Belinda Blake and the Birds of a Feather

by Heather Day Gilbert

  “Tracy’s mentioned that she sees a counselor,” Mom said, pouring the boiling water over her teabag. “You want any tea, hon?”

  I shook my head. “I’m stuffed from that late brunch. I’ll leave this on low and make a salad closer to suppertime. Do you mind if I head off to my room for a bit?”

  Mom snuggled me into a hug. “Of course not. I just love having you home. You brighten up this house, Belinda Jade. Your father and I miss your company.”

  It was a bit unusual to hear my mom admit that, since she was such an independent woman who always kept busy. Had Naomi’s death triggered her contemplative mode?

  I squeezed her tight. “I miss you, too.”

  I walked up toward my room, but not before Mom’s voice drifted my way.

  “You know who else misses you? Jonas Hawthorne.”

  I pretended not to hear what she said, but I most definitely did. And I most definitely wondered if it were true.

  * * * *

  I holed up in the guest room and pulled out my gaming laptop. I needed to get caught up on some video game reviews—I was going to ditch my written reviews soon, in favor of focusing my gamer attention on my Twitch live gaming stream. I had been surprised by how quickly my stream had grown. I supposed it was largely because I’d been blogging and writing game reviews for years, and those followers naturally migrated to Twitch. Although Katrina told me it was because I was really cute on camera.

  I pulled up the Larches Tribune site and searched for Claire van Dusen’s name. Several articles popped right up. I went to the large front page article first, trying to get a feel for the dead girl from her photos. Claire had been quite gorgeous, there was no denying that. She had light brown hair, a friendly smile, and eyes that seemed lit with innocence. The story didn’t include many details on Claire’s death, which was described as an unfortunate alcohol-related accident that occurred around 12:19 am.

  I stared out the window, musing as to why a drunken college student would be hanging out near the train tracks at midnight. It reminded me of something I’d done in high school, when I had snuck out to a graveyard on Halloween for ghostly kicks. I hadn’t seen any ghosts, but I’d wound up with a bad crick in my neck and a two-week grounding, thanks to Katrina’s ratting me out to my parents. College students weren’t that far removed, maturity-wise, from high schoolers, and Claire had probably gotten involved in some partying, although she didn’t really strike me as the type.

  After rummaging around to find a small note pad and pencil, I returned to the article. It included several interviews. The first was with Claire’s mother, Tracy van Dusen. Tracy was quite strident in her comments, swearing she’d “get to the bottom of things” and openly insinuating that Claire’s boyfriend, Peter Bear, should be thoroughly investigated in the incident. I wrote his name down and moved to the next interview.

  This one was with Claire’s literature professor, Matthias Baruch. Although his comments were brief, he speculated that it was out of character for Claire to get drunk enough to do something so dangerous. He also said that Claire was one of his best students, and she had a natural love for literature.

  I scanned the article for a quote from Claire’s father, but saw none. It only referenced his name: Hendrik. The article did state that Claire had a younger sister named Ella, as well as a fifteen-year-old brother named Adrian. His interview comprised the next to last paragraph.

  As I read over it, I was infuriated that someone had interviewed this poor boy. Who accosts a fifteen-year-old with questions the moment his big sister dies? I’d have to ask Chloe about the reporter who’d covered it—must be some kind of ladder-climbing troll.

  Adrian’s quote was nearly as tragic as his sister’s death. He said, “We were only four years apart, but we were best friends. I’m not sure how I’m going to get through this.”

  My tears blurred the words glimmering on the screen. How had Adrian van Dusen handled such a loss? And the article hadn’t even mentioned Claire’s younger sister’s age. I suspected she was quite young when Claire died.

  Mom’s shout drifted up the stairs and derailed my thoughts. “Suppertime!”

  I swiped at my eyes, shut my laptop, and headed downstairs. I was glad to see Dad standing at the counter, dishing up bowls of soup. Mom pulled rolls from the oven and amazingly, they weren’t burned on top. I dumped a bag of salad in a large bowl, arranged our favorite salad dressings on the table, and took a seat.

  “It’s nice to sit down to a meal together,” Dad said. “And it was great to see you at my office today, Belinda. Helen can’t stop marveling at how our tomboy grew into such a poised young woman.”

  I grinned. “There’s still plenty of tomboy left.” As Mom scooped salad into a bowl for me, I asked, “Say, where do the van Dusens live? Are they close by?”

  Mom opened her mouth, but Dad interrupted. “The van Dusens? Is something going on with them?”

  I rushed to put Dad’s mind at ease. “No, nothing at all. I just needed some new kitchen things, and Mom had mentioned that Tracy sells them.”

  Mom’s lips quirked downward. She probably saw through my trumped-up motivation. “They’re not far from here,” she said, her blue-green gaze sharp.

  I plunged on, hoping Mom wouldn’t probe into my real intentions and shoot me down. “Could you tell me how to get there? I thought I might drop by tomorrow…maybe you could call and give her a heads-up?”

  Dad’s attention had returned to his soup. “This is delicious, Belinda,” he murmured.

  “Thanks.” I met Mom’s continued stare, giving her a guileless smile.

  She tore a roll in half and buttered it. “Okay,” she said finally. “Just be really careful what you say while you’re there. I know it’s been years, but Tracy is still heartbroken over her daughter.”

  “Of course,” I said. I’d be careful about what I said all right, but I wasn’t promising that I wouldn’t ask questions about Claire. Chloe said that Claire and Jackson Hait had been friends, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that their deaths were somehow connected. The question was why.

  I couldn’t help that I was skilled in sniffing out mysterious deaths. I’d even had a police detective friend in Greenwich suggest that I should become a detective someday. While I hadn’t entirely ruled out going to the police academy and working my way up, I knew it would be a huge commitment, and I wasn’t fond of those.

  It seemed simpler to exercise my talents every now and again, and what better place than right here in my own hometown? If I turned up anything, which was unlikely, I could always have Chloe put me in touch with local law enforcement. Besides, maybe Jackson’s and Claire’s deaths were exactly what they seemed—terrible accidents.

  Yet Jonas had been the one to mention something was off about Jackson’s death, and Jonas wasn’t one to over-dramatize things. After reading the news articles and talking with Chloe, my gut instincts aligned with Jonas’s thoughts. It was worth checking into. I’d try to keep my inquiries as painless as possible for the bereaved van Dusens.

  5

  At seven thirty in the morning, my phone emitted the sound of a carbine gun from the Halo video games, letting me know I’d received a text message. Katrina hated the video game sound effects I was always loading to my phone, but they reminded me of my favorite games, and that made my world a brighter place. I flipped the phone over and saw the text was from Jonas, who thanked me for feeding the pigeons. He explained that he had a lot of farming to do today, and tomorrow he had to get Levi to the airport. After he dropped Levi off, he planned to touch base with his friend to see if he knew anyone interested in the pigeons.

  I could sense the apology in his words. He knew that the longer I stayed here, the more pet-sitting jobs I’d miss in Greenwich. But I wanted to ease his load, at least a little. I texted back that everything was good and that the pigeons had been fun to watch.

&
nbsp; Hoping I’d make a good first impression on the van Dusens, I dressed in my favorite jeans and an apple-green sweater that nearly always garnered compliments. Mom wasn’t in the kitchen, but I found a note saying she’d called Tracy, and it was okay for me to drop by anytime today. Mom also left thirty dollars next to the note, presumably so I could buy the kitchen items I’d said I needed.

  Now to think up something random to add to my kitchen.

  * * * *

  Mom always gave directions that had nothing to do with road numbers, like “Go to the dilapidated Jiffy Lube, then you’ll see a wheat field over by where old man Rowley used to live,” or, “Watch for that Falling Rock sign, then slow down until you reach that crooked tree and hang a sharp left.” This time, she’d instructed me to watch for a bunch of elm trees off Forsythia Drive, and I’m thankful she did, because otherwise I would’ve sped right past the van Dusens’ driveway. The narrow drive seemed to blend into the woods, and on top of that, they didn’t have a mailbox to mark it.

  As I turned onto the cement drive, my eyes widened as I caught sight of the sprawling three-story house that anchored the driveway. It was a stately, turreted place that had been meticulously restored, like a discreet nod to an earlier, wealthier way of New York life. Quite fitting for a family that, according to Chloe, had been among the founders of Larches Corner.

  Movement caught my eye, and I glanced to the left. A tall, gangly girl wearing flip-flops was swinging on a wooden tree swing. While I was trying to figure out how she could stand to be out in the chilly weather sans socks, she started pumping her long legs. Darting a smug look my way, she climbed higher and higher into the air…then proceeded to jump off the swing.

  I gasped and slowed to a stop, ready to race to her aid. But she straightened, shoved one foot into the flip-flop that had fallen off, then jogged into the woods.

  Had I ever been that young and careless? Katrina would say that I still am, given the way I jaunt off checking into strange deaths like Jackson’s and Claire’s.

  I drove a bit farther, pulling to a stop near the front porch. Rhododendrons formed a hedge along the wraparound porch. The stairs were on the left side, so I walked up and rang the doorbell.

  A dark-haired woman with a strong jawline opened the door. She took one look at me, then clasped my hands and said, “I’m so thrilled to finally meet Leanne’s daughter! You look just like your mom.”

  As she ushered me inside, I glanced around, pleased to see that the interior of the home was restored in accordance with the outside. A sense of authenticity flowed through the space, even when we got into the rigged-out modern kitchen. Tracy said the house was built in the late 1800s, and many items on display looked to be from that era. I wondered if they’d been handed down for generations.

  Tracy walked over to an antique pine dining table and motioned for me to have a seat. “Your mom said you’re looking for some specific kitchen items?”

  I blinked, remembering the task at hand. “Yes. I’m interested in a new covered batter bowl. And a citrus zester.”

  Tracy nodded. “I’ll check my inventory. Hang on a sec.”

  When Tracy walked out of the kitchen, I took a careful look around. There were no pictures of Claire anywhere that I could see. Mom must be right—the van Dusens didn’t want reminders of their daughter’s death.

  An older teen sauntered into the kitchen, giving me a barely-perceptible nod. He was a ruggedly handsome blond reminiscent of a younger, stubblier Paul Newman. Digging some rye bread out of the breadbox, he proceeded to fix himself a sandwich without saying one word to me.

  Tracy strode back in, carrying a couple of boxes. “I had them,” she said triumphantly. Glancing at the blond, she said, “Adrian, I hope you introduced yourself?”

  He shrugged and slapped the top piece of bread on his sandwich. Cradling his loaded plate in one hand and a cup of milk in the other, he said, “Sorry.”

  Tracy sighed. “This is my son, Adrian. Adrian, this is Leanne Blake’s daughter, Belinda.”

  Adrian gave me a blank stare, as if he had no clue who Leanne Blake was. Granted, my mom wasn’t a superstar, but you had to be seriously removed from life in Larches Corner not to recognize the name of the only veterinarian’s wife. I wondered if Adrian even knew who my dad was.

  Even as I greeted him, he was skulking out of the kitchen. It was clear the poor guy was hungry, but that was no excuse for rudeness.

  Tracy carefully took the items out of the boxes and set them on the table for me to inspect. When Adrian was out of earshot, she spoke in a low voice. “Adrian has been diagnosed with complicated grief disorder. What happens is that thoughts of his deceased sister, Claire, intrude on his daily life.” She gave me a bleak look. “It’s like an extended depression.”

  “I’m so sorry. Are there any medications that help?”

  “There are medications, but it seems like nothing really helps him. I keep thinking if he can just get past this, he could live a normal life. Claire’s death…it was such an unexpected thing.” I looked into her concerned face and caught glimpse of a wounded, but still fearsome Mama Bear.

  I wanted to say it would take time, but that was far too glib—it had already been three years. Instead, I latched onto what Tracy had said and used it to fish for information. “It does sound so sudden. It reminds me of that college student Jackson Hait’s death—I couldn’t believe that when I read it in the paper.”

  Tracy fell silent as she toyed with the handle of the citrus zester. I took in her dangling silver hoops, her well-maintained chocolate hair color, and her impeccable makeup. Tracy van Dusen seemed to have it all together, but I suspected that inside, she was just as vulnerable and permanently devastated as Adrian.

  “Jackson was actually a close friend of Claire’s,” she said quietly. “The second semester of her freshman year, Claire formed a literature club. There were five regular members: Claire, Jackson Hait, Peter Bear, Rosalee Meier, and Tori Beekman.”

  I hadn’t heard those last two names before. “Have you seen any of those members since Claire’s death?”

  She gave a bitter laugh. “Peter Bear wouldn’t come within a mile of my house, because he knows the way I feel about him. Let’s see…Rosalee, Jackson, and Tori went together and sent flowers to Claire’s funeral, as I recall. The few times I’ve run into them in town, they’ve been friendly enough.”

  I eased back into my chair, hoping to encourage a relaxed atmosphere as Tracy discussed such a sensitive topic. “I heard that Jackson lived in Vera, but didn’t the other members live here in Larches Corner?”

  “Yes. Peter lives on the outskirts of town. His parents live over in Madison County, but they bought a horse farm for him since he said he wanted to live here.”

  “Wow. Not a bad setup for a college student.”

  “Peter’s dad is high up in the Oneida tribe, but he also launched a very successful advertising company in the nineties.” She mentioned Peter’s father’s name, and I instantly recognized it.

  “And the others?”

  She tugged at an earring. “Rosalee’s parents have a large place off Tulip Street. Tori’s family lives in town, too, but I think she’s moved out on her own now, maybe sharing an apartment with some girls?” Tracy was visibly getting weary.

  I gently edged in with a final question. “You said Peter Bear avoids you since he knows how you feel about him…he was Claire’s boyfriend when she died?”

  Tracy nodded, pieces of her stylish haircut brushing her chin. “Yes—he’d been her boyfriend for six months at that point.”

  I waited a moment, hoping she’d fill in the silence with more details. Sure enough, her face twisted and she spoke again.

  “I never liked him. He seemed flirtatious with the other girls in the group, if you asked me. When we threw a birthday party for Claire at our house, he kept disappearing into other rooms. I
didn’t think he was trustworthy, and I told her as much. Not long after that she wound up dead. I don’t think it’s a coincidence.”

  I could understand how Tracy would suspect Peter was somehow involved in Claire’s death—it was likely the police had investigated him first. But they’d ruled Claire’s death an accident.

  It seemed like I needed to ask questions of people directly related to the literature club, like Claire’s professor, since that appeared to be the main link between Claire and Jackson.

  “Thank you for having me over, and thanks for chatting,” I said, taking my checkbook out to pay Tracy for the kitchen items. “I’ll let you know if I think of anything else I need.”

  Tracy smiled. “You’re welcome to drop in anytime, Belinda. Your mother is such a godsend to me. She encourages me to stay involved and doesn’t let me mope around the house, which is easy to do when my husband has to travel so often.”

  “Mom has a lot of respect for you, too,” I said. “I’m glad you two are close.”

  But as I walked onto Tracy’s front porch, shadowed as it was with the crowding rhododendrons, I had the feeling Tracy van Dusen no longer let anyone get too close.

  * * * *

  I started Bluebell’s engine and had only driven a short way when the gangly girl raced up to my window and pounded on it. I rolled it down and met her blue gaze.

  “You’re the vet’s daughter, right?” she demanded.

  “I am.” After a couple of seconds passed in awkward silence, I said, “And you are?”

  “Ella van Dusen,” she said. “Your mom is Leanne Blake? She’s so nice—she saved up all the leftover deviled eggs at the last church dinner for me.”

  I chuckled. “Hi, Ella. Nice to meet you.” I wondered how she’d suddenly realized my mom was Leanne Blake. Had Miss Ella been eavesdropping near the kitchen?