Dietrich gestured to a finished painting on the floor, this one done in more soothing blue and green tones. A squatty, curvy yellow blob seemed to be melting off the side of the canvas. Dietrich began to explain. “This was a nude I painted just last year—also Margo. I couldn’t believe she finally agreed to pose for me, but then again, it’s been years since our breakup.”
He said “breakup” as if it were a mutual thing, but according to Stone, it wasn’t. This man was obviously still hung up on Margo Fenton, even if she was dead.
“Speaking of Margo,” Stone said, “what happened that night? One minute she was shooting pool, the next she was nowhere to be found—didn’t even say goodbye. Do you think she left with the killer?”
Dietrich sank into a white couch shaped like a kidney bean. He gave Stone a long, measured look. “I have asked myself that a thousand times. I don’t remember anyone else leaving, do you?”
Stone shook his head. “There were only six of us that night. Sophie and Jet weren’t paying attention to anything, wrapped around each other as usual. I figured Frannie’d had an argument with Margo, since she’d plopped into that corner armchair and buried herself in booze. You and I were shooting pool. Lani was the only other person to come in, when she brought our appetizers and refreshed the ice at the bar.”
“Lani,” Dietrich murmured dreamily. “Your in-house Hawaiian kitchen goddess.”
“She’s fifty and has kids your age,” Stone snapped. “You always romanticize things. Come on, can’t you think of anything out of the ordinary that night? I have racked my brain and I sure can’t. Or some clue as to who would’ve wanted to strangle her? Who’s she dating now?”
Dietrich bristled. “That’s not something she shared with me. I was no longer in her inner circle of friends, I suppose.” He glanced at his paintings. “Still, I was content to paint her occasionally and try to capture her beauty for generations to come. Do you think I should send her family a painting, in memoriam? Maybe the one I’m working on now?”
Stone shot me a look and I lowered my head, unable to meet those dancing blue eyes. I was about to lose it. Thank goodness we’d never gotten around to feigning that I had an artistic interest in Dietrich’s paintings.
“I think I’d wait until things settle down for the Fentons,” Stone managed.
Dietrich nodded vigorously, jumping to his feet. “How about a glass of Prosecco? I have a little left. Adele hasn’t picked up my groceries yet, so I regret to say the cupboard’s a bit bare.”
Stone glanced at his phone. “We should be going. Red just texted that he’s pulling in down the block, and you know how parking is around here. By the way, did you know Margo’s funeral is going to be tomorrow? The police said they would finish the autopsy today, so the Fentons can get things wrapped up before Thanksgiving. Will you be there?”
Dietrich shrugged. “Probably not. I don’t believe in funerals. I mean, why mourn people who were going to die sooner or later anyway? I prefer to celebrate lives through my paintings.” He tenderly stroked the edge of the partially-finished painting, then added in an almost reverent tone, “True artwork lives forever.”
Unless it’s destroyed by floods, fire, or worse. I squashed my cynical thought.
Stone and I said goodbye and slowly walked down the metal stairs from the second floor to the main landing with all the windows. Without speaking, we both stopped to gaze out at the green-gray river. The sun had set and city lights were flickering to life all around us.
“Do you think he’s telling the truth?” I finally asked.
“I don’t know why he wouldn’t,” Stone replied, seemingly mesmerized by the water.
“Well, he’d lie if he strangled her,” I said.
Stone turned and gave me a thoughtful look. “Do you really think he did? He’s shorter than Margo was. And probably not half as strong.”
“Hate can fuel people, too.”
“I guess so.” He linked his arm in mine, leading me to the main door. Out on the well-lit sidewalk, the temperature had dropped, and I gave an inadvertent shiver. Stone noticed, and without a word, he took off his blazer and helped me slide it on. I reveled in its warmth and the masculine scent that lingered in the wool.
He offered me his arm again, and I tucked mine in his. He gave a sigh and said, “I dread going to the funeral.”
I didn’t offer to accompany him, because I was already booked for a ball python feeding tomorrow. Besides, I hadn’t known Margo, save for my discovery of her body in my flowerbed.
“It’ll be okay,” I said. “Her family will be glad you’re there.”
But part of me wondered if they would, since Margo probably took her last breath on the Carringtons’ estate.
Chapter 7
Katrina called bright and early the next day. “Tell me all about your date with Mister Manor House.”
I groaned. “It wasn’t really a date. And I didn’t have time to go shopping, so I wore that floral maxi dress.”
She gave a prolonged hmm. “What shoes did you wear with it?”
My sister knew me well.
“Doc Martens,” I practically whispered.
Katrina took a few moments to ream me out for my shoe choice, declaring that no matter where I traveled, I should always pack a pair of leather heels. Then she gave me mental whiplash by launching into a lecture about how I needed to keep my pepper spray on me at all times. Apparently Mom had told her that I’d turned up a dead body outside my carriage house.
“You should’ve told me, sis! I’ve met a few psychopaths in my sessions, and I’ve seen how they think. I mean, what if this was a serial killer?”
“Thanks for that uplifting thought. I’m sure I’ll sleep really well once I get back to my new place.”
She huffed. “You really need to be careful, Belinda. I know you’ve done some dangerous things in your time, like parachuting and mountain climbing and going on that African safari, but this is different.”
“Those things were hardly dangerous. And I doubt this is, either. I like my new little house and there’s no way I’d consider moving again so soon. Do you know how hard it is to land an old stone carriage house like this, much less in Greenwich?”
“Doesn’t matter where you live if someone’s out to kill you,” Katrina said sagely.
“How’s Tyler?” I asked, changing the subject. Katrina usually loved talking about her obstetrician husband—either deriding him or extolling him, depending on her mood.
“You would not believe the size of the TV he just bought,” she started. And I was off the hook, just like that.
* * * *
Rasputin didn’t waste any time slithering out to greet me when I walked into the living room, proving without a doubt he was hungry. I went into the kitchen to retrieve the thawed, smelly rat I’d set out the night before.
Using the metal calipers Reginald had showed me, I grabbed the rat’s flaccid neck and practically ran toward Rasputin’s cage. I opened it and dangled the corpse in front of Rasputin, but he stayed curled in the corner, acting all casual about catching his dinner.
I realized that might be the key—he had to feel like he was catching something alive. I wriggled the rat in front of him and he started sliding my way. Rejecting the impulse to drop the rat and slam the cage shut, I wriggled the rodent harder and the next thing I knew, Rasputin had grabbed and flipped it into his golden, squeezing coils, constricting it. I gently tugged the calipers free and shut the cage so he could eat in peace.
There’s a first time for everything, my grandma was fond of saying. But I hoped this was the last time my exotic pet-sitting career demanded I handle a floppy, thawed-out rat. Sure, I was partially awed to see a constrictor in action, but the larger part of me was convinced I’d die if Rasputin decided to give my neck a squeeze like that on our next “walk.”
I thoroughly cleaned
the calipers, countertop, and everything else the rat had touched. Then I retrieved the latest video game I needed to review and popped it in the game system in my room. Reginald had agreed to let me use it while I stayed over, so I could work both jobs at once.
The game was off to a slow start—it was a Tomb Raider wannabe, but the main character’s storyline was nowhere near as engaging as Lara Croft’s. In fact, I didn’t care if I ran this animated chick right off the beautifully detailed cliff.
My mind was elsewhere. Had Dietrich been telling the whole truth? Why would Margo have allowed him to paint her nude (although unrecognizable as such), after their breakup had occurred? What if they’d gotten back together and they hadn’t told anyone yet, and then what if, in a particularly stalkery moment, Dietrich had decided to kill her so her soul could live forever in his paintings or something?
I took a sip of my lime carbonated water. I was letting my imagination run away with me. Dietrich had seemed completely harmless. This wasn’t some warped, real-life version of The Picture of Dorian Gray. Dietrich had loved Margo for a long time, according to both him and Stone. She’d dumped him. He had been sad, but most likely he hadn’t taken a notion to exact revenge several years later.
No, Dietrich didn’t fit the strangler persona.
I glanced out the window. It was another sunny November day in Manhattan, so it was probably sunny in Greenwich, too. It seemed almost profane that Margo Fenton would be laid to rest on such a cheery, cloudless day.
I jerked at my controller, now fully engaged in the game as several armored Samurai charged me. At this point in the game, all I had was a long sword, but it would have to do.
For the next two hours, I focused on the game. Then I flipped it off and took copious notes on everything from the main character’s clothing to the nearly invisible pixelation on her skin. I evaluated the soundtrack, the likelihood I’d want to replay the game, and I compared it to other games of the same style. I’d taken numerous computer classes in college—mostly for fun—but they had come in handy with my freelance review gig.
When my stomach growled, I realized I was starving. The thought and smell of heading into the rat-thawing kitchen revolted me, so I phoned the local deli and ordered a turkey grinder. Tossing my pajamas to the side (a favorite perk of working from home), I threw on a long sleeved T and jeans, socks and Crocs, and headed out.
Fall was the one time Manhattan really tickled my fancy. Some crisp afternoons you could see the moon, smiling down on the city from a brilliant blue sky. It was a reminder that nature existed all around us, even if it felt like most of the Big Apple was manmade. Today I enjoyed some friendly banter with the deli cashier, took my grinder to a bench in the park, and sat under the trees to eat it. Truth be told, I missed home. The leaves had long since fallen there, but the air would hold that unmistakable tang of winter and the clear night skies would be spangled with stars.
My phone rang and I glanced at it. Stone.
I cut the pleasantries. “How was the funeral?”
He groaned. “Gruesome.”
Gruesome seemed to be a favorite word of his. “How so?”
“Her parents were a mess. I mean, literally. I think Adam Fenton was wearing his college rugby shirt, and Ava Fenton looked like she hadn’t washed her hair in days. I know none of that can be helped—they were grieving—but someone should’ve stepped in and helped them look a little more presentable for their own daughter’s funeral. After today, my mom has determined to help Ava join the land of the living. She’s visiting her tomorrow—along with a stylist she booked for the occasion to touch up Ava’s roots, which Mom said were atrocious.”
“Your mom’s a regular saint,” I said.
He missed my irony. “She does what she can. Hey, there was one weird thing, though. Frannie Rutherford has been best friends with Margo forever. I knew they’d had a fight of some kind before my last billiards party, but she didn’t even show for the funeral today. I would’ve thought she’d let bygones be bygones at this point, you know?”
“That is odd.” Although I appreciated the way he was including me in his ruminations on Margo’s death, I wondered why he was sharing this with me. I didn’t even know Frannie.
He went on to explain. “Anyway, I called her up and asked if I could swing by tomorrow.” He paused, and I felt a knot of trepidation in my gut, almost like I knew what was coming. “Actually, I have a huge favor to ask, Belinda. I sort of asked if we could swing by.”
“But I don’t even know her, Stone,” I shook my head, although he couldn’t even see me.
“Well, about that.” He cleared his throat, and his voice took on that persuasive tone I found myself bending for a little too easily. “She sort of inferred that you were my new girlfriend.”
I laughed out loud, not sure whether to be angry, offended, or flattered. A homeless man plopped down beside me and I scooted over to give him space. “So you mean you want me to act like your girlfriend?”
“I wasn’t saying that.” I thought I could hear a smile behind his words. “You can either act that way or shoot down the notion; whatever you want. I could see how it would be advantageous, though. That way she wouldn’t figure out you’re tagging along for a covert interrogation mission.”
“So that’s what we’re calling it?” Since our relationship had thus far been platonic, outside the few electrifying touches and glances Stone had given me, I agreed to go with him. “Fine, I’ll do it.”
“Thanks, Belinda.” In a softer voice, he added, “Or should I call you sweetie?”
I nearly choked on a bite of sandwich and the homeless man shot me an inquisitive look. I swallowed and tried to play it cool, staring at the leaves rattling on the trees. “You’re a funny guy,” I deflected, though I couldn’t help wondering what it would be like to be Stone’s actual love interest. “Anyway, trust me, I’m great girlfriend material.” I gasped, wishing I hadn’t let that tidbit pop out of my mouth.
Stone laughed. “I’ll just bet you are. Hey, are you heading back to the carriage house anytime soon?”
Relieved at the change in subject, I said, “I do need to get back to my place to type up an article I’m submitting. I’ll bring Rasputin along and stick around a little while. He’s pretty sedate, now that he just ate a huge rat.”
Stone made a fake gagging noise. “That’s too much information for me. Anyway, are you going to need a snake-friendly ride? I could send Red to pick you up.”
“Actually, I’d love that, if it wasn’t too much trouble. I think I’ll head back tomorrow, if that works for Red.”
“Sounds like a plan. Maybe Red could pick you up around eight in the morning? Then I’ll have him swing by your place later, around one, so we can visit Frannie.”
I felt lame, accepting free rides from the young laird of the manor, but I told myself I was repaying him by bringing my interviewing prowess to the table. After all, I was helping him uncover someone who’d murdered his friend, right on his property. Besides, he was the generous kind of wealthy guy who probably thought nothing of sending his chauffeur out on pickup errands.
“Sure. I’ll be ready.”
I hung up and polished off the last few bites of my sandwich. Although I’d considered offering it to the homeless man, he was curled up at the far end of the bench and seemed to be ignoring me.
I dug around in my purse and pulled out a five-dollar bill, which was the grand sum of my cash. “Excuse me,” I said, pushing the bill his way. “For you.”
As the man roused and grabbed for it, his bleary, alcohol-reddened eyes clamped on mine. He didn’t even say thank you, but I hadn’t expected it.
That was another huge difference between me and my sister. I was always stopping to give money to the homeless, and she always told me not to. “You know they’re just going to waste it on alcohol or drugs, BB,” she’d say, using my initials as a
pet name to soften me.
I didn’t really care how the homeless spent it. All I knew was that I had a little money and they didn’t, and I couldn’t walk on by and do nothing.
I felt the same way about Margo’s death. I’d found her, so it seemed I should go one step further and search for the one who’d viciously strangled her. For her family’s sake, and for my own peace of mind as I tried to settle in at the carriage house.
Chapter 8
Rasputin’s stomach was clearly distended when I picked him up to switch him to the smaller cage for our trip, so I figured he was still digesting his meal. I was amazed that snakes could go a week or two without food—some even went months during the breeding season, I’d read online.
I doubted poor old Rasputin would be breeding anytime soon. Reginald had mentioned the snake was already twenty-one years old, which was getting up there for a ball python.
He managed to slide into his flowerpot, hiding his head but leaving his tail hanging out. I misted his cage with water to make sure he had some humidity, since the air was dry and chilly this morning. Glancing out my front window, I wasn’t surprised to see Red waiting for me—a full fifteen minutes early. I scurried around, making sure things were tidied up, then I grabbed the snake crate and my backpack, locked up, and went to meet Red.
* * * *
Red continued to solidify his easy friendship with me by sharing about some of the undercover ops he’d participated in over the years. By the time we reached the carriage house, I wondered if Red wasn’t the original Michael Westen.
I unlocked my door, inhaling the homey smell of my cinnamon plug-in freshener. I set Rasputin down and turned on my coffee machine, then headed over to boot up my desktop computer.
My gaze skimmed over the living room, stopping on something white that lay on the floor just behind the front door. I must’ve stepped right over it when I walked in.
It was an envelope with my name written on it.
Belinda Blake and the Snake in the Grass Page 4
