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Bouquet of beautiful ladies Darya Dontsova

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Title: Bouquet of beautiful ladies

About the book "Bouquet of Beautiful Ladies" Daria Dontsova

Who does not know the world-famous detective Nero Wolfe and his permanent assistant Archie Goodwin! .. The elderly, but very rich business woman Eleanor, chained to a wheelchair, and her personal secretary Ivan Podushkin are very reminiscent of this couple ... One December evening, Nora asked Ivan to meet his granddaughter. Before his eyes, Rita is knocked down by a Volvo with mud-stained numbers and disappears from the scene of the crime. After the funeral, Nora asks Ivan to find out with whom her granddaughter spent her last evening. He meets Rita's friend Nastya and understands that she is hiding something. Appearing to her to find out the truth, he finds her dead in the bathroom. Then a couple more of Rita's friends die. Their death seems natural, but Nora believes that someone killed them, like her granddaughter, and instructs her "Archie Goodwin" to find out everything ...

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Darya Dontsova

Bouquet of beautiful ladies

Don't keep candy in your shoes! Most people, upon hearing this phrase, begin to twirl their finger at their temples and giggle merrily, hinting that this statement is absurd. And really, who would ever think of putting chocolates and caramels in boots. The stupidity of such an act is obvious to everyone!

Sighing, I approached the underground passage. Snow was falling from the sky, and a thick layer of liquid mud covered the steps. You can easily slip and rattle down on the fifth point, breaking your arm or leg. A vision suddenly appeared before my eyes: here I am, in a good coat, lying at the foot of the stairs and uttering loud groans. A rich imagination is my main trouble. It is worth thinking about some situation, as it instantly appears before your eyes.

However, no one wanted to break their limbs this evening. The women descending into the subway, as one, held on to the railings. Here it is, the advantage of belonging to the female sex. It is perfectly natural if a gentle creature carefully grabs the railing, but a man cannot do this in any way. Well, I can’t afford to cling to the railing and crawl along the icy steps with my aunts, although it would be reasonable. Why? - you ask. And therefore. I don't want to be funny. And in general - do not store candy in your shoes!

Somehow I went downstairs and headed for the transition to the other side of the avenue. To the right and left, shop windows gleamed. Bad weather drove all those who usually stand outside into the crossing: homeless people looking for empty bottles, students from nearby institutes, and even mothers with children. The latter stared at the shop windows and whined, begging for chocolates, chewing gum and toys. The students, as always, were drunk, however, when I passed one group, the sweetish smell of "weed" hit my nose. That's how strange man is! The phrase about candy in shoes makes him laugh, but there are other equally obvious truths. Don’t smoke - you’ll get lung cancer, don’t drink - you’ll turn into an alcoholic, don’t use drugs - you’ll become demented ... But for some reason, people don’t laugh when they hear these phrases ... However, I myself smoke, however, I’m completely indifferent to strong drinks, drugs I haven't tried it and, to be honest, I don't have the slightest desire to do it anytime soon.

The transition ended, I went upstairs, turned around the corner, walked forward along the avenue and stood at the Rospechat kiosk. Rita, the eighteen-year-old granddaughter of my landlady Eleanor, is coming here right now. I am ordered to meet her here, in a relatively crowded place, and escort her home. Eleanor is afraid that her pet will be raped or robbed, scaring half to death. Although Rita herself runs into trouble. She dresses so defiantly that when you look at her legs open almost to the fifth point, the desire to drag the girl into the bushes arises in almost all males. Rita knows that she is good, and she uses it with might and main. She wears short and tight blouses, it always seems to me that they are about to burst on her rather magnificent bust. I already spoke about skirts, however, she probably fits into trousers with soapy feet, because the legs fit her like a second skin. And it is not known what looks more sexy: bare knees or "leather" legs? The Lord also rewarded her with a pretty muzzle, lush curls and a complete lack of intelligence ... But with such a grandmother as my mistress Eleanor, Rita's mental abilities will never be needed. She will just be mindlessly spending the capital that Nora has amassed.

- Vava, - came from the other side of the empty street, - Vava, are you waiting?

I turned my head, cheerful Rita waved her hand at me.

- What is so gloomy? she squealed. - Sorry I'm late...

And she began to calmly, slowly, cross the roadway. Drivers rarely use this street, a crowded avenue is noisy two steps away, and here is silence, a sleepy kingdom. But the trolleybus, on which Rita rolled, stops precisely on this desert highway, in the most suitable place for a robber.

- Don't be sad, Vava! yelled Rita, striding along the highway. - Why did you hang your nose?

I defiantly turned away. wow! My name is Ivan. The sonorous surname Podushkin is attached to a simple peasant name. My family has been known for a long time. The Podushkin boyars were among those who placed Mikhail Romanov on the throne. Generations of the Podushkins faithfully served the tsar and the fatherland, did not have high ranks, but were respected and were consistently rich. In 1917, almost the entire family perished in the abyss of the revolution. Miraculously, only my father survived, he was not yet a year old, when a detachment of Red Army soldiers burst into the Lykovo estate, located near Petrograd, and shot down the “damned bourgeois”.

My dad was saved by a cook whose baby recently died of croup. When the excited proletarians burst into the kitchen, they saw a fat woman in a colorful skirt. On her lap lay a baby, sucking on an immense breast.

“Hush, Herods,” the old woman waved her hands, “wake up, baby, it’s going to roll up with a cry, I’ll give you the ladies!”

The soldiers tiptoed into the rooms and began to rob the master's quarters. It is noteworthy that none of the servants betrayed Anna. No valet, no footmen, no maids. However, the servants, who lived on the estate for many years, were deeply distressed by the death of their masters. Together with the death of the Podushkins, the well-being of the people serving them also burst. They did not feel any joy from the accomplished revolution.

Anna, taking the baby Pavel, went to Moscow, where her older sister Nina lived. At first they were starving, like everyone else, then life slowly improved. Anya got a job at a factory, became a weaver, a respected person, received two whole rooms in a communal apartment. She married Paul to her son. Maybe that's why, or maybe because the name Podushkin sounded simple to the proletarian ear, my father was not touched by repression. The Obolenskys, the Vyazemskys, the Volkonskys... These weren't lucky, one last name aroused class hatred. And Podushkin? It never occurred to anyone that its owner was a nobleman in the twelfth generation. However, the Bolsheviks were not too well versed in surnames. I remember how surprised my father was in his time:

- Wow, they sent Gagarin first into space!

I inquired:

- What's so strange about that?

“You see, Vanyasha,” answered papa, “there were princes Gagarins in Russia, a well-known, ancient family. I doubt that Yuri Alekseevich, our first cosmonaut, is not their relative. Well, judge for yourself, in 1961 he was twenty-seven years old, which means he was born in 1934... No, he's definitely one of those Gagarins, some distant branch. The communists overlooked ... Or maybe the one who wanted the nobleman to become a hero did it on purpose.

I did not pay any attention to the words of my father then. Daddy often skidded. In any person who made a small career in life, he looked for noble roots and it was their presence that explained success. By the way, papa himself was a talented man, amazingly fluent in words. His ability for literature was noted at school. As a "cook's child", he without any problems entered the Institute of Philosophy, Literature and Arts, the legendary IFLI, within the walls of which the entire color of the intelligentsia studied. My father received his diploma in 1940 and, having an impeccable proletarian origin, got a job at a plant, in my opinion, a machine-tool plant, in the editorial office of a large-circulation newspaper. In the questionnaires, he indicated the names of his "parents", in the column "Origin" he reported: from the workers. In addition, he wrote quite calmly: "My father died during the Civil War, he was brought up by his mother, a well-deserved weaver, an order bearer." And it was the holy truth. Anna by that time had become a respected person and, despite her age, continued to run around the shop between the machines. There was no slyness in the phrase about the deceased father. After all, he really perished in the crucible of the revolution, it’s just that dad never mentioned which side he fought on, and those who read the questionnaire did not have any questions.

All Patriotic war father safely sat out at the factory, having received a reservation. In 1952, he was taken first to Trud, then to Literaturnaya Gazeta, and his career took off. During the thaw, my father published his first novel. Criticism, although they noted the slight "dampness" of the thing, generally accepted it favorably. So he became a writer. “Living language”, “bright style”, “captivating narration” - these are quotes from newspapers of the 60s dedicated to Pavel Podushkin. But, in addition to the literary gift, the father had a rare industriousness and almost pathological zeal. A picture emerges from the depths of memory. Here I am, a little boy, peeping through the crack, opening the door of my father's office. Hearing a creak, papa turns around and, smiling, says:

- What, my dear friend? Go, go, I still have work to do.

Gentleman detective Ivan Podushkin - 1

Chapter 1

Somehow I went downstairs and went along the passage to the other side of the avenue. To the right and left, shop windows gleamed. Bad weather drove all those who usually stand outside into the crossing: homeless people looking for empty bottles, students from nearby institutes, and even mothers with children. The latter stared at the shop windows and whined, begging for chocolates, chewing gum and toys. The students, as always, were drunk, however, when I passed one group, the sweetish smell of "weed" hit my nose. That's how strange man is! The phrase about candy in shoes makes him laugh, but there are other equally obvious truths. Don’t smoke - you’ll get lung cancer, don’t drink - you’ll turn into an alcoholic, don’t use drugs - you’ll become demented ... But for some reason, people don’t laugh when they hear these phrases ... However, I myself smoke, however, I’m completely indifferent to strong drinks, drugs I haven't tried it and, to be honest, I don't have the slightest desire to do it anytime soon.

Vava, - came from the other side of the empty street, - Vava, are you waiting?

I turned my head, cheerful Rita waved her hand at me.

What is so gloomy? she squealed. - Sorry I'm late...

And she began to calmly, slowly, cross the roadway.

Chapter 1
Don't keep candy in your shoes! Most people, upon hearing this phrase, begin to twirl their finger at their temples and giggle merrily, hinting that this statement is absurd. And really, who would ever think of putting chocolates and caramels in boots. The stupidity of such an act is obvious to everyone!
Sighing, I approached the underground passage. Snow was falling from the sky, and a thick layer of liquid mud covered the steps. You can easily slip and rattle down on the fifth point, breaking your arm or leg. A vision suddenly appeared before my eyes: here I am, in a good coat, lying at the foot of the stairs and uttering loud groans. A rich imagination is my main trouble. It is worth thinking about some situation, as it instantly appears before your eyes.
However, no one wanted to break their limbs this evening. The women descending into the subway, as one, held on to the railings. Here it is, the advantage of belonging to the female sex. It is perfectly natural if a gentle creature carefully grabs the railing, but a man cannot do this in any way. Well, I can’t afford to cling to the railing and crawl along the icy steps with my aunts, although it would be reasonable. Why? - you ask. And therefore. I don't want to be funny. And in general - do not store candy in your shoes!
Somehow I went downstairs and headed for the transition to the other side of the avenue. To the right and left, shop windows gleamed. Bad weather drove all those who usually stand outside into the crossing: homeless people looking for empty bottles, students from nearby institutes, and even mothers with children. The latter stared at the shop windows and whined, begging for chocolates, chewing gum and toys. The students, as always, were drunk, however, when I passed one group, the sweetish smell of “weed” hit my nose. That's how strange man is! The phrase about candy in shoes makes him laugh, but there are other equally obvious truths. Don’t smoke - you’ll get lung cancer, don’t drink - you’ll turn into an alcoholic, don’t use drugs - you’ll become demented ... But for some reason, people don’t laugh when they hear these phrases ... However, I myself smoke, however, I’m completely indifferent to strong drinks, drugs I haven't tried it and, to be honest, I don't have the slightest desire to do it anytime soon.
The transition ended, I went upstairs, turned around the corner, walked forward along the avenue and stood at the Rospechat kiosk. Rita, the eighteen-year-old granddaughter of my landlady Eleanor, is coming here right now. I am instructed to meet her here, in a relatively crowded place, and escort her home. Eleanor is afraid that her pet will be raped or robbed, scaring half to death. Although Rita herself runs into trouble. She dresses so defiantly that when you look at her legs open almost to the fifth point, the desire to drag the girl into the bushes arises in almost all males. Rita knows that she is good, and she uses it with might and main. She wears short and tight blouses, it always seems to me that they are about to burst on her rather magnificent bust. I already spoke about skirts, however, she probably fits into trousers with soapy feet, because the legs fit her like a second skin. And it is not known what looks more sexy: bare knees or "leather" legs? The Lord also rewarded her with a pretty muzzle, lush curls and a complete lack of intelligence ... But with such a grandmother as my mistress Eleanor, Rita's mental abilities will never be needed. She will just be mindlessly spending the capital that Nora has amassed.
- Vava, - came from the other side of the empty street, - Vava, are you waiting?
I turned my head, cheerful Rita waved her hand at me.
- What is so gloomy? she squealed. - Sorry I'm late...
And she began to calmly, slowly, cross the roadway. Drivers rarely use this street, a crowded avenue is noisy two steps away, and here is silence, a sleepy kingdom. But the trolleybus, on which Rita rolled, stops precisely on this desert highway, in the most suitable place for a robber.
- Don't be sad, Vava! yelled Rita, striding along the highway. - Why did you hang your nose?
I defiantly turned away. wow! My name is Ivan. The sonorous surname Podushkin is attached to a simple peasant name. My family has been known for a long time. The Podushkin boyars were among those who placed Mikhail Romanov on the throne. Generations of the Podushkins faithfully served the tsar and the fatherland, did not have high ranks, but were respected and were consistently rich. In 1917, almost the entire family perished in the abyss of the revolution. Miraculously, only my father survived, he was not yet a year old, when a detachment of Red Army soldiers burst into the Lykovo estate, located near Petrograd, and shot down the “damned bourgeois”.
My dad was saved by a cook whose baby recently died of croup. When the excited proletarians burst into the kitchen, they saw a fat woman in a colorful skirt. On her lap lay a baby, sucking on an immense breast.
“Hush, Herods,” the old woman waved her hands, “wake up, baby, it’s going to roll up with a cry, I’ll give you the ladies!”
The soldiers tiptoed into the rooms and began to rob the master's quarters. It is noteworthy that none of the servants betrayed Anna. No valet, no footmen, no maids. However, the servants, who lived on the estate for many years, were deeply distressed by the death of their masters. Together with the death of the Podushkins, the well-being of the people serving them also burst. They did not feel any joy from the accomplished revolution.
Anna, taking the baby Pavel, went to Moscow, where her older sister Nina lived. At first they were starving, like everyone else, then life slowly improved. Anya got a job at a factory, became a weaver, a respected person, received two whole rooms in a communal apartment. She married Paul to her son. Maybe that's why, or maybe because the name Podushkin sounded simple to the proletarian ear, my father was not touched by repression. The Obolenskys, the Vyazemskys, the Volkonskys... These weren't lucky, one last name aroused class hatred. And Podushkin? It never occurred to anyone that its owner was a nobleman in the twelfth generation. However, the Bolsheviks were not too well versed in surnames. I remember how surprised my father was in his time:
- Wow, they sent Gagarin first into space! I inquired:
- What's so strange about that?
“You see, Vanyasha,” answered papa, “there were princes Gagarins in Russia, a well-known, ancient family. I doubt that Yuri Alekseevich, our first cosmonaut, is not their relative. Well, judge for yourself, in 1961 he was twenty-seven years old, which means he was born in 1934... No, he's definitely one of those Gagarins, some distant branch. The communists overlooked... Or maybe the one who wanted the nobleman to become a hero did it on purpose.
I did not pay any attention to the words of my father then. Daddy often skidded. In any person who made a small career in life, he looked for noble roots and it was their presence that explained success. By the way, papa himself was a talented man, amazingly fluent in words. His ability for literature was noted at school. As a "cook's child", he without any problems entered the Institute of Philosophy, Literature and Arts, the legendary IFLI, within the walls of which the entire color of the intelligentsia studied. My father received his diploma in 1940 and, having an impeccable proletarian origin, got a job at a plant, in my opinion, a machine-tool plant, in the editorial office of a large-circulation newspaper. In the questionnaires, he indicated the names of his “parents”, in the column “Origin” he reported: from the workers. In addition, he wrote quite coolly:
“My father died during the Civil War, was raised by his mother, a well-deserved weaver, an order bearer.” And this was the holy truth. By that time, Anna had become a respected person and, despite her age, continued to run around the workshop between the machines. There was no slyness in the phrase about the dead father, because he really perished in the crucible of the revolution, it’s just that dad never mentioned which side he fought on, and those who read the questionnaire did not have any questions.
Throughout the Patriotic War, my father sat out safely at the factory, having received a reservation. In 1952, he was taken first to Trud, then to Literaturnaya Gazeta, and his career took off. During the thaw, my father published his first novel. Criticism, although they noted the slight “dampness” of the thing, generally accepted it favorably. So he became a writer. “Living language”, “bright style”, “captivating narration” - these are quotes from newspapers of the 60s dedicated to Pavel Podushkin. But, in addition to the literary gift, the father had a rare industriousness and almost pathological zeal. A picture emerges from the depths of memory. Here I am, a little boy, peeping through the crack, opening the door of my father's office. Hearing a creak, papa turns around and, smiling, says:
- What, my dear friend? Go, go, I still have work to do.
As a teenager, I once asked him:
“Don’t you get tired of sitting at the table all day?”
- You see, Vanyasha, - answered the father, - the Lord gives many people a chance, only the majority waste their talent ineptly. Go to the House of Writers, go down to the buffet, to the basement. There, the same people sit at the tables, every day talking about their talent and exclusivity, but things don’t go beyond idle chatter.
My father wrote historical novels, choosing very distant times for his narratives, the tenth century, for example. The success of his books was fantastic, especially among the female audience. Now I understand that these were the only romance novels on the USSR book market. Readers were thrilled by the description of castles, feasts and brave Vikings. And, of course, from the bed scenes. In the chaste Soviet country, they were considered almost pornography, but my father managed to negotiate with editing and censorship, so readers froze, savoring the details. However, having looked at some of his books today, I must say that I did not see anything seditious in the “sexual” pages. The father did not go beyond the description of the naked body of the heroine and kisses. But you do not forget what years were in the yard, the end of the sixties. Women in trousers were not allowed into the restaurant, the dean, like Peter the Great, ordered bearded students to immediately get rid of facial hair. Dad's books went flying, and we lived splendidly, having all the attributes of the wealth of those years: a four-room apartment near the Aeroport metro station, a dacha in Peredelkino, a Volga with a driver, a Kremlin ration, and holidays in Bulgaria.
In 1984, my father passed away. The dacha was taken away, but my mother was not very worried. She had a tight passbook in her arms. Even earlier, I chose the specialty of a poet and entered the Literary Institute. And in the year of my father’s death, I just graduated from it, and the last thing that dad managed to do in this life was to attach me as an editor to the Literary East magazine.
What happened next is known to everyone. Perestroika, a sharp jump in prices, frenzied inflation ... My mother and I immediately became beggars. My mother is an actress spoiled outrageously by her father. However, more about her some other time.
Believe only that for several years we had to oh how hard. I was attached to different publications, but they all burned out safely. It was possible, of course, to get hired by the prosperous Mr. H or Vash Gazeta, but I was brought up in such a way that at the sight of such publications, nausea would come to my throat. For a couple of years we lived from bread to kvass. Poems were not at all needed in the new, spontaneous publishing houses. The beauty of the word, bewitching rhymes, modern Sytin did not give a damn about all this.
The time of poetry has passed along with the Silver Age, modern generation chooses Pepsi, detectives and thrillers. Just don't think that I'm judging anyone. No, I'm just stating a fact: in today's reality, poets are superfluous people, and poetry is a completely unsellable commodity. However, the Writers' Unions (there are now either seven or eight of them) sometimes publish poetry collections, but to get on their pages, you need to carry bottles of cognac to the compiler, cunning, tricking, pushing competitors with your elbows ... Thank you, this is not for me. I am probably a true graphomaniac, because I enjoy the process of driving a pen on paper and do not at all burn with a desire to see my work printed. Graphomania is a love of writing, which everyone has now safely forgotten. There are few true graphomaniacs, they are rare, like the Orlov diamond. People besieging editorial offices and publishing houses with a cry: “Print!” have nothing to do with graphomaniacs. These are those who are hungry for fame and money ...
“Hey, Vava,” Rita continued to yell, “don’t pout, cat!” Let's go grab a beer on the avenue!
I turned my head in her direction and was about to answer: “You know, I don’t like alcohol,” but at that very moment the words stuck in my throat.
A luxurious black foreign car, lacquered, shiny, with a raised trunk and a blunt nose, burst out from around the corner at breakneck speed. Something in it seemed strange to me, but what, I did not have time to understand, because the car rushed at great speed to Rita. The girl squealed and ran, but the car, quickly swerving to the side, caught up with her. There was a dull thud. Rita's body flew into the air and began to fall. I watched in horror at what was happening. The action seemed to take forever. First, her head touched the pavement, hitting the asphalt, the girl's body jumped up and again sank to the ground with a strange, terribly twisted neck. The fall was accompanied by an eerie, slapping sound. Beautiful boots with a fur edge flew off from the owner for a hundred meters, there was also a handbag that opened from the blow. My God, what kind of rubbish women do not carry with them: a comb, a powder box, lipstick, sweets, a wallet, a handkerchief, a plush dog, a player - everything lay in the December slush. Somehow breaking away from the contemplation of things, I turned my eyes to Rita and felt that the earth was leaving from under my feet.
The girl was lying on her back, arms and legs spread wide, her head was turned one hundred and eighty degrees, I could not see her face, paradoxically, a ponytail of luxurious curls appeared in front, and in the darkness it was noticeable how quickly a black glossy puddle was spreading under the corpse.
Out of nowhere people appeared, sympathetic exclamations rushed, oohs and aahs, but it was as if a thick, fur hat fell on my head, and objects for some reason lost their clear outlines. The police arrived, one of the patrolmen looked at a bunch of things that had fallen out of the bag onto the pavement, and shouted:
- It seems that there is no passport, make it out as an unknown!
Then some force unclenched my jaws, and I hissed:
- Her name is Margarita Rodionova ...
- Do you know the deceased? - the representative of the law was delighted.
I nodded. The policeman looked at me and suddenly showed sympathy:
- Go to the patrol car.
I dutifully climbed into the blue and white Ford, feeling strangely dull. Until now, I have never dealt with law enforcement agencies, except that I applied to the passport office. But I have heard a lot about what orders reign among the blue overcoats. However, I can’t say anything bad about the men who arrived at the scene. They were helpful and even shoved a can of Coca-Cola into my hands.
Having somehow coped with emotions, I began to answer endless questions. I don't know the make of the car. I can describe the design: aggressive, trunk blunt, raised…
“Such,” one of the interrogators pointed at a passing foreign car.
Yes, only black.
- So, "Volvo", - muttered the guy who called himself Alexei. Did you notice the number?
I shook my head, and in that second it dawned on me what was odd about the car. The car was clean, sparkling, it had obviously just been washed, and the plates were smeared with dirt. I did not have time to tell the police about this, because my mobile phone came to life in my pocket.
“Vanya,” came the high, sharp voice of my mistress Eleonora, “where are you?” How long does it take to walk from the avenue to the house? Hurry! What are you doing there?
I looked at the phone. Honestly, I never lie, but not because I'm so principled, no, it's just that if you always tell the truth, life is easier. Otherwise, you’ll lie something, then you’ll forget ... But now it was impossible to honestly answer Eleanor, I can’t say: “What am I doing? I give evidence to the police, I tell about the death of your granddaughter.” So I had to mumble:
- Here, in general, a nuisance ....
- Which?
- With Rita.
Is she drunk again?
No, no, she looked sober.
Why are you talking about her in the past tense? I shut up.
“Answer me,” Nora insisted, “well, quickly, speak!”
When they start talking to me in a commanding voice, as a rule, I get lost and automatically follow the order, but today I kept silent and looked at Alexei. The policeman sighed, picked up the phone and said in an official voice:
- Captain Rezov. As far as I understand, you are a relative of the deceased Margarita Rodionova...
I closed my eyes and, feeling slightly nauseous, leaned my head against the glass. Thank God, the fatal word “dead” was not uttered by me.

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