Belinda Blake and the Birds of a Feather

by Heather Day Gilbert

* * * *

  I called the police station and gave a report of what happened at the house, but they didn’t seem overly concerned. “A couple of other families were vandalized with painted pumpkins last night,” the officer said. “We’ll send someone over to retrieve the pumpkin and dust for prints, but we suspect local high schoolers were playing a prank.”

  I asked if anyone else had seen the person dressed in a hooded cape holding a scythe, and the officer said that no one else had reported that. But since the person hadn’t done anything harmful to me and since it had happened on Halloween, he doubted there would be a repeat performance.

  I called Chloe next. She said that nothing strange had happened at her place last night, but then she lowered her voice and said she currently had a visitor over that she’d like me to speak to. She wondered if I could come straight over to talk with him.

  As I rushed through my shower, I wondered who it could be. Someone I needed to talk to…maybe Peter Bear? Whoever it was must have some kind of news that could be shared in the newspaper, otherwise, why would they have gone to Chloe’s house? She hadn’t said anything to make me think she was in imminent danger.

  Dad was prepping his breakfast when I rushed into the kitchen to grab a granola bar. I told him what had happened with the pumpkin, and he didn’t seem overly upset.

  “It’s probably better than getting toilet papered,” he said. “We’ll only have to paint that one section.”

  My dad was literally one of the calmest people on earth. It’s what made him such a fantastic vet—he could look at life-threatening infections and tumors and not freak out. But in this case, I kind of wished he’d get more worked up.

  Oh, well. Mom would get worked up enough for the both of them.

  “I have to run,” I said. “Can you tell Mom why part of her house is now red?”

  “Of course,” he said, stirring his oatmeal. “You want a bowl?”

  “No, I have to go to Chloe’s, then to Jonas’s. You have a great day at work, Dad.” I gave him a half-hug.

  To my surprise, he put down his spoon and pulled me into a full hug. Giving me a kiss on the forehead, he murmured, “It’s nice to have you around.”

  Tears sprang into my eyes, so I tried to lighten the moment. “That’s just because you like my cooking,” I joked.

  He chuckled, sitting down at the table. “Well, now, that’s true. But you fit here, you know?”

  I smiled. “I know,” I said, grabbing my keys as I walked to the door. A rogue tear trickled onto my cheek and I swiped it away. Greenwich, though charming and cozy, felt like it was “out of sight, out of mind.”

  Whereas Larches Corner had pulled me back into its familiar embrace. How was I going to leave town today?

  * * * *

  I walked up the metal stairs to Chloe’s, and she met me at the door, telling me about her visitor as we walked down the hallway toward the living room. “Professor Matthias Baruch dropped in today. He said he wanted to get something out in the open and he gave me permission to print it in the paper.”

  Was he planning to admit that he’d been seeing his teaching assistant outside business hours?

  Chloe continued. “He said he has reason to believe that Claire was with the literature club on the night of her death.”

  Realization hit me. The professor wasn’t about to confess his sneaky romance with Claire—if it was a romance at all. Instead, he wanted to implicate the literature club members in Claire’s death—and that meant he was pointing directly at Peter Bear.

  Talk about hitting someone when they’re down.

  My respect for the friendly professor dropped a few notches, but I fixed a smile on my face as Chloe led the way into the living room. The professor sat on Chloe’s couch, a teacup perched in one hand. I had the perverse urge to knock it to the floor.

  “Hello, Professor Baruch,” I said. “Nice to see you again.”

  He smiled. “Belinda. I understand you’re assisting Chloe as she reports on these terrible deaths.”

  “Yes, I am,” I said dismissively. I didn’t feel like playing games. “Doesn’t it strike you as odd that the entire literature club is now dead, except for Peter Bear?”

  The cup shook in the professor’s hand, and he set it on the coffee table. “Yes, of course it does. That’s why I’m here. As I told Chloe, the club had scheduled a meeting the night Claire died.”

  “And how did you know that?” I probed, unconcerned if I sounded impertinent.

  “Claire told me,” he said simply. “She was working for me after class that day—alphabetizing tests, as I recall. She said she hoped Jackson didn’t show up drunk again.”

  “Yet she was the one who was drunk that night,” I said.

  The professor gave a slow nod. “Indeed. That was what the police said.”

  I felt rather ruthless. “Maybe she got drunk before she went to the club meeting.”

  I wanted to watch his reaction, which didn’t disappoint. He looked like he’d taken a blow to the face. “Perhaps,” he hedged.

  Chloe, who’d remained uncharacteristically silent, finally piped up. “Were you going to go to the police with this information, Professor?”

  He straightened his tie. “I was, yes. I assumed you’d want the story first, though.”

  Chloe shot me a quick look. “That was kind of you, but I’d probably better wait until the police chief clears me to print it. Since it seems to link Peter Bear with Claire’s death, they’ll probably want to bring him back in for questioning.”

  “Of course,” the professor said. He turned back to me, giving me the kind of thrillingly intelligent once-over that doubtless sent his female students’ pulses pounding. “Thank you for stopping in, Miss Blake.” He nodded at Chloe. “And Miss Vail, thank you for your time.”

  As Chloe walked him out, I simmered in anger. Professor Baruch was a faker. He feigned concern for his students, but it was all an act. I was almost certain he’d taken advantage of Claire when she’d been working in such close proximity to him, and he’d probably gotten her liquored-up the night of her death. Now he was trying to pin her death on another of his old students, Peter Bear.

  And why was he so anxious to have Peter take the fall? It wasn’t as if the professor had pushed Claire onto the tracks—Peter was the only one who’d been in the position to do that. But if the professor had given Claire alcohol before the literature club meeting on the night she died, that would explain his need to shift the blame to Peter. He didn’t want it coming out that he’d provided alcohol to a minor, much less made advances toward her, which I felt sure he’d done. He could lose his entire career.

  That would be a powerful motivation to cover things up…or even kill.

  * * * *

  Chloe returned and demanded to know why I’d asked if something strange happened to her last night. After I explained the events at my parents’ house, she settled back into the couch. “It’s likely some kids. You know how we were in high school. And the police said other people had painted pumpkins thrown at their houses, right? It’s probably some new brainless challenge for them to do.”

  “I guess so.” I had to admit that the vandal probably hadn’t targeted us on purpose, although I couldn’t shake how personal it had felt when the faceless person in the cape had looked directly at me.

  Chloe stretched and yawned. “I hate to say it, but I’ll be glad when the cops wrap up the whole Peter Bear saga. I feel like I’m balancing on a wire, trying to get the facts straight without slandering Peter with hearsay—which everyone seems happy to do, from Tracy van Dusen to the professor.”

  “It’s a wonder his wealthy parents haven’t proactively hired a lawyer,” I mused.

  “That would make him look more guilty,” Chloe said.

  “I suppose so.” I suddenly felt tired, too. “Chloe, did I tell you I planned to he
ad back to Greenwich today? I forget.”

  “I think you alluded to it at some point—I knew you’d be leaving sometime this week. It’ll be okay. I honestly have very few people I can interview about this Tori Beekman murder. Tori’s roommate was out of town when she was murdered. The police have checked over Tori’s apartment, but they haven’t found her phone yet. They’re not exactly sharing info like I’m their number one priority.” She shrugged. “They did divulge that they found Tori’s junker car parked right in front of her house, as pretty as you please.”

  So someone must have given Tori a lift to Peter’s place…and what better person to do that than Peter himself?

  Everything seemed to be falling into place, and it couldn’t take long for the police to determine that Peter Bear had gone on a homicidal rampage. Peter was the only reasonable suspect for the murders of Jackson, Rosalee, and Tori. Peter had fought with Jackson. He’d been alone with Rosalee on the night she was killed. And Tori had died in his barn. Plus Adrian was fairly sure that Peter had shoved a drunken Claire onto the tracks when there was a train coming.

  I had to look at things objectively and admit that I’d done everything I could to expose the truth, and the truth was likely that Peter Bear was a killer. I hoped the police could charge him soon.

  Chloe jumped up and raced into her bedroom. She returned clutching a plastic dry cleaning bag. “Keep this,” she said, handing the bag to me. “It’s the purple dress. It looked much better on you than it did on me.” She gave me a tight hug. “Thanks so much for all your help, Belinda. I always have the best time with you.”

  “I wish you all the best with Gavin,” I said. “I really like him. He seems like a good guy.”

  She blushed. “Thanks! We have a date on Friday.”

  After making plans to get together over Thanksgiving break, I headed downstairs. It was time to stop pretending to be a news writing assistant and get back to my real jobs. As much as my parents might miss me, I had to earn a living somehow. Although it was true that I could do my gaming anywhere, I had invested so much time and money into extending my exotic pet-sitting business from Manhattan into Greenwich. Giving up my wealthy clientele and moving anywhere else would cut out the lion’s share of my pay.

  I zipped into Literary Lattes to get fueled up for the road, ordering a black and white mocha that was almost too sweet to drink. Glancing around the quaint shop, I tried not to imagine Jonas attending the next book club without me…and with the ever-pleasant Delia.

  I had an hour to get ready for my meeting with Jonas, so I decided to head on home instead of perusing the bookshelves. I wanted to make my best effort to look good, so that no matter which way our discussion went, Jonas would remember me as being put-together for a change.

  * * * *

  Mom was on the phone as I walked in. “Yes, of course, honey,” she was saying.

  I wondered if Katrina had called, maybe to express her frustration at someone chucking a painted pumpkin at the house.

  “Sure, we’ll pick it up,” Mom continued. “Don’t you worry one bit…it’s on the bottom shelf of your fridge in the clear container? Got it. You just do what you need to do today.”

  After saying goodbye, Mom hung up and stared out the kitchen window.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  “It sounds like Adrian had a bit of a meltdown last night. Tracy was supposed to bring the macaroni salad for the annual deacon’s dinner tomorrow night, but she probably can’t make it because she might have to check Adrian into a clinic again. She has the salad made, but she needs someone to get it for her and take it to the church kitchen.” Mom gave me a desperate look. “I’m scheduled to pick up two baby crias this morning. Is there any way you could possibly go to Tracy’s and grab the macaroni salad for me? She said the side door on her house is unlocked, and I have a key to the church, so you could get in to drop it off. You’re not planning to leave until later this afternoon, right?”

  I nodded, knowing Mom would be devastated if her baby alpacas didn’t come home today. “Sure. That won’t take too long,” I said, trying not to think of how little time that would leave me to primp for Jonas.

  Mom hugged me. “Thank you, sweetie. You are an absolute angel to me.” She plucked the church key from the key holder on the wall and handed it to me. “Now, I’d better go get my coveralls on. See you in a bit.”

  I went out to Bluebell, unable to avoid looking at the side of the house that still had red paint splattered on it. The pumpkin was nowhere to be seen, so I assumed the police had already picked it up. Thank goodness I’d been out this morning, so Mom had time to get over the outrage she’d doubtless felt when she first saw the vandalism.

  I determined to paint over the red when I got back from talking with Jonas. I didn’t want my parents to have to do it…and I didn’t want to be reminded of how helpless I’d felt when that trespasser turned his faceless hood toward me.

  21

  It didn’t take me long to get to the van Dusens’ place. I had to walk a half-circle around the house, but I finally found the small, original wooden door that led into a mud room. After flipping on the light, I headed into the kitchen. The moment I peered into the spotless stainless steel fridge, I couldn’t miss the huge clear bowl filled with macaroni salad. Tracy certainly went above and beyond in her churchly duties, that was for sure.

  I couldn’t see far into the house, but a sense of dreariness had seemed to settle on it—and on me. I felt guilty that Adrian had experienced a “meltdown” last night, whatever that looked like, because I was fairly certain I’d triggered it with my inquisition about the night of Claire’s death.

  A new thought crept into my mind—one I immediately wanted to squelch, but I knew I had to let it play out. Had part of Adrian’s meltdown involved sneaking over to my parents’ house last night and attempting to scare me to death? It was possible to walk the distance between our homes, although it involved quite a trek through the woods. Maybe he’d tossed a couple of other pumpkins at random houses along the way so it didn’t look like I was the target?

  Had Tracy found out what Adrian had done and whisked him off for everyone’s safety? Was she covering for her son?

  Would she cover for whatever he did, even murder?

  Katrina would say there was the possibility that Adrian had been traumatized by watching his sister die, perhaps to the point where he needed to exact revenge on the people he felt had conspired in Claire’s death. Carrying the bowl of macaroni salad, I tried to think through the timeline of deaths as I walked out to Bluebell.

  The fresh fall air cleared my head and sharpened my focus. Adrian had been in the Austrian clinic for a year after Claire had died, then he’d returned to be homeschooled for his senior year of high school. This fall, he’d attempted to go to the local college, but he’d washed out due to panic attacks.

  Jackson had died not long after this fall semester started. Maybe it wasn’t a coincidence that he’d been killed just after Adrian was forced to drop out of college.

  But I kept coming back to the fact that Adrian didn’t drive, and I was confident he didn’t have a friend in the world who’d agree to run over someone for him. Unless Tracy was some kind of psycho mom who cheered and aided her son in his murderous endeavors. I glanced at the macaroni salad on the seat next to me, which was artistically dusted with paprika. Maybe I was being fickle, but I didn’t think a psycho mom would take the time to create such a work of perfection for a church dinner.

  I drove slowly down the driveway, glancing at Ella’s swing and the gardening shed that sat near it. I imagined a dog running around on the property, and I had to smile. It would liven the place up considerably. I’d encourage Mom to try to talk Tracy into adopting that Rottweiler mix, after all.

  * * * *

  The church was dark as I slipped the key into the back door lock. From what Mom had said, the new pas
tor was rarely in the church during the week, since he preferred to study in his office at the parsonage next door.

  I went downstairs and unlocked the door to the basement. It was nearly pitch black, because the rooms only had tiny, slanted windows that barely let any light or air in. The classrooms still smelled damp, like they did when I was a child. I flipped on the lights in the long hallway, and a few flickered to life with a greenish, fluorescent glow. The rest were in dire need of replacement.

  Something gave a quiet pop upstairs and I froze. Was someone walking around in the main sanctuary? But the pops continued downstairs as the heating system kicked on. I tried to shrug off my edginess and walked straight for the fellowship hall and kitchen, which was at the very end of the hallway.

  The kitchen itself had been updated with a modern stove and fridge, but the wood-trimmed laminate cabinets were straight out of the eighties. I hurried over to the fridge and realized I’d have to shift some things to create space for the enormous macaroni salad. As I moved a small cherry trifle to a lower shelf, I heard a movement at the far end of the hallway.

  I walked out of the kitchen to see where the sound had come from. But the fellowship hall door was suddenly slammed shut and I heard a faint click.

  Recalling that the fellowship hall door locked from the outside, I raced toward it. Sure enough, someone had locked me in.

  It hadn’t been some kind of misunderstanding, either. The lights were on and they must have heard me moving around in the kitchen.

  This was a deliberate lock-in.

  But there was no need to panic. I went back into the kitchen and pulled my phone from my purse. I tried to dial 911, but the phone merely beeped at me. I looked at my coverage and realized there was no signal down here.

  Unsure if texts would go through either, I shot one out to Jonas and one to my dad, just in case.

  After rummaging through kitchen drawers and finding a sharp knife, I carried it over by the door and set it on a table next to me. I twisted at the knob and shoved my body against the flimsy door, hoping it would give.