Belinda Blake and the Snake in the Grass

by Heather Day Gilbert

  I grabbed an umbrella, unable to sit around any longer. After pulling on my rubber boots, I sloshed out to the mailbox. My mom had mentioned that she’d sent me a care package, and I’d been anxiously awaiting it, even though I knew it would likely be filled with inedible cookies, healthy snacks, and vitamins the size of horse pills.

  Creaking open the black mailbox door, I peered inside. There didn’t seem to be a yellow package slip. Instead, I withdrew a handful of bills. I didn’t even want to think about whether I had the money in my account to cover these, plus the rent, plus repairs on my car.

  My older-model Volvo, which I fondly referred to as Bluebell, was temporarily out of commission. Bluebell had decided to shed her rusting tailpipe smack in the middle of I-95, and I was still waiting for the replacement to come in.

  Sure, I could ask my parents for money, but it felt like giving up to have to do that. I had survived in Manhattan, scraping by on smaller pet-sitting jobs, so when I moved to Greenwich last year, I’d had high hopes that my business would take off.

  Although Greenwich had widened my clientele, my income was still somewhat sporadic. And, truth be told, I needed an influx of money right now. My video game review checks wouldn’t arrive until the end of April.

  I shoved the mail into my jeans pocket and trudged back to my house. I knew what I had to do. Besides, it couldn’t be that hard to work at a wolf preserve, could it? And the experience would look fantastic in the bio on my website. I mean, if I could handle pet-sitting wolves, what couldn’t I handle?

  Summoning my confidence, I dialed Dahlia’s number and agreed to come in the next morning to sign the contract and tour the facility. She sounded understandably relieved. The number of people in Greenwich who would like to work with wolves could probably be counted on one hand—and I was betting those were the people who were already employed at the preserve.

  Once I’d squared things away with Dahlia, my next call was to Red, the Carringtons’ chauffeur. Once Stone the fourth had heard my car was in the shop, he’d volunteered Red’s driving services so I could get where I needed to go. I wasn’t sure if Stone the elder was being kind because I was a good tenant or because he felt he owed me something since I’d narrowly escaped a life-or-death situation in his house this past winter.

  Red’s gruff voice filled the line. “Yes?”

  Red’s ex-Army persona didn’t throw me, even though his habit of carrying concealed weapons did make him seem more like a bodyguard than a proper chauffeur.

  “Red, could you run me somewhere tomorrow morning? We can stop for Dunkin’ Donuts.” I knew Red had a sweet spot for their oversized bear claw pastries.

  “You don’t have to butter me up, Belinda.” He chuckled. “I’ll take you wherever you need to go. What time?”

  “How about eight-thirty—that’ll give us a little time to stop by Dunkin’ D. And no, I’m not buttering you up—I promise. I like their coffee.”

  However, if the coffee and bear claw happened to loosen Red’s lips as to any updates about Stone the fifth, it would be a happy bonus.

  * * * *

  Red pulled up ten minutes early, but I’d known this was his habit, so I was ready. I had donned jeans, my Doc Martens, and a light blue, paint-splattered Columbia University hoodie I’d swiped from my dad the last time I visited home. Normally, I wouldn’t wear such casual gear for my first visit with a client, but the wolves were outside and though the rain had stopped, the ground had turned to mush.

  I splashed through a couple of puddles to meet Red, who had walked around to open the door for me. He didn’t bat an eye at my unusual attire, but instead tipped his chauffer’s hat toward me in an old-fashioned gesture of respect that warmed my heart. Red always made me feel like I fit into Greenwich society, even though it was quite obvious I didn’t.

  Sharing Dahlia’s address, I carefully omitted the fact that we were heading to a wolf preserve. If Red knew what I was stepping into, it was possible he’d balk at driving me there, and I didn’t want to have to pay for a cab or car service.

  On the way, Red stopped at the Dunkin’ Donuts drive-through to pick up our goodies. He drove into a parking spot and distributed our food.

  I took a slow sip of the deliciously strong coffee. Red pulled the tab back on his cup and positioned it in the holder, then started backing the car out.

  I tried to sound casual. “So, has Stone called lately from Bhutan?”

  The middle-aged chaffeur threw a quick glance at me in the rearview mirror. “Matter of fact, he did call, just yesterday. Wanted me to take his car in for inspection—he’d remembered it expires this month.” His lips curled into a half-smile as he bit into his bear claw, bits of icing dropping all over the napkin in his lap.

  I wasn’t sure if he was smiling about the pastry, or about having the opportunity to get behind the wheel of Stone’s yellow Lamborghini. I figured it was the Lamborghini.

  An inadvertent sigh escaped my lips, which seemed to trigger Red’s memory.

  “He did ask about you,” he added hastily.

  “And?”

  Red grinned. “He wondered if you’d been pet-sitting any more snakes.”

  I’d watched a ball python named Rasputin last year, and the experience was memorable, to say the least. “Ha. No more snakes of late.”

  I didn’t add that I’d made a few trips into Manhattan just to see Rasputin. I kind of owed that snake, after all, and on some reptilian level, I was convinced he liked me.

  Chartreuse-budded tree limbs arced alongside the road as we drove through a heavily wooded area. When Red slowed to turn off on Dahlia’s road, I realized we’d gone a full three minutes without seeing one typical Greenwich McMansion—or any houses at all. Although I’d grown up in a rural area, the complete seclusion of Dahlia’s wolf preserve felt a little sinister.

  Halfway up the drive, a gate stood open, with a large sign affixed to it reading White Pine Wolf Preserve. My cover was blown. I slid down lower in the seat because I knew what was coming next.

  Red pulled to an abrupt stop and turned to stare at me. “You sure this is the right place?”

  I didn’t meet his eyes. “Yes, it is. This is the address I gave you, right?”

  He didn’t even bother to answer my question. “Will you be working directly with wolves? This job sounds too risky.”

  “I don’t know the details yet,” I answered honestly. “And the owner said they’re perfectly safe.”

  “Of course she would,” Red muttered into his coffee cup.

  Chapter 2

  “Please keep driving,” I said firmly.

  Red finally gave a halfhearted nod and gently pressed the gas. As we neared the end of the long, paved drive, the White Pine Wolf Preserve began to resemble the tourist destination it was. An extended, renovated red barn bore a Visitor’s Center sign. Behind the barn, I caught a glimpse of a white farmhouse with fresh new siding. Red pulled into a space in the good-sized parking lot adjacent to the barn.

  He seemed to struggle for words, like he was hoping I’d back out of this, but his chaffeur decorum won out. “What time should I pick you up?” he asked briskly.

  “I’ll text you.” I couldn’t allow myself to chicken out, uneasy as I felt. Dahlia was counting on me and I knew she’d never find anyone else on such short notice.

  Since no one had appeared to greet me, I gave a brief, hopefully confident nod to Red and stepped out of the car. I shouldered my purse and strode toward the barn. The outside bore a glossy coat of apple-red paint, and plum and lemon colored pansies had been painstakingly planted in the window boxes.

  I pushed open the rustic wooden door. The inside of the visitor’s center was just as carefully kept. The walnut plank floors and massive overhead beams emphasized the spaciousness of the barn. The shop was well organized, and I didn’t find myself bumping into display tables like I u
sually did in places like this. Although there were the predictable wolf trinkets and T-shirts, it was the homemade items such as natural stone jewelry, handmade soaps, and unusual jellies that drew my eye. Burning wax melts and small twinkle-light grapevine trees lent the place a welcoming air.

  “Good morning.” A chic woman with a British accent stepped from behind the natural wood counter and made her way toward me. “How may I help you today? Were you interested in a tour?”

  “Actually, I was looking for the owner, Dahlia White. I’m supposed to be helping with her animals.”

  The woman smiled, adjusting the silk scarf knotted around her slim neck. With her dark pixie haircut and flawless makeup, she looked like she belonged in an upscale art gallery, not working the cash register at a wolf preserve.

  “You must be Belinda!” she said, extending a hand. “Dahlia had to motor into town before her trip, so I was instructed to have Shaun give you a tour around our facilities. I’m Evie Grady, by the way—Dahlia’s administrative assistant.”

  Evie pulled a cell phone from her pocket, punching in a number to call Shaun, whoever he was. After a brief conversation, she returned her attention to me.

  “He’ll be here in a moment. Shaun Fowler has worked at White Pine since it opened three years ago, and he’s one of the best tour guides out there. He puts the tourists at ease with his sense of humor, which is important for their first encounter with the wolves.”

  I still found it hard to believe I was gearing up for my first wolf encounter. “That’s wonderful,” I murmured.

  Oblivious to my discomfort, Evie launched into a brief tour of the visitor’s center, which boasted a cute kitchen area where employees could get coffee and take lunch breaks. She also pointed out a hand-drawn, framed map of the preserve that hung over the mantel of the stone fireplace.

  “We have a thirty-acre fenced area for the packs,” she said, gesturing to a thick green border line on the map.

  There was more than one pack?

  Evie rolled on with her monologue. “Shaun will be able to tell you more about each of the animals and how they came to us. I’m sure it won’t take you long to acclimate to the routine, given that you specialize in exotic pets?”

  “I should be able to pick things up quickly,” I said. “I’m good with animals.”

  And not just any animals. The truth was that I’d built my business by watching the animals other sitters didn’t want to touch. The wealthy tended to buy unusual pets, and they didn’t like to leave them unattended when they went on trips. It was usually a win-win for me when the pets were easy to care for, like hermit crabs or turtles. Wolves had never factored into my consideration before, but I reassured myself that I would be well-compensated for whatever I was required to do on the preserve.

  An oversized fellow bumbled into the door. He wore a neon green vest that had the preserve name emblazoned on it in white reflective lettering.

  “Hi, I’m Shaun,” he said, giving me a relaxed smile. “I take it you’re Belinda Blake?” His eyes traveled over my hair, then slowed as they reached my face. His freckled cheeks flushed. “Say, you wouldn’t happen to be the Belinda Blake who’s a game reviewer, would you? You kind of look like her.”

  I was surprised, but flattered. I beamed at him. “I’m that Belinda, yes.”

  His eyes widened. “I read your reviews every month. You’re one of the best.”

  “Thanks,” I said. I couldn’t help warming to a kindred gamer spirit.

  I’d been reviewing video games in my free time for years, but since I’d landed a regular column at a bigger magazine early last year, I’d picked up substantially more followers. In fact, I was about to launch my own Twitch stream, where gamers could watch me live-play some of the newest releases.

  “Let me get you a vest,” he said, rushing into the kitchen and retrieving one. As he handed it over, I pretended to shield my eyes from the green glare.

  “It’s quite loud, but it keeps the employees visible,” he explained, then gestured toward my right pocket. “There’s a pepper spray in every vest, just in case of emergencies.”

  I patted at the canister in my pocket and raised my eyebrows.

  “It’s standard at wild animal preserves like this,” he said. “Trust me, I’ve never used mine.”

  Shaun headed outside, so I followed him. It was a good thing I’d worn a hoodie, because the fickle April temperature had dropped since morning.

  Shaun led me up a wide trail into the woods. A tall, chain-link fence came into view.

  “It’s eight feet high, just to be on the safe side,” he explained. “We have to pay close attention after storms, because if a tree falls on the fence, those wolves can climb right up and out. They’re very resourceful.” He sounded like a doting father, proud of his child for doing something like punching the class bully.

  “How’d you get interested in wolves?” I asked, my Doc Martens sinking into yet another puddle.

  “I met Dahlia when she toured the nature center I used to work at in Stamford. She told me she was going to open a wolf preserve in Greenwich, and she said she was looking for outstanding tour guides, like me. I started working here the first day White Pine opened—about four months after we’d met.”

  I wanted to know more about my new employer. “So Dahlia already had experience with wolves?”

  Shaun ground a sprouting blackberry vine underfoot. “Nope. Not a bit, actually. She was coming off a divorce, and she wanted to use this property in hopes of making a difference in the world. After reading up on wolf and wolf-dog breeding, she discovered that many of those animals wind up abandoned or euthanized because they’re so uncontrollable—not surprising, because they’re wild, right? Anyway, she dedicated herself to providing a shelter for them.”

  “That’s admirable,” I said, nearly running into Shaun’s wide back as he paused to toss a rock from the path.

  “Yeah, and Dahlia’s also the one who puts in long hours to make sure each new wolf is integrated into a pack. We have two packs here, and at the moment, each pack has three wolves. Creating packs isn’t easy—it can be brutal, like The Hunger Games. See, in the wild, packs form naturally around animals from the same bloodline. But in captivity, wolves can resort to serious infighting to establish dominance. I hate to say it, but omega wolves sometimes get killed in the process.”

  I slowed. So I’d signed up for an eight-day job, working with beasts who even killed their own kind? Maybe I should get out now, while the getting was good.

  Shaun hiked past a double-gated entrance set into the fence line. A slight movement caught my eye, and I peered into the enclosed area. A gangly brown wolf with a black face was perched on a rock, her eyes fixed on me. It was quite mesmerizing. I actually started walking toward the fence, but Shaun didn’t notice and kept plowing forward on the trail. I hurried to catch up and realized he was asking questions about my latest game review.

  He finally stopped when we came to a second gated enclosure. After opening the first set of gates, Shaun led me toward the second. A large, white wolf loped our way, shoving its nose through the chain links. Shaun gave the animal’s nose and part of its muzzle a thorough petting, and I could swear the wolf was smiling.

  The wolf turned its butterscotch colored eyes to me. I wasn’t sure how to mask my fear, but I knew enough not to stare right into its eyes. The wolf sniffed at the air, and I took a brief glance at its face.

  It appeared that the animal was merely curious, not hostile.

  “This one’s named Njord,” Shaun explained. “He’s the only wolf that’s been bred in captivity on the preserve, and he’s the alpha of this pack.” He reached out and the wolf approached his hand again. “And as you can see, he’s about as tame as a wolf can be. He’s my favorite to take into the crowd when I give a tour.”

  Njord licked his lips, and the sudden sharpness in his look
made me antsy. “Is he hungry?” I asked.

  “Might be. That’s not my job—Rich O’Brien handles that end of things. We’ll catch up with him today so he can show you what’s what.”

  Leaving Njord lingering at the fence line, we headed out of the enclosure and back onto the trail. Shadowy forest branches filtered the sunlight, and we walked alongside a full, rippling creek that probably supplied water to the wolves. If Shaun wasn’t with me, I’d be tempted to grab a book and a blanket and plop down on one of the rocky overhangs. The extensive grounds really seemed like the perfect place to be alone with nature and one’s own thoughts.

  A wolf’s howl broke the silence, triggering a chorus of howling responses, but Shaun only grinned. “They talk to each other and sometimes to us. It tends to make the tourists nervous, but howling doesn’t always mean wolves are on the prowl for food.”

  I was going to have to take his word for it, because to my ears, the howls sounded more than a little ominous.

  The visitor’s center eventually came into view, and I realized we’d made a complete loop around the property. A man emerged from the side door of the barn, loading something into a bucket in a wheelbarrow, and Shaun shouted to him. “Rich! I’ve got the new girl here.”

  Rich, a slim man in his mid-fifties, walked my way, but didn’t extend a hand. “I have meat on my hands—loading it up for the wolves—but it’s nice to meet you. Belinda, was it?”

  “Yes, that’s me. Belinda Blake.”

  Shaun gave me a quick grin. “It was great hanging with a gamer legend like yourself. Sorry if I geeked out a little. I’ll catch you later.”

  My face colored a bit as Shaun lumbered off. Rich politely ignored my discomfort and went back to raiding the off-white refrigerator in the kitchen. I made a mental note to store my lunch in the other fridge that had a sign marked “Staff Use.”

  I held the side door open as Rich returned to deposit handfuls of raw meat into the bucket. Why didn’t he didn’t bother wearing gloves for this messy operation?