Belinda Blake and the Birds of a Feather

by Heather Day Gilbert

  BELINDA BLAKE INVESTIGATES

  “This is it,” Chloe said darkly. “So much for my happy little theory that Jackson’s and Claire’s deaths were random accidents. This seals the deal, Belinda. There has to be a murderer on the loose.”

  I tried to talk her down. “Walk me through what Rosalee’s mom said.”

  Chloe drew a deep, ragged breath. “She said that after the serving staff left, she and Mr. Meier fixed sandwiches and went up to their room to watch TV. The last she saw Peter and Rosalee, they were downstairs in the small living room, looking over their gifts.”

  “And then?”

  She gripped the wheel tighter, rounding a curve before the Meiers’ gate. “Peter told her that Rosalee took some kind of call. Then she said she had to check on something. He assumed she was heading up to her room. Thirty minutes passed, and when he couldn’t find her, he went looking. Finally, he noticed the door was open to the pool area. He went out and found her dead body, half-floating in the water.”

  “The police need to trace that call,” I said.

  “Well, her cell phone had been smashed and dropped into the pool, as well, so I’m not sure if they can…”

  Books by Heather Day Gilbert

  BELINDA BLAKE AND THE SNAKE IN THE GRASS

  BELINDA BLAKE AND THE WOLF IN SHEEP’S CLOTHING

  BELINDA BLAKE AND THE BIRDS OF A FEATHER

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  Table of Contents

  BELINDA BLAKE INVESTIGATES

  Books by Heather Day Gilbert

  Dedication

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  Belinda Blake and the Birds of a Feather

  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.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  LYRICAL UNDERGROUND BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2020 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: February 2020

  ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0883-1 (ebook)

  ISBN-10: 1-5161-0883-3 (ebook)

  First Print Edition: February 2020

  ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0886-2

  ISBN-10: 1-5161-0886-8

  Printed in the United States of America

  Dedication

  Dedicated to Agatha Christie, the one I fondly refer to as “Agatha,” who is one of the only authors I could reread every day for the rest of my life. Agatha, you were a genius.

  1

  Autumn in Connecticut brought out the best in things—the prettiest colors in trees, October skies the deep blue of the Mediterranean, and the mingled, cozy scents of fallen leaves and chimney smoke.

  I adjusted the white pumpkins on my porch, determined to make the most of the fall weather. I’d been cooped up with a particularly fractious Sheltie that likely wouldn’t overcome his doggie ADD unless his owners allowed him to herd sheep every once in a while. Instead, the plump, coddled animal sat around on pillows cushier than the ones I slept on and begged for treats all day.

  Shaking my head, I refocused on the task of beautifying my rented stone carriage house for the season. I shoved fake bittersweet branches into an old galvanized tub I’d swiped from my mom’s storage building. After packing the base of the tub with loose straw, I arranged colorful gourds and mini pumpkins on top and stood back to get the full effect.

  A deep, amused voice interrupted my reflections. “Looks fantastic. Dad should hire you to fix up our place—I think our new house secretary is firmly stuck in the 1970s. I could swear she was wearing a muumuu yesterday.”

  I turned to take in the swank vision that was Stone Carrington the fifth. He was wearing jeans, a pale green polo shirt, and leather loafers, so he probably wasn’t heading into his Manhattan office, but he wasn’t dressed for his favorite pastime of tennis, either.

  “What are you up to?” I asked, stymied.

  “Dad and I are home today, but we have a board meeting in Stamford this afternoon. Red’s going to drop by Susan’s bakery on the way, so we can pick up some pastries for the event.” He gave an amused smile, his turquoise eyes twinkling, as he spoke of his chauffeur’s girlfriend.

  I grinned, hoping to cover my insider knowledge that Red’s relationship with Susan Snodgrass had moved beyond mere dating. Red had recently asked me to accompany him to an exclusive jewelry shop in town, where I’d helped him decide on a jaw-dropping two-carat marquise diamond he planned to offer the love of his life. Although I’d politely edged out of the way when the jeweler talked about the price, I was quite certain that Red had tapped his entire savings, as well as several paychecks, to purchase that ring.

  Susan would be flabbergasted, to say the least. I’d gotten to know the Southern-sweet woman over the past several months, and while she owned nearly as many gold rings as she had pairs of strappy sandals, all her jewelry would pale in comparison to that whopper engagement ring.

  I had subtly suggested that Red could propose by placing the ring atop a frothy cupcake or one of Susan’s mouthwatering pastries from her bakery, The Apricot Macaron, but I knew Red. He’d likely ditch the formalities and pop the question in a very earnest but entirely utilitarian manner. Then again, maybe he had hidden romantic depths.

  Stone gave me a curious look. “You seem deep in thought. Tell me you aren’t working some weird pet-sitting job again.”

  I smiled. “Actually, the exotic pet-sitting business has been rather tame lately. Dogs and cats, mostly.”

  Stone’s phone buzzed, and he slid it from his pocket. He glanced at it. “Dietrich,” he said, pressing the mute button without bothering to pick up. “He keeps asking when we’re doing another billiards party.
You up for one soon?”

  I hesitated. Stone had asked several of his Greenwich socialite peers to join us at the last party, and I’d felt utterly uncomfortable the entire evening. My Atari T-shirt, favorite camo pants, and Doc Martens could never compete in a league with Piaget watches and five-hundred-dollar designer jeans. Although Stone and Dietrich had taken turns drawing me into conversation throughout the evening, it was painfully obvious I had nothing in common with the majority of their Greenwich lot.

  “Maybe we could go into the city sometime instead and visit Dietrich at his place?” I suggested. Dietrich’s artist loft in Brooklyn was large enough to comfortably house a good-sized family, plus it had beautiful views of the East River. However, I didn’t relish being surrounded by Dietrich’s half-finished “masterpieces” that looked more like something the cat dragged in.

  Stone blinked as if trying to ascertain the root cause of my angst. “How about a dinner party with you, me, and Dietrich? We don’t have to do billiards. You know how Lani loves to cook for us.”

  Lani, the Carringtons’ Hawaiian cook, was worth every bit of her salary and then some. I didn’t have to think twice about the enticing offer. “Sounds great.”

  “How about tonight?” Stone pressed. “I know it’s abrupt, but Dietrich texted that he’ll be heading in today, and he’s literally begging to see you.” He gave me a slow smile, one that was equal parts angelic and seductive. “Then we can kick him out and you and I can stay up late talking. I’ve been wanting to show you those pictures of my trip to Grenada, remember?”

  Stone and his dad, who was unsurprisingly named Stone the fourth, had gone on a beach trip to Grenada this summer, and Stone hadn’t stopped talking about the white beaches and crystal water since then. Every time we spoke, Stone was angling for a photo show-and-tell session.

  “If Lani doesn’t mind having two extra mouths to feed on such short notice, then sure, tonight would be fine.” Something tickled at my back, and I turned to see that my bittersweet branches had taken a nosedive. I propped them firmly behind the pumpkins then swung back around, only to find that Stone had hustled up the steps and was standing right next to me. His long hands shot out to steady my forearms, giving me the thrill of his unexpected touch.

  “Tonight, then,” Stone said. His tone was charged with something way past friendly. “How about seven?”

  “Definitely.” I mentally kicked myself for my purely chemical response to his closeness.

  After giving me a slow smile, he took a couple of long strides off my porch and onto the sprawling, manicured lawn that separated our houses.

  I shook my head, trying to clear the brain fog that seemed to be happening more and more often around Stone. It needed to stop.

  Back in the spring, Stone had returned from a trip to Bhutan and made it clear he was quite interested in me. But I had pulled back from him…mostly because my heart was preoccupied with Jonas Hawthorne, a farmer who also happened to be my parents’ neighbor in Upstate New York.

  Jonas had faithfully been calling me once a week, but as of yet, he certainly hadn’t made any ardent declarations of love. Mostly, we wound up discussing his mother’s health, since she had late-stage breast cancer, as well as the local book club selections I tried to keep up with from afar. Still, it remained a mystery as to what kind of relationship we had. Although he’d said he wanted to talk to me about something during my last visit, he’d never followed up on it. It was undoubtedly due to his preoccupation with his mother’s care, but it had left me stranded in a bad place emotionally.

  Meanwhile, Stone literally was the guy next door, and he seemed to be amping up his efforts to hang out with me. He cleverly couched his invitations in non-date form—like attending a polo match with his dad, or running into Manhattan to pick up something from work—but it was obvious that any free time he had was designated for me.

  I sighed, and a small pumpkin toppled out of the washtub. Why did my romantic relationships always get complicated?

  * * * *

  I headed up to the manor house at seven, wearing a sweater and dark jeans because the evening had turned nippy. My newly-trimmed blonde hair had decided it was time to achieve maximum height with its corkscrew curls. Dietrich took one glance at my voluminous mane and couldn’t look away.

  “It’s like an electrified halo, my dear,” he said to my curls.

  I wasn’t quite sure if that was a compliment, so I shrugged it off. “I really can’t control my hair.”

  “It’s amazing,” Stone said, walking up behind me. His fingers danced over my curls for a brief moment. “Come on into the dining room. Lani’s made us a feast.”

  Dietrich, who was chronically gaunt, rubbed his stomach. “If anyone can fatten me up, it’s your magical cook. I wish I could think of some way to steal her away from you. She can’t be bought off—I’ve already tried it.”

  Stone shook his head, chuckling.

  Lani emerged, bearing a savory tray of food. Once she set it down, she wrapped me in a long hug. “You must come over more often,” she urged. As she began to place the serving dishes on the table, I recognized that she’d prepared each of our favorite foods. She truly was a gifted cook.

  Dietrich dominated the conversation, chattering about an art show he would be featured in next week in New Jersey. He explained the theme of his show (ears, as it turned out), and the materials he’d integrated into his oil paintings to add extra dimension (cotton swabs and empty eardrop bottles were among the highlights).

  When Dietrich finally paused to take a bite of his au gratin potatoes, Stone pounced on his chance to launch into a new topic.

  “I have the movie screen all set up so we can look at my pics of Grenada,” he announced.

  Dietrich waved off Stone’s excitement. “I’ve already been there, remember? My father owns one of the resorts.”

  Stone huffed. “Good for you. But Belinda hasn’t been there yet.”

  It took a moment, but Dietrich’s gaze suddenly narrowed on Stone. “Ah, I see how it is. If you wanted to ask your next-door goddess of light on a date, why didn’t you just do it? Why’d you drag me along tonight?”

  We both rushed to reassure Dietrich that this wasn’t a date, but the moody artist would have none of it. After polishing off his tiramisu and downing two cups of coffee, Dietrich bestowed hugs on Lani and me, then charged out the door.

  “Sorry that was so awkward,” Stone said.

  I shook my head. “Not awkward in the least. It’s Dietrich playing the dejected artist—one of his favorite roles, I’d imagine. But we really should go to his art show next week.”

  Stone agreed, so we decided on next Thursday night. Lani came in and offered coffee, but neither of us were interested. She collected Dietrich’s dishes, so we took that as our cue to evacuate the dining room. I glanced at my phone and was surprised to see that it was already 8:50.

  Ushering me into an ample-sized home theater room, Stone gestured to the cozy wraparound couch that was closest to the movie screen. Four leather recliners were positioned on the raised level above us. I sank into the leather couch, glancing around to note that even the wall paneling resembled a real movie theater. Now this was how every new release should be watched.

  He pressed a few buttons on a remote control, then on his phone. Oversized pictures sprang to life on the screen. After dimming the lights, he jumped onto the couch next to me.

  In an instant, I was transported to Grenada’s foggy, tree-covered mountains, then to white sands on a secluded beach edged with tall palms. A video clip played of Stone and his father as they laughed on a yacht, gliding over nearly transparent water.

  I was smacked in the face with the fact I generally tried to suppress—Stone Carrington the fifth was ridiculously wealthy. He had stayed at a resort that had private pools in each room—and he’d stayed for a week, not just a night.

 
Stone tapped my arm. “We’re coming up to my dive. I think you’d love diving, Belinda. Maybe next time you could come, too?”

  I tried not to look too closely at the video of the sculpted Stone in his diving suit. I also tried not to think too hard about his invitation, because it was practically impossible to resist. It wrapped some of my favorite things into one sweet package—adventure, travel, and Stone Carrington the fifth.

  My phone rang, but it was no ordinary ringtone. Although I didn’t listen to country music, I hadn’t been able to resist loading up the song “Big Green Tractor” for Jonas’s ringtone. The song blared as I struggled to silence the phone—and instead wound up answering the call.

  I shoved the phone to my ear, motioning for Stone to pause the video. “Jonas,” I said breathlessly.

  “Is this a bad time?” he asked. There was something strange about his normally confident voice. He sounded stuffy, almost like he’d been…crying?

  “What’s going on?” I turned away from Stone and hunkered into the couch.

  “It’s my mom.” He took a deep breath. “Her doctor recommended hospice at her appointment today, so I planned on calling them in the morning, but…there wasn’t time. She slipped away sometime after supper. I missed it, Belinda. I missed being there by her bedside.” His voice cracked. “I conked out early because we’d been chopping corn—it’s been so wet this year—and it took all hands on deck to get the silage bagged. I just woke up five minutes ago, and I checked on her. But I found her lying there, with no pulse or anything.” A choked sob escaped, and he coughed to cover it up. “I didn’t hear her yelling for me, but what if she did?”

  Unable to process what Jonas had told me, I stood and stumbled through the darkened theater room into the hallway. Swiping at tears, I tried to clear my head enough to say something even the slightest bit comforting.

  “I’m sure she didn’t yell for you, Jonas. Didn’t you give her a little bell to keep by her bed? She would’ve used that if she was in pain, and you would have heard it. Aren’t you sleeping on a pull-out couch near her door?”