Belinda Blake and the Birds of a Feather

by Heather Day Gilbert

  It was Chloe. “I got some news this morning,” she said. “You won’t believe it.”

  I probably would, but I played along. “What’s going on?”

  “It’s completely hush-hush at this point—Chief Ingram said I couldn’t leak it to the paper until tomorrow, at the earliest. But the Meiers and Peter Bear know.”

  “Know what?” I asked, impatient.

  “Rosalee was poisoned,” she said. “They aren’t certain what she was poisoned with yet, but it was definitely not an accident, they said.”

  This definitely flipped things into perspective. If someone murdered Rosalee, it was more than possible they could’ve murdered Jackson and possibly even Claire. Because they were all connected.

  I had a flash of insight. “That’s why Peter was scared. He found Rosalee dead and he immediately made the connection with the literature club, because the literature club is dropping like flies.”

  “What if someone in the club is doing the killing?” Chloe asked. “It seems like something our stalker-girl might do. Or what if you’re totally misreading Peter, and he’s the killer? I mean, he was the last one with Rosalee.”

  I doubted that. “What if I talk to him, tell him we’re worried about the remaining literature club members? Maybe he’ll open up, or piece together something he hasn’t yet.”

  “Did you want to call him? I don’t have his number, just his address.”

  “I can run over there after I feed Jonas’s homing pigeons.”

  Chloe launched into a loud protest, but I cut her off. “Listen, I’ll take my phone. And a knife. I’ll record whatever we say as a voice memo on my phone. I really don’t think Peter Bear is a threat.”

  She sighed. “I’m not that desperate for a story, Belinda.”

  “I know. But I’m desperate to get at the truth, and as fast as we possibly can. You know why? Because I have a feeling Rosalee wasn’t the last target.”

  Chloe muttered to herself, drawers slamming in the background. “Alright, alright. I found the address. I’d feel better if I could go along with you, but I told Chief Ingram I’d drop in to nail down what things I could and couldn’t include in my article tomorrow. I have to get this right, because if the chief complains about me to my editor, I’ll be out the door. That’s what happened to the last guy.”

  “Wow, they run a tight ship over at the Larches Tribune.”

  I copied the address and told Chloe I’d call her after I’d completed my mission. After I hung up, I raced to get my outdoor gear on and jumped on my four-wheeler. The trip to Jonas’s flew by, and it didn’t take me long to get the pigeons fed. Jonas didn’t seem to be around, so I went in his back door, which I knew he left unlocked while he was out farming. I left him a note that I was still planning to join him for the book club tonight.

  I didn’t mention that I hadn’t yet finished The Haunting of Hill House. My interest had totally fizzled, which made no sense, because I really should be anxious to get to the bottom of the mysterious goings-on at Hill House. But in the end, I just couldn’t relate to Eleanor. Katrina would probably like the book—she’d find it an accurate portrayal of a person who seemed to be going stark raving mad—but I didn’t want to read about that kind of thing. It seemed there were enough people who’d actually lost their minds in real life, and many of the actions they took were irreversible.

  I was hoping Peter Bear wasn’t one of them.

  13

  After showering, I told Mom I needed to pay a visit to Peter Bear and ask him a few questions. She raised an eyebrow, but continued cleaning her bathroom with her white vinegar spray. Mom and I were both sticklers for a clean bathroom. I suspected the scrubbing process helped us burn off some of our frustrations.

  “When’s your book club?” she asked.

  “Seven thirty, Jonas said. But I should be home by lunchtime.”

  “I’ll be counting on that,” she said, turning back to the sink.

  On the way out, I took my dad’s sheathed hunting knife from a drawer. Unbuckling my belt, I ran it through the leather sheath loop, allowing the protected knife to rest on my thigh. That way, I could easily unsnap the guard strap and pop the knife out if I needed to. Sure, the weapon was right out in the open, but I wasn’t taking any chances.

  * * * *

  Peter’s oversized log cabin was tucked into a wooded area surrounded by fenced pastures. As I steered Bluebell up the wide dirt drive, I caught sight of a long barn, flanked by a couple of storage sheds. Several horses—six at my initial count—stood in the field next to the barn, and each horse looked healthy and beautiful in its own right.

  This was no chintzy horse farm, that was for sure. It looked like no expense had been spared.

  Had Rosalee planned to move in with Peter once they married? Or had her parents planned to find a less rustic (but probably equally expensive) home for them?

  I pulled to a stop and killed the engine. Peter’s place was completely secluded. The stupidity of approaching him alone hit me square in the face. I glanced down at the knife sheath, then carefully practiced popping the snap and slipping it out. Open-carrying a knife like this wasn’t completely unheard of for a farm girl in Larches Corner. Besides, I didn’t care if Peter Bear felt a little threatened by me.

  Next, I pulled out my phone and found the voice memo app. I hit Record, shoved the phone in my pocket as I got out of the Volvo, then strode up to Peter’s porch. I was pretty sure he was home, because a blue truck was parked out front.

  The full-length front porch was decorated man-style, with plenty of rocking chairs and not much else. It was quite obvious this place had been a bachelor pad for a while. I tugged the rope on the old-fashioned bell hanging next to the front door.

  Peter didn’t take long to open his door, and I was astonished at the way he looked. He had obviously been crying, and I doubted he’d slept a wink all night. Of course, that made sense for someone whose fiancée was just murdered, but I hadn’t expected that the gorgeous woman-magnet could even plumb those depths of loss.

  I hesitated when he didn’t even welcome me. Gathering my courage, I voiced the only reasonably safe plan I could come up with. “Do you think we could meet up in town later today to talk about a few things? I’m helping Chloe out, and we wanted to get your opinion on something.”

  He shook his head, gesturing to his face. “I’m not going out today. I couldn’t sleep last night, for obvious reasons. We could talk here, though.” He peered out into the yard. “It’s sunny today and not too bad out. You want to sit on the porch?”

  I glanced again at the sparsely furnished porch, then out to the surrounding area. If Peter tried to attack me, not a blessed soul would hear me scream.

  I thought of the knife on my belt and the phone that was currently recording everything we said. I couldn’t pass up this chance to talk with Peter while he was still raw from Rosalee’s death.

  “Okay,” I said, dropping into a nearby chair.

  Peter emerged, letting the screen door slam shut behind him. He positioned himself in a chair next to me. He was wearing ripped jeans and a loose white Henley shirt that appeared to have fresh coffee stains on it. I suspected it was highly unusual for him to look so unkempt.

  “I just have a few questions,” I said. “We won’t use anything you say in a news article unless you give the okay first. This’ll be off-the-record, but I am recording it.” I slid my phone out onto my lap and pretended to hit the record button, although it was already going.

  He glanced at the phone and nodded. “Okay. You said you needed my opinion on something?”

  “We’re trying to get a feel for everyone in the literature club.”

  Peter’s lips gave a small twitch.

  “I’m sure you’ve noticed that three people from that club are now dead. We’re trying to figure out what links them all.”

  A h
orse whinnied, and Peter’s gaze traveled to the pasture. “Okay,” he said.

  “Take Jackson Hait, for example. I’ve heard he was sort of a ‘bad boy,’ if you will. The kind of guy who brought alcohol to parties for underage teens. The kind of guy who’s a bully. Would you agree with that assessment?”

  Peter’s attention snapped back to me, his eyes completely unreadable. “I’d agree with that.”

  I slid forward in my rocking chair, which allowed my feet to finally touch the floor. “And could you elaborate as to why you’d agree that Jackson was a bully?”

  “I could.” He leaned in so close, I caught a whiff of the rich smell of coffee on his breath. “I had to beat Jackson up once, back when I was dating Claire van Dusen. He wouldn’t back off with Rosalee—he was coming on to her, even getting aggressive about it.”

  “So you were fighting for Rosalee’s honor?” I asked. “How did Claire feel about that?”

  He blinked. Recalling how he’d lunged at Adrian at the engagement party, I slid my chair back.

  But when Peter spoke, I realized he wasn’t upset—just irritated by the memory. “Claire didn’t care that I fought with Jackson. Rosalee had already told Claire and Tori about Jackson’s behavior. They agreed that Jackson had gone beyond disgusting in his personal remarks toward Rosalee. In fact, I think they were considering kicking him out of the literature club…but then Claire died and things kind of fell apart for a while. We didn’t meet again until that next semester, and Jackson seemed to have sobered up quite a bit.”

  “Maybe you knocked some sense into him,” I said.

  “Claire’s death did.” Peter absently flicked a paint chip from the weathered rocking chair. “It sobered all of us up. We never drank at our meetings after that.”

  “A wise move,” I said, trying to think of another angle we’d missed. It didn’t take me long. “So, you were dating Claire, and Jackson wanted to get with Rosalee…what about Tori Beekman? Was she out in the cold as far as coupling up with someone in that original group?”

  Peter shook his head. “Tori wasn’t looking for someone. She was more focused on her studies than any of the rest of us. She took our club seriously, and she was the mastermind who organized our meeting locations and assignments. As far as I know, she’s still running the club—she was a year behind us. I think Jackson abandoned the meetings once he finally passed Professor Baruch’s American Literature class.”

  “And why did you join the club?” I asked. “What was your major?”

  “Would you believe I majored in Creative Writing?” He gave a low chuckle. “I suppose I have used what I learned a little—I work for my dad now, writing ad copy. But yeah, I basically joined so I could spend more time with Claire. She thought of the idea for a literature club and I jumped on it, because the van Dusens didn’t seem to care for me—or for anyone—dating their daughter. It bought us a little more time together.”

  “And Tori and Rosalee?” I asked.

  “English majors,” he said.

  A car rumble sounded on the driveway, interrupting our conversation. Peter stood, leaning on the log railing to see who it was. “It’s Tori,” he said. “I’d recognize that ragtag car anywhere.”

  The woman who jumped out of the wheezing, rusted-out car was a far cry from the dressed-up Tori I’d talked to Friday night. This Tori had greasy-looking hair and was wearing pajama pants and a puffer coat two sizes too big for her.

  She stalked up the porch steps and glared at me. Grabbing Peter’s arm, she said, “We have to talk.”

  Peter acquiesced and motioned Tori inside. I sat on the porch a few minutes, wondering if Peter would return, but he never did. It appeared that our interview was over.

  I headed out to Bluebell and sat down before giving Chloe a call. Maybe she’d talked to the police and we could swap notes. She picked up and said she had some new information, so I agreed to swing by her place on my way home.

  As I backed around Tori’s car, I realized I was leaving the two remaining members of the literature club alone together. Maybe that wasn’t the best idea, but it was clear they didn’t want me around. I hoped neither one would wind up dead.

  * * * *

  As Chloe opened her door, the smell of fresh-brewed coffee wafted out. The soothing aroma invited me to sit back and relax, so I sank into the couch in her bright living room. Chloe handed me a cup of dark coffee, and my gaze sharpened. Chloe was dressed to kill today—she was wearing makeup, her hair was twisted into an elegant chignon, and her blue blouse and charcoal dress pants were perfectly pressed.

  “You’re looking very Lois Lane today,” I said. “Puttin’ on the Ritz for anyone in particular?”

  Chloe blushed. “I’d forgotten how annoyingly observant you are. Yes, as a matter of fact, I’m interested in someone. He attended my meeting with the police chief this morning. Now do not make a single joke, but he’s the coroner, Gavin MacGibbon.”

  I tried not to laugh, but a little chortle escaped. “No jokes,” I said, trying to convince myself. “No jokes.”

  “He happens to be extremely handsome,” Chloe said defensively. “And he’s been very helpful about explaining the recent deaths. In fact, today he told me he’d determined that Rosalee was killed with Ativan. Specifically, an overdose of Ativan that was fatal when it was combined with the amount of champagne Rosalee drank last night.”

  “Did anyone in the Meier family take Ativan?” I asked.

  “Chief Ingram is looking into it,” Chloe said.

  “I suppose it’d be possible that Rosalee overdosed herself, but that seems a strange way to go about it. Did the chief tell you anything else?” I asked.

  “Just that they’re still searching for the car that killed Jackson Hait. They haven’t had any luck, although Gavin lifted some chips of white car paint from Jackson’s clothing.”

  “I wonder how many white cars are registered around here?”

  “Too many,” Chloe said.

  “And there’s a chance the car isn’t even registered,” I said. “Well, it’s not Tori’s car, that’s for sure. I saw hers today when she came over to Peter’s place. Her car is rusty but not banged up, and it’s kind of a nasty, pea-soup green.”

  “Sounds lovely,” Chloe said. “But what was she doing over at Peter’s, anyway?”

  “I don’t know, but she seemed really upset. She was certainly none too pleased to see me.”

  “Obsessive,” Chloe muttered. “I’m telling you, that chick’s a little strange.”

  I wasn’t entirely convinced, but I didn’t argue with her. “What do you think I should do next? Outside of Tori and Peter, who’d have some kind of axe to grind with the literature club?”

  Chloe sipped her coffee. “I hate to say it, but Tracy van Dusen springs to mind,” she said. “She’s made it obvious that she dislikes Peter Bear—even has it in for him—and she must’ve driven Adrian over to the engagement party, although fully aware he could cause a scene.”

  “Good points.” I tried to think of a way to approach Tracy. “It’ll seem weird if I show up at the van Dusens’ house again, without any kind of pretense.”

  “At this point, she might have heard that you’re working with me on Rosalee’s story. You could tell her you needed to ask some questions for the paper.”

  “News does travel fast in Larches Corner. People are probably already hypothesizing that I’m a new reporter for the Larches Tribune. But going in as a reporter will probably put Tracy on guard.” I stared out the window until a better idea hit me. “I know. Maybe my mom can go over to visit her, and I can tag along in the car. Then I could go inside to get Mom and casually ask Tracy a couple of questions, so it would seem like an unplanned visit.”

  Chloe nodded. “Sounds good. In the meantime, I need to get writing on my article for tomorrow. Did Peter Bear tell you anything I could use?”

/>   I shook my head. “I promised him we’d ask before we used any quotes from him, and the most interesting things he said were about Jackson’s character…which I’m sure his parents wouldn’t want printed in the paper.” I quickly filled Chloe in on how Peter had beaten Jackson up for his advances toward Rosalee.

  “Jackson sounds like he was a scoundrel, but didn’t Peter and the professor say that Jackson had given up partying after Claire died? So why was he drunk outside the bar the night he died?”

  “That’s the question,” I said. “Maybe something sent him into a downward spiral.” I glanced at my phone. “It’s past time for lunch, so I’d better get home. Mom might start worrying.”

  “Your parents are the best, Belinda. My parents wouldn’t care if I was lying dead in a ditch somewhere. They check in on holidays and that’s about it.”

  “I know that’s not entirely true,” I said, although I knew that Chloe’s parents had always given her a wide berth—wide enough that she could almost drown herself in it. The Vails lived out near Buffalo, but it might as well be on another continent. Thankfully, Chloe was a responsible kind of person, and she’d built her own retaining walls to keep herself in line. I suspected that one such wall was being extremely choosy about the men she dated. And, like she’d said, she knew a lot about the locals that others didn’t know, just from working at the paper for a while.

  I hoped Gavin MacGibbon was a worthy pursuit for my dynamic friend.

  “Call me tomorrow,” I said. “I’ll be at church in the morning, but should be around in the afternoon. I’ll work on getting over to Tracy’s place. Let me know if you hear anything else.”

  14

  “Mom, do you think you could visit Tracy van Dusen today?” I asked, as I put the finishing touches on my turkey sandwich.

  Mom glanced up from her plate. “Why?”

  “We’re still looking into things and I had a few questions for her, but I didn’t want to approach her on my own. I thought if you went, it’d seem more natural if I just came in to retrieve you and struck up a conversation.”