Belinda Blake and the Birds of a Feather

by Heather Day Gilbert

  It was such a shame that Adrian’s life seemed to have been completely derailed by his sister’s death. His poor mother had basically lost two of her children the night Claire died.

  I was biting into my final piece of pizza when I had a sudden, improbable thought. “What if Tracy van Dusen wanted her son to crash the engagement party? Do you think that’s possible?”

  “There’s no love lost between her and Peter Bear, that’s for sure. Still, I can’t imagine Tracy would have it in her to ruin someone else’s life just because she felt Peter ruined her daughter’s. Tracy seems like someone who’s hurting, if you ask me.”

  “Hurt can drive people to do hurtful things,” I said, feeling rather deep.

  “True…” Jumping up, Chloe grabbed her camera. She began to thumb through the pictures. She landed on one and pointed to it. “Take a look at this picture. Tracy looks utterly mortified when Adrian was giving his spiel.” She flipped through a few more pictures and stopped. “And this one—she was shoving through the crowd to try to get to Adrian. No, I don’t think she’d anticipated what he was going to do.”

  “Maybe he lied to her to get her to attend,” I suggested. “He could’ve pretended he wanted to have a clean slate with Peter or something.”

  “Sure, if he’d taken that approach, it might’ve worked.” Chloe set her camera down. “I know you think Jackson’s and Claire’s deaths are connected, but honestly, what would be the motive to get rid of both of them? From what I can tell, Jackson was a bit of a pompous jerk, but is that a reason to kill him? And Claire…everyone seemed to love her. Maybe their deaths were just what they seem—accidents.”

  I shook my head. “Something still feels wrong. Jackson getting run over at such a high speed in the alley while drunk. Claire getting run over by a train while drunk. The common denominator here, besides getting run over, is that they were drunk. Professor Baruch said the literature club was into partying.”

  “But the bar owner, Ross Franklin, swore that Jackson was alone on the night of his death.”

  “Maybe I could talk with Ross—”

  Chloe’s phone rang and she placed her half-eaten pizza slice on her paper towel. “Chloe Vail,” she answered with more pep than I could ever imagine having at ten thirty at night.

  Someone was speaking loudly and rapidly on the other end. Chloe said, “Hold up, say that again.”

  The person repeated herself—I was fairly certain it was a woman. When the woman finally fell silent, Chloe pulled the phone away from her face. She stared at it like it was on fire.

  “What is it?” I mouthed.

  She covered her mouthpiece. “Rosalee’s dead,” she whispered.

  * * * *

  As soon as Chloe hung up with Mrs. Meier, she dug up a pair of oversized Crocs for me to wear. Then we raced out to her car and headed straight to Rosalee’s house. As Chloe drove, I called my parents to let them know I’d be home a bit later. I told them Chloe had an unexpected story she had to cover, and she didn’t want to go out alone. I knew better than to explain just what the story was.

  Besides, it was true—Chloe didn’t need to be alone right now. Her hands were shaking as she drove. Mrs. Meier had told Chloe she’d called her first, because she didn’t trust any other reporters to cover her daughter’s death. It was possible that this would be the biggest news story Chloe would ever cover in Larches Corner, and I was glad I’d be along for moral support. This wasn’t the first time I’d been around the scene of a murder, so I hoped that if I could stay calm, it would encourage Chloe to do the same.

  “This is it,” Chloe said darkly. “So much for my happy little theory that Jackson’s and Claire’s deaths were random accidents. This seals the deal, Belinda. There has to be a murderer on the loose.”

  I tried to talk her down. “Walk me through what Rosalee’s mom said.”

  Chloe drew a deep, ragged breath. “She said that after the serving staff left, she and Mr. Meier fixed sandwiches and went up to their room to watch TV. The last she saw Peter and Rosalee, they were downstairs in the small living room, looking over their gifts.”

  “And then?”

  She gripped the wheel tighter, rounding a curve before the Meiers’ gate. “Peter told her that Rosalee took some kind of call. Then she said she had to check on something. He assumed she was heading up to her room. Thirty minutes passed, and when he couldn’t find her, he went looking. Finally, he noticed the door was open to the pool area. He went out and found her dead body, half-floating in the water.”

  “The police need to trace that call,” I said.

  “Well, her cell phone had been smashed and dropped into the pool, as well, so I’m not sure if they can,” she said.

  The Meiers’ gate was open and the house lights were blazing as we drove up. Chloe parked behind a line of police vehicles. We silently walked to the front porch and Chloe rang the bell.

  In a moment of déjà vu, Mrs. Meier opened the door to us, only this time she was wearing slacks and a sweater. She hugged Chloe and me, and I was surprised to see that her face wasn’t red or puffy from crying. In fact, it looked like she hadn’t cried at all. Although she was likely in a state of shock, I also suspected that Mrs. Meier was the type of woman who soldiered on in the face of personal grief, never letting her emotions get the best of her.

  I imagined that Tracy van Dusen had reacted in a very different way when she had learned of her daughter’s death. She didn’t seem the type to stay silent in the face of trouble.

  As Mrs. Meier led us toward the indoor patio, we passed a man who was openly weeping in a sitting area. I assumed he was Mr. Meier. When we entered the large patio room, my gaze immediately traveled to a slight body that was covered with a sheet on the floor.

  Chloe recognized the older man who was barking orders to officers. “Chief Ingram,” she said, walking over to shake the police chief’s hand. Mrs. Meier accompanied her, so I edged to the side and tried to get a glimpse of what was going on near the pool itself.

  A man stalked in from outside, his eyes focused on the ground. His long hair was pulled back in a leather tie and he’d exchanged his dress shirt for a fitted red tee. But Peter Bear was not the type of man who could go unrecognized. I stepped into his path.

  “Peter,” I said.

  He looked up, anguish and anger wrestling in his dark, fiery gaze. “Yes?”

  I wasn’t even sure he recognized me with my hair down and my casual outfit. “I’m Belinda—we met tonight. I’m here with Chloe Vail, the reporter.” As his eyes blazed more, I rushed to add, “Mrs. Meier called her.”

  “I can’t imagine why. This doesn’t need to be splattered all over the news.”

  Chloe, who’d been lingering near Rosalee’s body, walked up to us. “It will wind up in the news, Mr. Bear, but I’m here to make sure it isn’t splattered. I’ll be handling it with kid gloves, out of respect for the Meier family.”

  Mrs. Meier motioned for Chloe to join her as she walked out to the pool.

  “If that’s what the family wants,” Peter murmured. “Now, if you’ll excuse—”

  I didn’t want to lose my chance to talk to him while things were fresh in his mind. I stepped closer to him. “I’m so sorry. They said you were the last to see Rosalee—was she really upset tonight? I mean, I would have been if someone had showed up at my engagement party and blasted me like Adrian van Dusen did.”

  Anger flared again in Peter’s eyes. “That punk had no business showing up here. He was friendly enough to me when I dated his sister.”

  “From what I hear, he’s still having a hard time coping with her death.”

  Peter softened a little. “None of us will ever get over it. I hate seeing what it’s done to the van Dusens. But we can’t get anywhere living in the past. I was trying to move on with Rosalee—we were happy together.”

  “But she wasn�
�t so happy tonight,” I pushed.

  Police Chief Ingram was giving me the eyeball, like he was wondering what I was up to. I casually took Peter’s arm and started walking him toward the next room.

  “No.” Peter seemed unsuspicious of my sudden chumminess. “She was upset, and as you might’ve noticed, she’d been drinking a lot. In fact, she was actually slurring her words and stumbling around by the time her parents went to bed. I told her to take her heels off…” He placed a fist to his mouth. “That’s how I found her. She’d taken her heels off by the pool. Maybe she tried to dip her feet in and she fell?”

  “Maybe,” I said soothingly. I stopped in the large room where the party had been held, which seemed even more vast now that the tables and folding chairs had been taken down.

  “She wasn’t normally a heavy drinker,” he said defensively.

  “I’m sure.” I took a longer look at the man beside me, who might have been the last person to see his fiancée alive. Did he really believe Rosalee simply fell into the pool in a drunken stupor? Or was his distress simply an act?

  He turned to me, looking heartbroken, and I had to fight the urge to give him a comforting hug. Good grief, this man had some kind of superhuman ability to draw women in.

  Chloe walked up to us, glancing from me to Peter. “I’ve seen all I needed to see,” she said. “We’d better get back so I can write this up. Chief Ingram doesn’t want me doing any interviews or sharing any specific details until they do the autopsy, so this is going to be a brief piece.”

  I suspected that she, too, was trying to comfort Peter Bear, letting him know she wasn’t writing some kind of exposé.

  As if rousing himself from a bad dream, Peter nodded. “I should get going, too. It’s late.” He walked out abruptly.

  Chloe lowered her voice. “So, what do you think? Is he in shock, like the Meiers are?”

  As we made our way through the elegant house that would now forever harbor the loss of a child, I thought about my answer. “He’s sad and upset, but I don’t think he was in shock.” I pictured Peter’s face…there had been some emotion there I couldn’t quite place. It took me a moment, but it finally registered.

  “Peter Bear is afraid of something,” I said.

  12

  “Why would you think Peter’s afraid? He didn’t strike me that way.” Chloe unlocked her car doors and slid into the driver’s seat.

  I dropped onto my seat and closed the door. “I can’t really explain it, but it was almost like he was too angry…too defensive about Rosalee’s drunken condition. Deep down, he might also suspect that someone got to her at the pool.”

  “That makes sense.” She started the car, maneuvering around police cars to get out on the road. “Well, I happened to get a close look at Rosalee’s shoes—they were jammed into a clear evidence bag. And those shoes were strange for two reasons.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “First, I realized that Rosalee hadn’t bothered to unbuckle the straps. That seems weird, because they were the type of heels that were double-strapped around the ankle. I’ve had heels like that, and it hurts like the dickens trying to slip your foot out of both straps. You almost have to unbuckle them first.”

  “Good point,” I said. “And what was the second reason?”

  “Her heels were wet,” Chloe said. “And I mean dripping wet. There was water in the bag. It doesn’t make sense that she’d take them off first, only to let them get ruined with that much water. They weren’t cheap shoes, Belinda.”

  Chloe was right—it didn’t make sense. “You think someone killed her, then pushed her in?”

  She nodded. “Shoes and all. But maybe they realized they needed to make it look like an accident, so they pulled her shoes off and staged them by the pool.”

  “It’s definitely possible,” I said.

  We drove through town in silence, but I noticed Chloe turned to look at the alley behind Ross Franklin’s bar. I did, too. There was simply no way someone could’ve gone fast enough to run over Jackson unless they’d worked to build up speed.

  Chloe pulled into my parents’ drive, turning her lights on low. “Peter was the first to find Rosalee. Maybe he saw more than he’s telling the cops. Though I don’t know why he’d hold out on them, except to save his own hide.” She handed me my purse, which was bulging because I’d shoved my sister’s nude heels into a side pocket. “I’ll probably find out more tomorrow. I asked Chief Ingram to give me a call with any updates.”

  “Okay. Let me know as soon as you hear anything,” I said.

  “I will. And Belinda, I hate to ask, but I might need a little help with interviews, if you’re up for it? Unless you’re heading back to Connecticut soon?”

  I had been looking at Sunday as my target date to leave, but I might need to stay a bit longer if Rosalee’s death turned out to be a homicide.

  “I’ll be glad to help,” I said.

  After closing her door, I headed to the front porch. Mom had left the living room light on for me, so I could see where I was going.

  Chloe waited until I’d made it into the house before pulling away. I crept up to my room and dropped into bed, fully clothed. It looked like Jonas would have a pigeon-sitter for a couple more days, at least.

  * * * *

  On Saturday morning, the sun was out and things had warmed considerably. Mom was up early, whistling a Bob Dylan tune in the kitchen. The smell of pancakes pulled me downstairs.

  Mom gestured to a stack of pancakes on a plate and I helped myself to three of them. Pancakes were one of the best meals Mom made—even if she did sneak oatmeal and applesauce into them.

  “And what were you two young whippersnappers up to last night?” Mom asked.

  My cheery mood evaporated. I finished drowning my pancakes in maple syrup, then tackled Mom’s question.

  “Mom, I’m afraid I have some really bad news.”

  She flipped a couple of pancakes, her face impassive. “Go on, then.” Mom wasn’t one for beating around the bush.

  “Rosalee Meier drowned last night.”

  Mom gaped at me. “What? I thought she was having an engagement party!”

  Dad moseyed in just as the smell of burning pancakes wafted through the air. Mom yipped and tossed the blackened pancakes into the sink, running water over them to tamp down the smoky smell.

  “What’s up?” Dad asked, loading his own plate.

  I filled my parents in on the events of last night, and Dad frowned. “First that boy got run over with a car, and now this? That’s two young people dead in the space of a week.”

  I took a sip of coffee. “I know, it’s so strange and sad.” Not to mention incredibly suspicious, but I didn’t draw attention to that fact. “Dad, is there a way you could put me in touch with your friend who owns the bar—Ross Franklin, was it?”

  Dad nodded. “Sure. Ross works almost every night—I could give him a call for you. But what did you want to talk with him about?”

  “Just checking into something for my friend Chloe Vail,” I said vaguely.

  Mom shot me an astute look. “You and Chloe were at that engagement party…is there something you’re not telling us, Belinda?”

  I poured more vanilla creamer in my coffee. “Chloe kind of stumbled into this big story about Rosalee, so I’ve agreed to help her with some interviews and things. It’s a lot for one reporter, you know.”

  Mom’s eyes narrowed. “I can imagine.”

  I forced a carefree smile that probably came out looking as stiff as starch.

  Not one to be put off by fake smiles, Mom said, “Hey, Belinda, you need to let me know your schedule while you’re in, okay? Jonas called earlier and wanted to know your plans for the weekend. I told him I wasn’t sure when you were planning to leave, but I thought you’d be staying here tonight?”

  I knew exactly what M
om was doing—she’d sensed that I had ulterior motives in helping Chloe look into these mysterious deaths. Mom was well aware that I had a propensity for sniffing around and asking too many questions. A couple of times, I’d actually wound up endangering my own life in the process, which Mom hadn’t forgotten.

  I glanced back at her. Her lips were tight and her hand was on her hip. Dad walked over and grabbed a couple pancakes, oblivious to the female unrest in the room.

  Trying to circumvent the protective shield Mom was about to activate around me, I walked over and gave her a hug. “I forgot to say thanks for those amazing pancakes. And of course I’ll tell you my schedule. I don’t know what I’m doing today until I hear back from Chloe, but I won’t be going far. Tonight, Jonas and I were going to a book club meeting at Literary Lattes. Then maybe I can call Dad’s friend Ross?”

  Mom gave a slow nod. “Okay, but be sure to call Jonas and let him know you’re definitely planning to go tonight.”

  “Sure. I’ll feed the pigeons now and get that out of the way. If Jonas is out, I’ll leave a note for him.”

  “Sounds good,” Mom said, pulling me into another hug and kissing my head. She brightened. “I heard that the mother alpaca is pregnant and might have her crias soon. Then it’ll just be a matter of time until I can pick them up.”

  I tried to share her joy, but I could only think of the work that would probably go into getting them situated here. “That’ll be good,” I said.

  Dad gave a grunt from the table, and I wasn’t sure what that meant. He was either amused or chagrined over the alpacas—it was anyone’s guess.

  I was reminded of my conversation with Ella. “Hey, Dad—I have a high school friend—Ella van Dusen—and she’s looking for something to do after school. Do you think she could drop by the vet clinic and help out with light chores, like walking the boarded animals?”

  Dad nodded. “Helen just told me that we needed more hands on deck. Tell Ella to drop in on Monday for details.”

  “Thanks!” I grabbed my phone from the table and shot a quick text to Ella. As I sent the text, my phone buzzed with an incoming call. “Thanks again for breakfast, Mom,” I said, then jogged up to my room as I picked up.