Belinda Blake and the Snake in the Grass

by Heather Day Gilbert

  As I struggled to unlock the door to 8B, I had to admit that I needed to up my fashion game if I was going to hang out with the likes of Stone Carrington the fifth. And I only knew one person who had any serious fashion sense.

  I went inside and called my sister, Katrina.

  Chapter 5

  Katrina picked up on the first ring. “What’s going on? I have a client showing up in five.”

  My big sister was a psychologist in Albany, and her job oozed importance. After all, she helped people straighten out their lives.

  I didn’t waste her time. “I need to find a rich-looking outfit to go out to eat at a really swanky place. Where could I find something fast? I’m on the Upper West Side right now.”

  Katrina rattled off names and addresses of several upscale consignment shops. Her memory was like a steel trap—unlike my own swirly-twirly memories of things that had no relevance whatsoever. And that wasn’t the only way Katrina was my direct opposite.

  Although we both had curly hair, hers was long and brunette while mine was bobbed and blonde. While my skin was tanned and freckled like Mom’s, hers was porcelain white. Katrina was the responsible one, the one my parents called first when major life upheavals occurred. She had made good on her college degree and had added a Master’s on top of it.

  Meanwhile, I spent my time pet-sitting exotic animals and playing video games.

  “What’s the big occasion?” she asked.

  “There’s this guy in the manor house, and he’s asked me to dinner.” I decided to leave off the bit about the dead body I’d found in my yard.

  “Guy in the manor house.” She dropped her voice to a near-purr. “Sounds rich. Literally.” She groaned. “Oh, sis, I have to go. They’re buzzing my next one in. See you at Thanksgiving?”

  “Sure thing. I hope you’re bringing some of your homemade rolls.”

  As I hung up, I brushed away any pangs of homesickness so I could focus on the job at hand.

  Rasputin’s owner, Reginald Foley, had typed up a neat list of bullet points explaining the proper care and feeding of his ball python. My limited internet research had showed that Reginald was quite unusual in his snake handling methods. Most snake owners didn’t take their snakes outside or bathe them every other week, but Reginald swore it kept Rasputin happy, and I’d agreed to do those things while he was away.

  Which meant today had to be a bath day for the snake. Reginald would make his weekly call tonight, and he wouldn’t be happy if Rasputin hadn’t gotten squeaky clean yet.

  Of course, this would fall on a day I had a date with an unbelievably good-looking man who was far above my station in life. A day when I really should shop for an outfit that would make me look like I fit in with the Greenwich socialite crowd. A day when I needed to wash my wayward curls.

  Still, it had to be done. Since it was already three in the afternoon, I needed fortification before attempting the snake’s bath. I tapped at cabinets until I located the fridge, which had been cleverly disguised with faux-cabinet doors. I pulled out salami, sliced Swiss, Dijon mustard, and pickles, then slapped them on a deli roll on the counter. I felt a bit shady digging around in someone else’s kitchen, but Reginald had instructed me to help myself to the food. He had even stocked his fridge and cabinets according to the food preferences I’d specified in my application form.

  There were some definite perks to pet-sitting for the wealthy.

  I sank onto a pale blue French armchair and watched Rasputin as I ate. Sometimes, the snake’s slow movements were more interesting to me than TV. By the time I finished my sandwich, he had draped himself over his water bowl, so I decided to get the bath going. I could probably slip him in and out before he knew what was happening.

  I walked down to the oversized bathroom, finding the warm water dispenser Reginald had described. It actually poured non-chlorinated water into the tub at just the right temperature for Rasputin’s bath. No muss, no fuss.

  I hoped.

  After prepping the snake’s larger cage so I could slide him right into it after he had freshened up, I returned to his transportable cage to retrieve him for a bath. Predictably, he flipped into a ball, but not before I got my hands around his middle. He seemed fairly calm as we walked down the hall.

  In the bathroom, I tried to gently transfer him to the tub, but he refused to let go of me. I leaned in closer and plopped him into the water with a little splash. He froze for a moment, then began darting from one end of the tub to the other using extended, S-shaped movements. I leaned back, hoping he wouldn’t slither right up and out onto the pale wood floor, but he seemed to calm down and relax into the water’s warmth.

  My phone rang, so I dried my hands and slid the phone from my pocket. It was Stone.

  “Yes?” I hoped I didn’t sound snippy, but I was sort of preoccupied.

  “Sorry to bother you again, but I wanted to let you know that I moved our reservation up by an hour, if that’s okay? My friend Dietrich said we could swing by tonight, but he’s heading out around nine for some party, so we’d have to get down there earlier than I thought.”

  I swallowed my apprehension, hoping I’d have time to find something to wear. “Sure. No problem.”

  “Will see you out front, then. Red already knows where to pick you up.”

  “Okay, thanks.” My face flushed as I thought about spending one-on-one time with Stone at a fancy restaurant, and I was glad he couldn’t see me.

  I hung up and turned to set the phone on the sink. When I spun back around, there was no snake in the tub.

  Something dark moved above me, and I snapped my gaze upward. Rasputin had somehow curled himself around the shower rod, and none too loosely. His tongue flicked out once, twice—like a warning. I’d read that snakes used their tongues to test the air temperature, but I still felt threatened.

  I adopted the firm tone I’d used when kenneling fractious dogs at my dad’s office. “Come on, big guy. You’re all done here. Let’s get you back in your comfy cage.” I didn’t want to come at the snake head-on, but there was no way to sneak up on him. Reginald had told me ball pythons rarely bite, but I had my doubts.

  With my left hand, I snapped my fingers in front of him, then clamped my right hand over his back. I stopped snapping and grabbed him behind his head, like Jacques had shown me. The snake surprised me by loosening his coils and turning remarkably docile, so I could easily pull him from the shower rod. Once he was securely in-hand, I raced directly up the hall and deposited him in his larger cage. As if relieved, he slid right into his hiding place, which was a large plastic stone with a hole cut out of it. I figured I wouldn’t see him until tomorrow, which was more than fine with me.

  I took stock of my appearance and glanced at the clock. I had time to shower, but there certainly wouldn’t be enough time for a shopping excursion. I ran into the guest room and rummaged wildly in my backpack, finally retrieving a bell-sleeved floral maxi dress from Anthropologie I’d shoved in at the last minute. It looked second-hand, because it was, and it was crumpled. Since I had no idea where Reginald hid his ironing board, I would just hang the dress up in the guest bathroom while I showered and hope for the best.

  As for shoes, I’d packed Doc Martens, Converse tennies, and Crocs. There was just no fancying any of those up. The clock was still ticking and I knew it would take a while to tame my curls, so I made a decision.

  I would probably be the first chick to ever show up at The White Peony in Doc Martens, but hopefully the maxi dress was long enough to hide them. At the very least, I’d have clean hair.

  Chapter 6

  When Red’s black car pulled up early at four-forty, I had to race to put on my finishing touches. I quick-scrunched molding wax into my curls, added a final coat of mascara, and threw my wallet into a beat-up hobo purse with zero swag factor.

  Rasputin was still tucked into the hole in his roc
k, but when I stepped toward the cage, he poked his head out. Maybe he was hungry, but his feeding day wasn’t until tomorrow. Besides, I didn’t particularly want to handle a frozen rat at the moment.

  He looked at me with a snake-stare that was predictably soulless, but there was some new hint of recognition in those golden eyes. Or maybe I was imagining things.

  As I strode out of the apartment, a different doorman stood sentinel at the front entrance. He was younger, maybe my age, and he looked me up and down twice, restoring my hopes that I had achieved some level of attractiveness. I beamed down at Stone, who was waiting for me on the sidewalk.

  However, when I hit the next to last step, I tripped on my own lug soles and took a none-too-graceful tumble. Stone lurched forward in a vain attempt to catch me, but predictably, I landed on my hands and knees, directly in front of his soft, caramel color loafers.

  He kneeled and extended both hands, carefully helping me to my feet. His brow furrowed in genuine concern. “Are you okay?”

  Nodding self-consciously, I pulled my hands from his and gingerly brushed my palms together, to rid them of the dirt from the sidewalk. He produced a clean tissue to aid the process, and my cheeks burned with embarrassment. Although my knees and palms were a little scraped up, the thing that had sustained the most injury was my one remaining sliver of pride. “I’m fine. Just a klutz, that’s all.”

  I hoped against hope he hadn’t noticed my Doc Martens, but he motioned to the black boot tips protruding from under my dress. “Nice shoes. I guarantee Dietrich will love them.”

  I nodded, appreciating Stone’s attempt to set me at ease.

  Taking my hand, Stone helped me up and led me across the wide sidewalk to the car. Red gave me a generous wink, holding the car door open for me. As Stone walked around to the other door, Red whispered, “You look stunning this evening.”

  Stone started filling me in the moment I slid into the leather seat next to him. “My mom called Mrs. Fenton today, to offer condolences and to ask when the funeral would be. She said Margo’s mom was totally beside herself, sobbing into the phone about how she couldn’t believe someone would want to kill her daughter. It was gruesome.”

  I didn’t think “gruesome” was the right word for a mother’s grief, but I stayed silent. As I thought about Mrs. Fenton’s grief, an unsettled feeling wrapped around me, just like Rasputin’s coils.

  Stone continued. “I honestly can’t fathom it, either. Margo was really good-natured. She was the kind of woman you wanted to hang out with, because she never took things too seriously. She could laugh at herself. You don’t find that quality often in the circles I run in.”

  I figured not.

  “Actually, something about you kind of reminds me of her, Belinda.” His hand briefly covered my own and he gave a light squeeze, sending an unexpected tingle up my arm. He smiled, effectively lightening the mood. “Why don’t we carpe diem the heck out of this evening? This place has the best grilled quail I’ve ever tasted. And it might be old-school, but I also love their cassoulet.”

  My mouth watered just thinking of the pork-laden dish. Stone was truly a man after my own, bacon-loving heart.

  Red deposited us by the entrance of The White Peony with time to spare. The red lacquer door itself was a work of art, and it featured a carved alabaster peony as its focal point.

  The hostess showed us to a private dining nook, thus proving my suspicions that Stone Carrington the fifth was both a recognized and valued patron. I situated myself on the velvet L-shaped couch, inhaling the scent of fresh peonies that sat on the marble tabletop. How expensive would peonies be this time of year?

  Stone slid in next to me, his thigh bumping my own. All coherent thoughts I might have had were utterly derailed. He smiled and his eyes, blue as Caribbean waters, focused on mine expectantly.

  I needed to say something. Anything.

  “Posh place,” I managed.

  “Isn’t it? It’s my mom’s fave.” He glanced over the menu, which was entirely in French. “Now let’s order something delicious.”

  * * * *

  I had finished my spring salad and polished off the first heavenly bite of cassoulet when Stone circled back around to our information-gathering mission.

  “Dietrich Myers is a bit of an odd bird,” he said. “He and Margo dated for years when he lived in Greenwich, and honestly, I never understood what she saw in him. He was the stalker type—always watching her every move and acting creepy when she did anything without him. She finally dumped him a few years ago, but I think he’s still ticked about it.”

  “So how do we question him?” I asked.

  “Well, he was at my billiards party Monday night, so I figure I’ll just mention that and poke around to see if he knows anything.”

  “What do I do? Isn’t he going to wonder why I’m there?”

  Stone gave a short laugh. “I came up with a cover story that’s guaranteed to soften him up. He’s an artist, and artists love to have their egos stroked, right? So I’ll introduce you as a painter wannabe and say you’ve been impressed with his style.”

  I frowned. “I took oil painting in high school, but I remember next to nothing about it. What kind of art does he do?”

  “Weird art. Oils, I think. It’s probably abstract, if that’s still the correct term.” He snorted. “Another perfect description is ‘art you’d never willingly hang on your wall’.”

  Although it was true that I was at my best when flying by the seat of my pants, it would be a stretch to pretend to be an artist. I couldn’t even remember the terminology.

  Stone seemed to sense my misgivings and his voice deepened, taking on a near-seductive tone. “I promise I’ll be right there to change the subject if he gets too inquisitive. Please don’t back out on me now, Belinda. I’ve been looking forward to this evening with you so much.” He leaned in close when I didn’t respond, his expression cajoling as he covered my hand with his again. “Come on. Seize the day with me.”

  I had the distinct impression Stone was playing me, but some lonely part of me didn’t mind being played.

  “I’ll do it,” I said.

  * * * *

  Red dropped us off in a hipster section of Brooklyn called Williamsburg. Along Dietrich’s street, we passed eclectic diners, indie art galleries, and secondhand boutiques. Dietrich’s apartment building was a sleekly repurposed factory that was so large, it basically anchored the street corner.

  Dietrich buzzed us in, and we paused in the entry room to gape at the wall-to-wall windows that overlooked the East River. The room gave you the impression you were floating in a spaceship, with its light wood floors, white walls, and spectacular view.

  This was not the home of a starving artist, that was for dead sure.

  We walked up to the second floor. Stone knocked at a thick metal door with an oversized number one painted on it, and Dietrich swung it open, greeting us with a smile and a waft of citrusy cologne. If I could’ve conjured up an artist stereotype in my head, he would have ticked every box. Dark goatee, check. Black turtleneck even when it was unusually mild outside, check. Slim cigarette dangling from his lips, check. The only thing he wasn’t sporting was a beret.

  “Stone, how delightful of you to visit. And who is this charming muse you brought with you?” Even his voice had a hint of international flair.

  “Belinda Blake,” I answered, before Stone could rush to explain.

  Dietrich scrutinized my face, and I felt he was memorizing every detail of it. He must’ve liked what he saw, because he said, “You remind me of this one Klimt painting—the subject also has blonde hair, and she looks equal parts naive and knowing, like you. There are butterflies and purple and white morning glories climbing up her body.” He nodded, as though agreeing with himself. “Striking, just as you are.”

  “Thank you.” I made a mental note to scour the
internet for that painting and see if he really meant that as a compliment. Thankfully, I had always been fond of Klimt.

  Stone was suddenly staring at me like I had dropped in from outer space.

  Dietrich gave Stone a weak slap on the arm, simultaneously taking a deep puff of his cigarette. “Wake up, my good man! Is this the first time you’ve really looked at our Belinda?”

  While I appreciated the inclusivity of Dietrich’s “our Belinda,” it was quite apparent that Stone hadn’t actually considered me part of his crowd yet.

  Stone cleared his throat. “Very funny. What’re you working on now?” He was launching into the “soften Dietrich up” portion of our visit.

  As predicted, Dietrich was more than happy to oblige. The artist motioned us over to a semicircle of canvases. He had propped an oversized canvas on an easel, and we turned to take it in.

  It only took me a moment to determine that I’d rather not take in that particular painting. Hideous excrement colors cavorted with blazing reds and oranges around a curvy, elongated purple blob in the center of the painting. The bottom half had yet to be painted, so I stared at that portion of white canvas and feigned a pensive look.

  “And what does this portray?” Stone asked. I had to give him credit because he treated this as an inspirational piece of art. He didn’t even crack a grin.

  Dietrich frowned and clutched a hand to his chest, as if Stone’s question had mortally wounded him. “Don’t you see it? I thought of all my paintings, this would be the one you’d feel most deeply.”

  Stone’s brow creased. He rubbed a hand through his bangs. He squinted closer at the painting and must’ve seen something he recognized in that swirling, psychedelic mess.

  “Is this...Margo?”

  Dietrich squealed and gave an excited jump. “It is. You must have recognized that the aubergine color represents the evil that overtook her in the end. Now, compare it to this one.”