Belinda Blake and the Wolf in Sheep's Clothing

by Heather Day Gilbert

  MURDER IN THE WOLF PEN

  Thor and the other wolf had gotten into some kind of tussle over a bone, yipping and snarling. Rich signaled that it was time to leave, so I turned off the water and gave Freya one last pat. She slunk off toward her favored rocky outcropping, and the fighting wolves stopped for a moment to watch her. I zipped ahead of Rich, and we were out of the gate in seconds.

  As Thor and his frisky friend trotted closer to Freya, I hesitated. “Is she going to be okay?”

  Rich chuckled. “Oh, sure. That’s a mild fight—they scrap around nearly every day. Freya can hold her own, trust me.”

  I felt more confident as we made our way to the second enclosure. Rich instructed me to fill the watering trough again, and I appreciated the way he was letting me ease into my role.

  The double gates came into view. Since I was in front, I slowed for Rich to wheel his way closer.

  I glanced at the enclosure, trying to locate the trough. But my gaze settled on something else—something that was utterly disturbing.

  Just inside the second gate, it was plain to see that Njord, the white pack leader, had red stains all over his beautiful coat. He was standing sentry over something—no, someone.

  Someone in a neon-green vest.

  Books by Heather Day Gilbert

  BELINDA BLAKE AND THE SNAKE IN THE GRASS

  BELINDA BLAKE AND THE WOLF IN SHEEP’S CLOTHING

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  Table of Contents

  MURDER IN THE WOLF PEN

  Books by Heather Day Gilbert

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  Belinda Blake and the Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing

  Heather Day Gilbert

  LYRICAL UNDERGROUND

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  LYRICAL UNDERGROUND BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2019 by Heather Day Gilbert

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  All Kensington titles, imprints, and distributed lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotion, premiums, fund-raising, educational, or institutional use.

  Special book excerpts or customized printings can also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write or phone the office of the Kensington Sales Manager: Kensington Publishing Corp., 119 West 40th Street, New York, NY 10018. Attn. Sales Department. Phone: 1-800-221-2647.

  Lyrical Underground and Lyrical Underground logo Reg. US Pat. & TM Off.

  First Electronic Edition: October 2019

  ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0882-4 (ebook)

  ISBN-10: 1-5161-0882-5 (ebook)

  First Print Edition: October 2019

  ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0885-5

  ISBN-10: 1-5161-0885-X

  Printed in the United States of America

  1

  Rainy weather was an introvert’s best friend.

  At least that’s the way I’d felt for years, but after four days of nonstop drizzle alternating with heavy deluges in Greenwich, Connecticut, I was about to change my mind. I needed to get out of my stone carriage house, needed to take in the rich smells of spring, needed to touch the velvety red tulip petals that had finally started to unfurl in my flower bed out back.

  I cozied up on my blue couch, setting my warm mug of Arabica coffee on the low table in front of me. Snagging one of my favorite Agatha Christie mysteries, By the Pricking of My Thumbs, off my shelf, I tried to pick up where I’d left off.

  Instead, my gaze wandered to my wide front window, where I could see the shamrock-green lawn stretching up to the Carringtons’ manor house. I tried not to think of my last encounter with Stone Carrington the fifth, but I couldn’t help myself.

  When Stone had broken a couple months’ silence and shown up on my doorstep in early March, it was obvious something had changed. I could see it in his face—the way those turquoise eyes shone with expectation. I figured he’d tell me he’d found someone who’d made him forget all the stresses of his complicated family life.

  Instead, he’d said something far worse.

  He was heading to Bhutan.

  Dietrich, our artist friend, had told Stone about a yoga retreat in the mountains of Bhutan that had revolutionized his perspective on just about everything. After researching the retreat, Stone had decided it might be just the thing to clear his head.

  “I have to get strong enough to fight my own demons,” he’d said.

  “I think you already are,” I’d responded.

  He had smiled wistfully, then pulled me into a hug. His luxuriant leathery scent utterly wrecked my ability to concentrate, so I relaxed into his long arms.

  “I’m glad you believe in me, Belinda.” His lips had brushed my curls as he murmured into my hair. “And Dad’s partner assures me that it’s all systems go for me to take over the family hedge fund business. But I don’t feel right stepping into that position until I’m sure that’s what I want to do. I don’t want to be locked into a life that sucks out my soul.” He drew back, and I met his serious gaze. “You understand what I mean. Look at you—you started a pet-sitting business in Manhattan, then you moved to Greenwich and grew your clientele even more. I love that you’re so unafraid. That’s how I want to live.”

  Several responses had run through my mind, but I was only able to articulate one.

  “I do understand,” I’d said.

  And with that, I’d inadvertently given my blessing on Stone’s big adventure, but I knew that was the way it should be. I would never hold someone back from finding their purpose in life.

  Besides, my feelings for Stone were seriously conflicted. Since my visit home at Christmas, my parents’ neighbor, dairy farmer Jonas Hawthorne, had given me weekly calls to discuss the classics I was reading along with his book club. Every time I hung up the phone with him, I found myself smiling like I’d won the sweepstakes. I hadn’t analyzed our relationship yet, but I was pretty sure my psychologist sister, Katrina, would be more than happy to help me figure things out.

  Life in the carriage house had seemed dreadfully boring since Stone hopped his plane for Bhutan. Doubtless, he’d had a full month of epiphanies while I’d stayed mostly housebound, playing video games and taking every pet-sitting job I could to pay the bills.

  I turned back to By the Pricking of My Thumbs. I was reading the same sentence for the fourth time when my cell phone rang. I grabbed it from the coffee table and barked, “Hello,” without even
bothering to check who was calling first.

  A woman’s soft voice filled the line. “Is this Belinda Blake, the pet-sitter?”

  “It is.” I was ready to jump on any sitting job she offered, because it’d been two weeks since my last one.

  “I’m Dahlia White. I have several large-breed animals I was wondering if you’d be available to help care for. You’d need to start in a couple of days, and I’d need you for an eight-day stint. I’m sorry it’s such late notice, but the other person I asked wasn’t able to do it.”

  Dogs—my favorite. I responded enthusiastically. “Sure thing. I grew up with German shepherds, so I’m no stranger to the larger breeds.”

  After a miniscule pause, Dahlia responded. “Well, that’s the thing. They’re not dogs—they’re wolves.”

  I caught my breath as she rushed on.

  “But my fluffy darlings are no trouble to care for, I promise. They’re like my babies. You wouldn’t have to do much, just help my primary feeder with his chores so he wouldn’t have to stay overtime to get things done. Since you’d advertised that you specialize in exotic pets, I assumed you would be quite comfortable with unusual jobs like this.”

  I hesitated. I’d never been to a wolf preserve—much less seen a wolf up close—but the way Dahlia was talking, you’d think they were just like dogs.

  “Um.” I floundered about for something to say, but nothing coherent sprang to mind.

  “I’ll tell you what, why don’t you look up the preserve website online and check us out? It’s the White Pine Wolf Preserve site. Many of our guests have left reviews of their tour experience, and they’re all extremely positive about their interactions with the wolves.”

  “Okay. I’ll do that and get back to you.” I wanted to buy myself time.

  “That sounds great. Actually, if it’s not too much trouble, could you call me back in a couple of hours so I’ll know if I need to find someone else?” She gave a brief pause. “Oh, and I forgot to mention that I’ll pay top dollar for your services—I know you come highly qualified.”

  She must have read my endorsements from the Greenwich and Manhattan elite. I always tried to snag a quote when one of my wealthy clients praised my pet-sitting skills.

  I had to admit, the top-dollar payment Dahlia promised was more than a little tempting because it was sorely needed. I agreed to check out the preserve and touch base in an hour. As I hung up the phone, a book slid from my overstuffed bookshelf and hit the floor.

  I walked over to pick it up and glanced at the title.

  White Fang.

  Was it a good sign, a bad sign, or just a coincidence?

  At this point, it was impossible to guess.

  * * * *

  The White Pine Wolf Preserve website yielded minimal information. As I should have guessed, the featured reviews were completely positive. One guest bragged about how her autistic son had made an instant connection with a white wolf and had enjoyed his time petting it. A teen posted that during the tour, a timber wolf had begged for his piece of watermelon—and when he’d offered it through the fence, the wolf had gobbled it up and begged for more.

  I clicked on Dahlia White’s “About the Owner” section, and it certainly tugged at the heartstrings. Dahlia had rescued her animals from lives of fighting or even from euthanization.

  “Once I knew of the plight of these animals, it would have been heartless to walk away,” Dahlia was quoted as saying in the local paper. “My animals have found healing here, and it’s a joy to share their stories with our visitors.”

  Everything sounded very professional, and the pictures showed people and wolves frolicking like it was the most normal thing in the world. The grounds looked spotless, and the wolves had clean teeth and coats, so it seemed they were well looked after.

  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 chauffeur’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 chauffeur 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 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?”