expression and said, âWhatâs a perennial?ââ
I could relate. My first husband had once handed me baking soda when I asked for cornstarch to thicken up an Italian beef sauce. The dish came out tasting like soap. After I traced back the mistake, he grumbled, âAh, relax. Theyâre both white powders.â
As much as I probably should have, I couldnât refuse Martha. Not after this conversation.
âI suppose I can do some poking around,â I said. âSee if he, I donât know, buys suspicious items at the grocery store. Or puts something in his garbage that might have come from a child.â
Martha lurched forward and clutched my hands like Iâd just solved the case of Jack the Ripper.
âThat would be amazing!â she cried. âThank you so much! I know this seems far-fetched, but my instincts tell me somethingâs wrong at that house. If I didnât follow through, if it turned out I was right and those little boysâŠâ
She didnât finish. I was glad.
CHAPTER TWO
The state of New Jersey offers private investigator licenses, but Iâve never gotten one. It doesnât entitle you to much, and you have to put up two hundred and fifty dollars, plus a three-thousand-dollar âsurety bond.â Besides the money, youâre supposed to have served five years as an investigator or police officer. Which I havenât.
For all these reasons, my first stop after taking any case involving possible crimes is the local police station. Sometimes the police are impressed enough by what I tell them to assign their own personnel, usually some rookie detective or beat cop.
Other times, not.
âBegonias, huh?â said Detective Art Judd, lacing his fingers behind a head of bushy brown hair. âThe ones with the thick, fluffy flower heads?â
âYouâre thinking of chrysanthemums,â I said.
âNnnno, I feel like it was begonias.â
âNot begonias. Maybe peonies?â
âDonât think so,â he said. âIâm pretty sure the gal in the garden center said begonias.â
I was annoyedâone, at his stubborn ignorance of flowers, and two, that heâd segued so breezily off the subject of Kent Kirkland.
âThe only other possibility with a thick, fluffy flower-head would be roses,â I said. âBut if you donât know what a rose looks like, youâre in trouble.â
Art Juddâs lips curled up below a mustache. âYou could be right.â
I waited for him to return to Kirkland, to stand and pace about his sparsely decorated office, to offer some comment on the bizarre behavior Iâd been describing for the last twenty minutes.
But he just looked at me.
Oh, I didnât mind terribly being looked at. He was handsome enough in a best-bowler-on-his-Tuesday-night-league-team way. Broad sloping shoulders, large hand gestures that made the physical distance between our chairs feel shorter than it was.
Iâd come for Martha Dodson, though.
âLeaving aside what is or isnât a begonia,â I said, âhow would you feel about checking into Kent Kirkland? Maybe sending an officer over to his house.â
He finally gave up his stare, kicking back from his metal desk with a sigh. âThe department barely has enough black-and-whites to service the parking meters downtown.â
âIâm talking about missing boys. Not parking meters.â
âPoint taken,â he said. âWhy didnât Mrs. Dodson come herself with this information?â
âShe did. Your front desk person brushed her off.â
The detective looked past me into the precinct lobby. âThey see a lot of nut jobs. You canât go calling in the calvary every time someone comes in saying their neighbor hung the wrong curtains.â
âThey arenât curtains,â I said. âThe windows are papered-over. Completely opaque.â
He rubbed his jaw. I thought he might be struggling to keep a straight face.
I continued with conviction I wasnât sure I actually felt, âI saw it. It isnât normal how he obscures that window. Martha thinks itâs weird, and it is weird.â
âWeird,â he said flatly. âTwo votes for weird.â
âYou put those Neighborhood Watch signs up, right?â In response to his slouch, I stood. âYou encourage citizens to report anything out of the ordinary. When a citizen does so, the proper response would seem to be gratitudeâor, at the very least, respect.â
This, either the words or my standing up, finally pierced the detectiveâs blithe manner.
âOkay, I give. You win.â His barrel chest rose and fell in a concessionary breath. âItâs true, with police work you never know which detail matters until it matters. Please apologize to Mrs. Dodson on behalf of the department. And Iâll be sure to have a word with Jimmie.â
He gestured to the lobby. âKidâs been getting too big for his britches for a while now.â
I thanked him, and he ducked his head in return.
Then he said, âI suppose she thinks one of those boys being held is Calvin Witt.â
The boy whose parents had lost track of him.
âYes,â I said. âThe timing does fit.â
I considered mentioning the scooter, Calvinâs Christmas wish, but decided not to. We didnât need to go down the rabbit hole of box shapes and labeling, and whether grown men rode scooters.
Detective Judd looked ponderously at the ceiling. I didnât expect him to divulge information about a live case, but I thought if he knew something exculpatoryâthat Calvin Witt had been spotted in Florida, sayâhe might pass it along and save me some trouble.
âI hate to say this, but I honestly doubt young Calvin is among the living.â Art Judd smeared a hand through his mustache. âThe father gambled online. Mom wanted out of the marriage, bad. She told anybody in her old sorority whoâd pick up her call. Both of them methheads.â
âThatâs disheartening,â I said. âSo you think the parentsâŠâ
He nodded, reluctance heavy on his brow. âItâll be a park, under some tree. Downstream on the banks of the Millstone. Pray to God Iâm wrong.â
I matched his glum expression, both a genuine reaction and a professional tactic to encourage more disclosure. âDoes the department have staff psychologists, people who study these dysfunctional family dynamics? Whoâre qualified to unpack the facts?â
âEh.â Art Judd flung out his arm. âYou do this job long enough, you start recognizing patterns.â
This was a common reaction to the field of psychology: that it was just everyday observation masquerading as science, than anyone with a little horse sense could practice it.
I said, âAntipathy between spouses doesnât predict antipathy toward the offspring, generally.â
The detectiveâs face glazed over like Iâd just recited Einsteinâs Theory of Relativity.
âPerhaps I could conduct an interview,â I said. âAs a private citizen, just to hear more background on Calvin?â
He chuckled out of his stupor. âGood try. Youâre free to call as you like, but I donât think the Witts are real receptive to interview requests nowâwith the exception of the paying sort.â
I crossed my legs, causing my skirt to shift higher up my knee. âIs there any further background youâd be able to share? You personally?â
His gaze did tick down, and he seemed to lose his first word under his tongue.
âUrb, IâI guess itâs all more or less leaked in the press anyway,â he said, and proceeded to give me the storyâas the police understood itâof Calvin Witt.
Calvin had a lot to overcome. His parents, besides their drug and money problems, were morbidly obese, and had passed this along to Calvin. A social workerâs report found inadequate supplies of fresh fruit and lean proteins at the home. Theyâd basically raised him on McDonaldâs and ice cream sandwiches. Calvin had learning and attention disorders. He started fights in school. His parents couldnât account for huge swaths of his day, of his week even.
âThey let him run like the junkyard dog,â Detective Judd said. âAll we know about the night he disappeared, we got off the kidâs bus pass. Thankfully itâd been registered. We know he boarded a bus downtown, late.â
I opened my mouth to ask a follow-up.
âBefore you get ideas,â he said, âno, the route didnât pass anywhere near Martha Dodsonâs neighborhood. We always crosscheck Yancy Park in these cases. Thatâs where the Ferguson place is.â
âFerguson?â
âYeah. Big rickety house, half falling over? Looks like the city dump. You shoulda passed it on the way.â
I shook my head.
âWell,â he continued, âthatâs where the Fergusons live, crusty old married couple. Them and whatever riffraff needs a room. Plenty of crime there. Squalor. The neighbors keep trying to get it condemned.â
I definitely didnât remember driving past a place like that. âWere there any witnesses who saw Calvin on the bus? Saw who he was with?â
âNobody whoâd talk.â
âCamera footage?â
The detective palmed his meaty elbow. âHave you seen the cityâs transportation budget?â
I incorporated the new information, thinking about Kent Kirkland. He was single according to Martha. Mid-thirties. He worked from homeâsomething to do with programming or web design, she thought.
Did he have a car? Iâd noticed a two-car garage, but I hadnât seen inside.
Did he go out socially? To bars? Or trivia nights?
Could he have ridden the bus downtown?
âMartha mentioned another case,â I said. âLast summer, I think it was. Another boy in the same vicinity?â
At first, Detective Judd only squinted.
I prompted, âThere was some connection to Venezuela. The father was born there, maybe heââ
âRight, that Ramos kid!â Judd smacked his forehead. âHow could I forget? Talk about red tape, my gosh. So heâs boy number two, is that it?â
I couldnât very well answer âyesâ to a question posed like that.
I simply repeated, âMartha mentioned the case.â
âYep. That was a doozy.â As he remembered, he walked to a file cabinet and pulled open a drawer. âReal exercise in frustration.â
âThere was trouble with the Venezuelan government?â
âAnd how.â He swelled his eyes, thumbing through manila folders, finally lifting out an overstuffed one. âI mustâve filled out fifty forms myself, no joke.â
He tossed the file on his desk. Documents slumped from the folder out across his computer keyboard.
I asked, âYou never located the boy?â
âNot definitively. We had a witness put him with the paternal grandparents, the day before Dad put the whole crew on a plane.â
âDid you interview him?â
âWho?â
âThe father.â
Detective Judd burbled his lips. âNope. The Venezuelans stonewalled usânever could get him, not even on the horn. He told some website he had no clue where the kid was, but come on. They took him.â
Iâd been following along with his account, understanding the logic and sequenceâuntil this. I thought about Zach, my fourteen-year-old, and what lengths I wouldâve gone to if heâd disappeared with his father.
âSo youâŠstopped?â I said.
He stiffened. âWe hit a brick wall, like I said.â
âYes, but a boy had been taken from his mother. What did she say? Was she satisfied with the investigation?â
âNo.â Juddâs mouth tightened under his mustache. His tone turned challenging. âNobodyâs satisfied when they donât like the outcome.â
I tugged my skirt lower, covering my knee.
He continued, âI get fifty-some cases across my desk every week, Miss McGill. I donât have the luxury of devoting my whole day to chasing crackpot theories just because somebody looks angry snipping their flowers.â
âOf course,â I said. âWhich makes me the crackpot.â
He closed his eyes, as though summoning patience. âYou seem like a nice lady. And look, I admit Iâm a Neanderthal when it comes to mattersââ
ââNice ladyâ puts you dangerously close to pre-Neanderthal territory.â
He smiled. In the pause, two buttons began blinking on his phone.
âPleasant as itâs been getting acquainted with you,â he said, âI canât commit resources to this begonia guy. Just canât. If you can pursue it without stepping over any legal boundaries, more power to you.â
I felt heat rising up my neck. I gathered my purse.
âI will pursue it. Two little boysâ welfare is on the line. Somebody needs to.â
He spread his arms wide, good-naturedly, stretching the collar of his shirt. âHey, who better than you?â
The contents of the folder labeled Ramos were still strewn over his keyboard. âI donât suppose I could borrow this fileâŠâ
âOfficial police documents?â
âJust for twenty minutes. TenâI could flip through in the lobby, jot a few notes.â
Heâd walked around his desk to show me out, and now he stopped, hands on hips, peering down at the file. The top paper had letterhead from the Venezuelan consulate.
I stepped closer to look with him, shoulder-to-shoulder. Our shoes bumped.
âOr even just this letter,â I said. âSo I have the case number and contact information for the consulate. Surely thereâs no harm in that?â
Detective Judd didnât move his shoe. He smelled like bagels and coffee.
He placed his fingertip on the letter and pushed it my way.
âI can live with that.â
âThanks,â I said, grinning, snatching the paper before he could reconsider.
CHAPTER THREE
I drove home through Yancy Park, thinking to get a second look at Kent Kirklandâs property. As I pulled into the subdivision, I noticed a dilapidated house up the hill, off to the west. It rose three stories and had bare-wood sides. Ragged blankets flapped over its attic windows.
The Ferguson place.
Somehow Iâd missed it driving in from the other direction. Art Judd had been right: the place was an eyesore. Gutters dangled off the roof like spaghetti off a toddlerâs abandoned plate. A refrigerator and TV were strewn about the dirt yard, both spilling their electronic guts.
I made a mental note to ask Martha Dodson about the property. I found it curious she suspected Kirkland instead of whoever lived in this ratsâ den. Art Judd had mentioned crosschecking Yancy Park. Maybe the police had already been out and investigated to Marthaâs satisfaction.
I kept driving to Martha and Kent Kirklandâs street. I slowed at the latterâs yard, peering over a rectangular yew hedge to a house that was the polar opposite of the Ferguson place. The paint job was immaculate. Gutters were not only fully affixed, but contained not a single leaf or twig. Trash bins were pulled around the side into a nook, out of sight.
***
Excerpt from The Begonia Killer by Jeff Bond. Copyright 2021 by Jeff Bond. Reproduced with permission from Jeff Bond. All rights reserved.
You can find The Begonia Killer at these websites: Amazon | Goodreads
My Review — 5 Stars
This was a funny and fun mystery to read. Molly McGill, investigator is called by a woman who is sure her quirky neighbor has two boys hidden at his house. How does she know this? Because she saw him get angry at his begonias and viciously slaughter them, hacking them to death. Of course Molly has to go meet this guy and gets into house under the ruse of a gardening expert. While she is trying to search she creates more and more incidents that cause her to stay while he is trying to get her out of the house. This was the funniest part and I found myself laughing out loud. This is the first book I’ve read by Jeff Bond, but will be searching out others by him.
Author Bio:

Jeff Bond is an American author of popular fiction. A Kansas native and Yale graduate, he now lives in Michigan with his wife and two daughters. The Pinebox Vendetta received the gold medal in the 2020 Independent Publisher Book Awards, and the first two entries in the Third Chance Enterprises series â Anarchy of the Mice, Dear Durwood â were named to Kirkus Reviews’ Best 100 Indie Books of 2020.
Catch Up With Jeff Bond:
ThirdChanceStories.com
Goodreads
BookBub – @jeff_bond
Instagram – @jeffabond
Twitter – @jeffABond
Facebook – @jeffabondbooks
Enter the Giveaway:
This is a rafflecopter giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Virtual Book Tours for Jeff Bond. There will be one (1) winner of one (1) Amazon.com Gift Card. The giveaway begins on June 1, 2021 and runs through July 2, 2021. Void where prohibited.

Thanks for posting this great review. So glad you loved it! This has had so many great reviews that I had to bump it up on my to read list!
Thanks so much for checking out The Begonia Killer, I appreciate the review! I’m glad you liked Molly’s story! đ