Belinda Blake and the Snake in the Grass

by Heather Day Gilbert

  As they wheeled the gurney past me, I caught a closer glimpse of the body, which hadn’t been zipped up yet. The woman was a bottle blonde—easy to spot since I’m a natural blonde. Her highlights were perfectly placed and well-maintained. Not cheap.

  It also looked like her face was mottled—more like spotted. Either she’d had some kind of contagious disease, or all the blood vessels had burst. And given the raised red welts around her neck, it seemed pretty clear she must have been strangled.

  As they cordoned off the flowerbed with police tape, my attention shifted to the security guard who had pulled up a seat next to me. The man was built like a bear, but his skin had paled and he looked like he was about to be sick.

  “Do you want to come inside and get a glass of water?” I offered.

  He shook his head, his eyes following the mystery woman as they zipped the body bag and loaded her into an ambulance. There would be no screaming sirens, no flashing lights for her today.

  The shaky security guard spoke up. “I need to get back to the house. If you happen to remember anything else, my name’s Val.”

  “Thanks.”

  As he stood, he nearly knocked the tiny bistro chair over before hurrying toward my driveway. I heard an engine rev, then he ground the small truck into gear and took off down my gravel drive. Maybe he felt more nauseated than he’d let on.

  I walked back to my front door, watching to make sure Val made it back okay. But to my surprise, he didn’t head to the manor house. Instead, his blue and white security vehicle made a sharp turn and he whipped into a parking space right next to the tennis courts.

  * * * *

  That night, as I crushed garlic for my penne arrabiata, I put my dad on speakerphone.

  “How’s the snake?” he asked.

  “Doing okay, but he had a kind of rough day, so he’s still curled up in his clay flowerpot. I’m going to keep him here tonight, then take him back to the city tomorrow.”

  “Makes sense. Don’t forget to keep his water bowl full to provide a little extra humidity in the tank. You might want to mist the interior once in a while with a water bottle, too. And be sure to flip on that heat mat you told me about. How long have you been watching him?”

  “A few days. His owner will be back next weekend, after Thanksgiving.”

  “So you’ll be feeding him.” Dad was subtly reminding me that snake food doesn’t come neatly packaged in a can.

  “I plan to give it a try when I get back to the apartment. Nothing like handling some frozen rats.” I shivered, wishing I’d come up with a different career for myself. But this job paid the bills, when combined with my video game review articles. Not to mention, it allowed me to function as my gloriously introverted self. Most days.

  “Hang on—your mom wants to talk.”

  I heard the front porch door slam, and I imagined a breeze blowing my way from Larches Corner. Mom was probably sitting in her favorite yellow Adirondack chair, smelling like the juba oil she’d worn since I was small.

  My crunchy, organic mom had no greater dream than to get off-grid someday. She actively worked at it, too, much to my dad’s dismay. Her latest attempt was to install a composting toilet, which Dad categorically refused to use, for fear the waste would somehow wind up fertilizing our tomato plants.

  “Sweet girl,” Mom said. “How are you? All settled in?”

  Mom’s alto voice unleashed the emotions I’d reined in tight throughout the day. I found myself spilling the entire story of the dead woman in the flowerbed, even though I knew what would happen—I’d rouse the Mama Bear.

  Sure enough, Mom launched into a diatribe. “What kind of owners let a girl die on their grounds? Do you think they covered it up? Are they strange?”

  I intuited her next question before she asked it.

  “Should I come down there?” What was insinuated but not spoken was: “And kick some butt?”

  I had to put on a show of confidence, no matter how fake it was. “No, Mom. I’ll be okay. I love the space in this carriage house, compared to that studio I had to share in the city. My career is thriving and the clients are lining up. I need to stick this out.”

  Mom sighed. I heard ice clinking. She was probably drinking homemade lemonade, or maybe unsweetened iced tea. “Well, honey, you know you’re welcome to visit anytime. Are you still coming in for Thanksgiving?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it. I’ll head in next Tuesday.” My stomach growled loudly at the sight of the bowl of pasta I’d mixed up. I sprinkled a liberal dose of parmesan on it as I said my goodbye to Mom.

  I queued up the next episode of Burn Notice, which I had been binge watching for months. I hadn’t taken more than three bites when I heard a bang on my front door.

  Had someone thrown something at my house? I walked toward the picture window, throwing a glance at the snake on my way. He was lounging on top of his flowerpot, flicking his tongue at me as if I’d invaded his territory.

  Another rap sounded and I peered out the window. I had no curtains up yet, so whoever was out there would have an unobstructed view of my face.

  Stone Carrington the fifth stood on my step, as yet unaware of my inquisitive stare. He’d changed to pants and a button-down shirt and his hair was perfectly tousled. He would have looked exactly like a model in a Ralph Lauren ad, if it hadn’t been for the tight line of his lips and the serious look in his eyes.

  Stone Carrington was worried, and I wondered why.

  Chapter 3

  I held off on opening the door, taking a couple more bites of pasta first. Far be it from me to deprive myself of sustenance just to chit-chat with the rich guy next door.

  Or so I told myself.

  Wiping at my sauce-spattered mouth with a napkin, I stepped to the heavy wood door. I turned the ancient knob and opened the door, just a crack.

  “Could I help you?” I asked curtly.

  Stone nodded, angling his face so he could see more of me through the mostly-closed door. “I’d like to talk. Is this a good time?”

  There was no really polite way to say it, so I was honest. The penne was delectable, and it wouldn’t be warm for long. “I’m actually eating now.”

  “Oh, I see. Sorry.”

  My resolve caved when I met his dejected gaze. “It’s okay—come on in. I’ll finish my supper and we can talk.”

  Stone stepped in, sliding his leather shoes off just inside the door. His socks were a bright turquoise and purple argyle.

  He focused on the snake, which was also focusing on him. “How does one ever get used to a creature like that, I wonder?”

  “Beats me. I’m going to have to bathe the thing at some point, too. Not something I’m looking forward to.”

  I gestured toward my shabby couch, with all the aplomb of one offering a chair in the Oval Office. “Have a seat.”

  He sat and looked at the TV screen. “Michael Westen and Fiona. I love that show.”

  I hid my surprise. “I’m nearly on the last season.”

  “That one was tough to watch at first.”

  I stood at the kitchen counter, taking a few bites of my now-lukewarm pasta and watching Stone closely. I had a hard time reading him.

  “Would you like some coffee? I have decaf,” I offered.

  “No, thank you.” He hesitated, then plunged in. “I need you to tell me all you know about the dead woman. Did you see much?”

  He wasn’t going to play me for a fool. “I figured your security dude told you all about it. I saw him head over to the tennis courts.”

  He nodded, unfazed by my observation. “He did tell me what he saw. Val tells me everything.”

  I couldn’t offer information I had no business sharing. “Why do you care so much?”

  “Because I knew her, and her name will be plastered all over the news soon. I need to understand what happene
d to her.”

  He wasn’t telling me everything, I was sure. I took a wild stab. “Why do you need to understand what happened? Had she been at some kind of party, maybe in your house? She was dressed for a date.” I cringed, realizing I’d just divulged more than I’d planned to.

  He noticed my irritation. “To answer your question, yes, she was in our house last night. Every Monday night I have a billiards party, inviting over a few close friends to play pool. Margo Fenton was an old family friend, and it wasn’t the first time she’d attended.” He swallowed. “I guess it will be the last, though. Val recognized her immediately, because she’d acted nervous last night when he opened the gates for her.”

  I swallowed the pasta I’d forgotten was in my mouth. “So why didn’t Val tell the police he recognized her?”

  “Val wasn’t sure what to do—he’s loyal to me. He’s been our head of Security for years.” He leaned back into the couch, and some of his tension seemed to dissipate. “Don’t worry—I’ll call the police station when I leave you, fill them in on the details of that night.”

  “So why are you here again?”

  He leaned toward me. “Val wasn’t sure how she died, but I’d like to know, so I can help my family prepare for the inevitable media coverage. I thought maybe you’d heard or noticed something when you found her, or maybe when you were talking with the police.”

  I rinsed my bowl before walking over and dropping onto the opposite end of my blue velour couch. Stone’s legs were long and lean and didn’t fit neatly under my coffee table, like mine did. Although, truth be told, I usually had my feet propped on the coffee table as I played video games.

  Pink light filtered through my wide back window. I glanced out at a sunset that had enveloped the flowerbed of doom in a golden light.

  Stone’s full attention was on me, and it was a hard thing to resist. His bright eyes had an undeniable smolder factor, even though he wasn’t flirting.

  He possessed a quiet power that wasn’t showy and didn’t stem from his wealth. It was the power of honesty, I thought. He had been up-front with me, so I would return the courtesy so his family could be prepared for the front-page headlines.

  “It looked like she’d been strangled, if you want my non-professional opinion,” I said. “She was wearing a long necklace, but I’m not sure if someone could’ve used that to choke her without breaking it.”

  Pain wrenched his features, making it obvious he’d truly cared about Margo. “I guess that means nearly anyone who was here last night could’ve done it.”

  Luckily, I’d been snake-sitting in Manhattan, so I knew I wouldn’t be a suspect. I wondered just how wild Stone’s pool-playing parties got. “Was she drunk, do you think?”

  He shook his head. “Margo wasn’t a heavy drinker. She’d probably only had a couple of beers, although, honestly, I wasn’t paying much attention.”

  He didn’t elaborate as to what he’d been paying attention to, but I wondered if it was another woman.

  Rasputin rubbed his thick body against the Plexiglas, then slithered back into his flowerpot, as if he had seen enough of humans for one day.

  Stone seemed to snap out of his thoughts. “Okay. Thanks for the information. I’m going to call the police station and fill them in on the billiards party. You want me to call you back if they tell me anything new?”

  “That would be great. Also, would you mind letting the cops know I won’t be around for the next couple of days? I have to take Rasputin back to his place in Manhattan, and I’ll be there for a day or two to take care of snake-y things.” Things I was trying hard not to think about.

  “Sure thing.” Stone slid into his shoes. When he placed a hand on my arm, my attention was immediately riveted to his long, slim fingers. “Wait—I have an idea. I’m going into the city tomorrow night. I have a friend there who came over for billiards, and he might have a better idea about what Margo did after the party. Maybe we could meet for a meal, say around six, then we could visit my friend and you could be another set of ears when I ask him some questions?”

  He removed his hand and I let myself meet his eyes. The introvert in me screamed that it would be a better use of my time to stay in tomorrow night and play my advanced-release, single player adventure game, but the foodie in me knew that wherever Stone Carrington the fifth decided to dine, it would be worth every penny. Plus, this billiards friend might unwittingly shed more light on Stone, whom I found quite intriguing.

  “Just let me know where,” I said.

  Chapter 4

  The snake’s cage was far from portable, and once the taxi driver pulled to a complete stop in my driveway the next morning, it was obvious he wasn’t going to make allowances for my unusual passenger. Especially since Rasputin was sliding around in plain view, drawing attention to his black-and-gold coils.

  The driver vehemently shook his head. “No, miss. I cannot drive with that creature in my car. You leave it in your house, then I will be glad to drive you.”

  “But I’m taking him to his home. The snake has to come.”

  He nodded. “I understand.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief, hauling the cage higher...only to watch the taxi whip away, leaving me stranded.

  The Greenwich train station was within walking distance—a long walk—but I had no idea what their regulations were about transporting pets. Besides, Rasputin would doubtless cause a mass exodus from any car we chose to sit in. While it was true I’d hired a private car to drive me from Manhattan to Greenwich, I’d kept a blanket over the cage. I should’ve thought of that before calling for a taxi.

  I trudged back to the house, plopping the cage down on the front step and muttering at the snake. “Why couldn’t you just stay all curled up in the flowerpot? You’re such a show-off.” I fumbled with my keys.

  “I hope you’re not talking to me.” Stone’s voice drifted my way. He was striding toward me, tennis racket slung over one shoulder.

  “Just trying to get back to the city.” I twisted the key in the lock. “It turns out that some taxis aren’t snake-friendly.”

  Stone jogged closer. “That’s no biggie. Just call up to the house and Mrs. Lewis will send a car. It’s no problem—our driver, Red, is ex-Army, so I guarantee he can handle a pet snake.”

  “Wow! Thanks. I can pay, of course.”

  “This one’s on the house. You can make it up to me by showing up tonight at six. I’ve booked us a table at The White Peony, on the Upper East Side.”

  I hid my surprise as he mentioned one of the most raved-about restaurants in the city, although I should’ve guessed he’d get us in there. I didn’t even own the caliber of clothing I’d need to darken The White Peony’s door.

  I feigned nonchalance. “I’ll be there. Now I’d better call Mrs. Lewis.”

  Stone grinned and sauntered back to his tennis court. Ten minutes later, a black car wheeled around and I settled the snake cage onto the leather seat. It was only as we pulled out that I registered that Stone’s appearance was remarkably well-timed. Had he been watching me?

  * * * *

  Red turned out to be the talkative type, regaling me with war stories as we drove along I-95. By the time he dropped me off at the Upper West Side apartment where the snake lived, my stress levels seemed to have dropped.

  Rasputin’s not-so-humble abode was in a lovely section of town—an older, ten-story white apartment building with a view of the Hudson River. As I mounted the wide steps to the building, the doorman recognized me and swung the door open with a flourish. I noticed he didn’t offer to carry the snake cage, though.

  “Mr. Foley still out?” he asked. “Where’d he go this time—Chicago?”

  It never ceased to amaze me that tenants trusted doormen with their personal information. When I’d lived with a roomie over on the Lower West Side, we hadn’t told anyone about our comings and goings. Bu
t we hadn’t had doormen.

  Doormen functioned as a built-in security system, so of course they needed to know if residents took extended trips or had other people looking in on their animals. I shrugged off my tendency to play my cards close to the vest.

  “Yes, Chicago. He’s out until next weekend. In the meantime, it’ll just be the snake and me.”

  I walked across the cool marble floors, jostling the snake’s heavy cage in the process. I pushed the button on an elevator I’d already discovered moved slower than the Upstate snow melts in March. A woman in red, shiny heels joined me right before the door slid closed, and I was instantly reminded of the Louboutins Margo had worn.

  I surveyed the quiet, tall woman whose manicured fingernail tapped at her blingy cell phone. A tiny Chanel bag dangled from a chain on her shoulder, and she wore a fitted blue velvet jacket. Gold jewelry adorned her ears, wrists, fingers, neck, and quite possibly her belly button and toes, as well. She was so engrossed in her compelling phone scrolling, she hadn’t even noticed the snake that shifted in the cage at her feet.

  Had Margo Fenton been like her, I wondered? Wearing fashionable, but completely uncomfortable shoes to show off her wealth? Keeping her cell handy so she could avoid talking to the plebes on the street?

  The woman glanced over at me and I realized she wasn’t as young as I’d initially assumed. Although there wasn’t a wrinkle on her face, her neck and hands gave away that she was somewhere in her fifties—around my mom’s age. I contrasted her fake appearance with my mom’s happy crow’s feet, her sun-freckled cheeks, and the white hairs dotting her blonde, ponytailed mane.

  Funny how unglamorous the glamorous were, up close.

  I grabbed the cage as the elevator finally jerked to a halt. The woman’s sharp intake of breath told me she’d finally noticed Rasputin, although maybe it was just my Crocs.