Belinda Blake and the Snake in the Grass

by Heather Day Gilbert

  I savored that “capable” remark. In fact, I wished I could have Ava write it down, like a badge of approval from the Greenwich elite, so I could show it to Katrina. Yes, I did have my act together. Somewhat.

  The car arrived and I said goodbye to Ava. I opened my purse to drop my keys in, then noticed I still had the anonymous note inside. I decided to make a stop at the police station first.

  The car driver seemed a bit wary once I told him where I was heading, but he shrugged and dropped me off just outside the police station, assuring me he’d park and wait for my return. When I stepped out, I was surprised at the impressive size of the modern, curving police building that shared space with the fire department. I had assumed Greenwich would have a small-town police force, similar to Mayberry or the one I grew up with. Apparently Greenwich was more populous than it seemed, although I couldn’t imagine it was a hotbed of crime, since all those mansions were likely protected by top-of-the-line security systems.

  The woman at the desk didn’t seem fazed by my awkward explanation of why I was there, and she asked me to have a seat while she called in the lead detective on Margo’s case. I grabbed a magazine to cover my surprise that Margo’s case even had a lead detective on it and not just local beat cops. Greenwich might have felt like a small town, but its police setup reminded me that it wasn’t.

  It didn’t take long for the lead detective to stride out. He was probably in his late fifties, had close-cropped hair, and was built like a cage fighter. He extended a hand and gave mine a firm and slightly painful shake.

  “Miss...Blake, was it? I’m Detective Hugh Watson. Jean said you had something for me. Why don’t you step back to my office?”

  I refrained from cracking a joke about his last name, feeling slightly intimidated by the entire experience. But since I was an avid fan of the Sherlock TV series, saying “Detective Watson” was going to be amusing.

  He motioned me into a chair and dropped into one behind his desk. “What do you have for us, Miss Blake?”

  “Please, call me Belinda,” I said. “I’m the tenant at the carriage house on the Carrington property, and I was the one to find Margo Fenton’s body in the flowerbed.”

  He nodded. “I read your statement in the files. Seemed pretty cut and dried how you stumbled onto her. That must’ve been a shock.”

  “Yes, sir, it was.” I opened my purse and motioned to the note inside. “Just a couple of days ago, someone slid this note under my door. It says, ‘If you’re smart, you’ll let Margo Fenton rest in peace’ in a block print.”

  His light brown eyebrows raised. “And what do you think that means?”

  I took a straightforward approach. “I’ve been poking around a little into Margo’s death—I mean she must’ve died right outside my carriage house, and I feel so sorry about that, even though I just recently moved in and I was in Manhattan that night.” I was rambling, so I paused and gathered my thoughts. “Basically, I think someone figured out I was looking into things and they were trying to scare me off.”

  “So to clarify, you’ve been asking questions of suspects in an open homicide case?”

  I blushed, feeling like a naughty child. “Yes.”

  He leaned forward, his arm muscles straining against the fabric of his sleeves. All traces of amusement had vanished from his face. “I would urge you not to do that. Especially alone.”

  The detective had assumed I was investigating alone, and to protect Stone, I didn’t correct him. Chances were, Stone the fifth was already on their suspect list, and I didn’t want to draw attention to him by admitting we’d been tag-teaming this covert quest for a killer.

  “Okay.” I tried to inject the word with conviction.

  He gave a brief nod and punched a button, asking someone from Forensics to come and take the note.

  “We’ll get to the bottom of this. If there are any stray prints on your note, we’ll find them. But right now, I’m more interested in knowing what you make of the Carrington bunch.”

  Three people in a family didn’t really make a bunch, but I assumed he was lumping all the house staff in, too.

  Should I tell him Stone the fourth might be an alcoholic? Again, I was driven by a need to protect my landlords, who had, with the exclusion of Stone the fourth, been quite good to me. “They seem like a normal family,” I hedged.

  As the Forensics specialist extracted the note from my purse, Detective Watson grinned. “Belinda, I grew up in the mountains of West Virginia. We had this man in town, Bubba Craig. He was the type who’d call a black sheep white—lie right to your face. Every time someone in town fibbed, we’d say he was ‘pulling a Bubba.’” His dark eyes softened and his accent intensified. “You pullin’ a Bubba on me?”

  There was no way I was going to lie to the detective outright. I cleared my throat. “The only thing I noticed was that Mr. Carrington—Stone the fourth—seemed to have a problem with alcohol.”

  “You don’t say.” He tapped a finger on his desk. “Nothing’s popped up in the system for him. Now the son...that’s a different story.”

  My eyes widened, and Detective Watson noticed. “Charmed you, did he? I figured as much. The boy gets picked up for OUI and it doesn’t slow him down a bit.”

  “OUI?” I asked.

  “Operating Under the Influence. Yes, we say it differently here.” He peered into my face. “You been riding around with him?”

  “No. I mean, he hasn’t been driving any.”

  He chuckled. “And I can guess why. See, he recently had his license restored, but he has to use an Ignition Interlock Device—an IID. It’s like a portable Breathalyzer in your car, and if you’ve been drinking, the car won’t start. I’m guessing that breathing into an IID in front of a date isn’t the most seductive technique for our man-about-town, Stone the fifth.”

  I stared at my purse, unable to look the detective in the eye. Was Stone really the player Detective Watson was describing?

  And why hadn’t he told me about his OUI?

  Guess I’d have some interesting conversation starters for our meal tonight.

  Chapter 13

  Once I got back to the carriage house, I rushed inside and unloaded my groceries, my mind still reeling from the revelation about Stone. Hoping my visit to Ava’s would clear my head, I grabbed my cleaning supply basket, then returned to the waiting car. This jaunt around town was going to cost me, but Reginald had paid me up front, so I had a little income to work with.

  I called Ava and got her address, which I repeated to the driver. He seemed duly impressed by the street name.

  “You are a house cleaner?” he asked, obviously referring to my cleaning supplies.

  “Not professionally, no. I’m actually a pet-sitter. For exotic pets,” I added.

  “What does this mean, exotic pets?”

  “Animals that aren’t your usual pets. Things like snakes.”

  “Crocodiles?” A smile toyed at his lips.

  “I don’t know if I’d go that far,” I said. But I wondered...would I? I hoped no one in Greenwich or Manhattan had crocodiles. Surely that was more of a Southern hobby?

  The driver became distracted, peering at house numbers. He pulled to an abrupt stop by a gate with the number seven on it, and someone buzzed us in. We pulled up the circular drive, coming to a stop in front of a Georgian-style brick mansion.

  I walked up and rang the bell, and Ava answered it, which made me wonder if the Fentons even had a house secretary. Melly had mentioned Ava’s “help,” so I knew she must have someone working under her. But maybe Ava was the one who handled all the daily household business. And why shouldn’t she? I would think it gave her something to do.

  The interior was all whites and creams and pale marble. Frankly, I found it a bit boring. The word “McMansion” sprang to mind. Greenwich seemed to be full of lovely houses with historically accurate
details, but because of their gargantuan size, it was painfully obvious they were modern. Interiors were chock-full of the finest trappings, but were so tasteful they were bland. I preferred a smaller, older house loaded with character.

  Ava seemed chatty this morning, perhaps excited that Margo’s room would soon be food-free, so she wouldn’t have to worry about a rodent invasion. As we walked upstairs, I felt comfortable enough to broach the question that had been weighing on my mind.

  “I have to confess, I was shocked at Mr. Carrington’s behavior at our brunch,” I said. “Do you think he’s an alcoholic?”

  Ava remained silent, but her wide shoulders gave a nearly imperceptible drop. When she finally spoke, I was surprised at the smoldering anger in her tone.

  “Melly deserves better,” she said. “Sure, the Carringtons have been wealthy for years, but Stone the fourth hasn’t been careful about building on his father’s success. The smart thing to do would be for him to step aside and let Melly replace him as manager of his company. That woman has a head full of common sense.”

  She fell silent, almost reverent as we approached an eggplant purple door that had to be Margo’s. It seemed to be the only spot of color on this floor. Stretching out a hand, Ava placed her palm on the door, as if sensing the presence of the daughter who once occupied it.

  “I assume you have everything you need to clean?” she asked. A rogue tear spilled from her eye and bounced onto her blouse, but she didn’t seem to notice. I could tell from her brusque manner that she was eager to have me get to work.

  “Yes, I do. I will find every stray crumb,” I promised.

  She nodded and headed back toward the stairs. It was obvious she still hadn’t allowed herself to look in Margo’s room.

  Taking a deep breath, I turned the ivory knob and opened the door.

  What greeted me was so unexpected, it took me a while to take it all in.

  Margo’s room was a cacophony of rich colors, from purple to greens to rusts. Personality oozed from every decor choice, from her sheepskin rug to an Indian dresser that boasted multicolored drawers. Her wooden bed was canopied with sheer, tasseled drapes that had strings of lights wrapped around them. I plugged the lights in to see the full effect, and it was inviting.

  As a matter of fact, I had the feeling Margo and I weren’t too different in our tastes, which could aptly be described as “Pier One bohemian.”

  The old desk wasn’t hard to locate, since it was covered in candles and an impressive collection of large rocks in various colors. I suspected they were uncut gemstones, and I thought I could pick out aquamarine, opal, and tourmaline.

  Restraining my urge to handle the dazzling stones, I felt around for the secret drawer. Sure enough, it was tucked into the side, just where Frannie had said it would be. I located the twisting piece she’d described and tried turning it three times to the left, but it didn’t work. Maybe it was jammed.

  Glancing behind me, even though there wasn’t a chance Ava was coming in to check on my progress, I did the three-turn move once again, only this time more gently. On the third turn, the drawer clicked open and I slid it out.

  The flat drawer only had room for something small. And what I found myself staring at was indeed a small thing, but it had huge implications.

  It was a pregnancy test stick, and a pink plus sign stared up at me.

  * * * *

  In a daze, I launched into my cleaning efforts, trying not to think about the pregnancy stick I’d left sitting in the open drawer. I went through a huge pile of clothes Margo had tossed onto the floor of her walk-in closet. Then I gathered up the pizza box she’d left in her bathroom (her bathroom?), along with several half-drunk glasses that littered her dressers.

  I knew I was going to have to tell Detective Watson about the pregnancy test. I should probably pack it up in a bag for him. But I wondered if I should tell Ava. It did seem only fair—my mom would have wanted to know if it had been me.

  The pregnancy added a whole new angle to everything. Because Margo hadn’t seemed to be showing at all, it was entirely possible that the coroner hadn’t caught hints of a very early pregnancy. Even with a thorough autopsy, things could slip through the cracks, and the focus had probably been on her neck and hands in the hunt for incriminating evidence. I suspected her autopsy was also expedited out of respect for the Fentons, so they could have a funeral before Thanksgiving week.

  But even though Margo had been buried quickly, Thanksgiving would probably be charged with nothing but grief for the Fentons for years to come. I hated to add to it by revealing that their daughter was pregnant when she died. The Fentons had lost not only a daughter, but a grandchild that night.

  My phone rang in the midst of my ponderings, and I wasn’t surprised to see it was Stone.

  “How’s it going?” he asked.

  “It’s going well. I’m actually cleaning Margo’s room right now.”

  “You are? Did you turn up anything interesting?”

  I didn’t even hesitate to answer. Something told me to protect Margo’s secret, even from Stone. “Not yet.”

  “Let me know if you do. Her room was always such a dive,” he laughed.

  For some reason, that bothered me, his disrespect for a dead woman’s room. Sure, he’d known her—even dated her—but did he really have to be so cavalier?

  “I like her room.” My voice had an edge to it I didn’t even recognize.

  He got serious. “Oh, sure. Well, she had unique tastes in just about everything. Show her a Ferrari and she’d say she preferred a Prius.”

  Now that our talk had turned to cars, it would be a great time to ask him if he had one. Instead, an equally invasive question escaped my lips. “So, are you at work today? Where do you work again?”

  He answered quickly. “I work from home for my dad’s hedge fund business. I’ve been training with Dad’s partner, who’s basically in charge of the day-to-day aspects of the company.”

  “Wow. I had no idea you were so busy.” And so smart. I felt like a heel for sticking it to him with my cross-questioning today, but the omission of his OUI past needled me.

  “Speaking of which, I should get back to work. See you at seven.” His voice was a little curt.

  “Great.” I couldn’t even fake exuberance, feeling more nervous than excited about tonight.

  I hung up and picked up my dust cloth, fresh determination filling me. Margo’s room was going to sparkle by the time I finished with it. It was the very least I could do for this woman who might not have been so very different from me.

  * * * *

  It was almost three-thirty by the time I finished cleaning. I felt grimy and exhausted, and I still had to go home and clean and cook. Granted, housecleaning wouldn’t take long, since I was fastidious about wiping down my bathroom regularly.

  Margo’s room, on the other hand, had been a more massive project than I’d anticipated. The bottom line was that she’d had far too many clothes, shoes, and accessories. Many of them still had tags on them. I made a pact with myself that if I ever became rich, I’d keep a Spartan wardrobe by donating my extras to shelters.

  I plopped into an overstuffed chair and called a car service, fingering a church bulletin I’d discovered that was jammed into a Bible under Margo’s bed. The police had probably glanced over it. But I’d noticed it was a bulletin for Father Jesse’s Episcopal church, and when I opened it, I’d found a handwritten note scrawled inside.

  I hung up the phone and reread the personal message in the bulletin. It had obviously been charged with both longing and familiarity.

  How I’d love to wrap my hands around your beautiful waist. Come see me tonight.

  I couldn’t stop switching the word “waist” for “neck” in my mind.

  The bulletin was yet another thing I’d need to drop off with the police. I could run the pregnancy te
st and the bulletin in on my way home and get them off my hands before I left town.

  If Stone asked if I’d found anything, I could share about the note, which seemed to point to Father Jesse as Margo’s secret lover. And what I didn’t necessarily have to share with Stone was that if Father Jesse had discovered he was the father of Margo’s baby, he would’ve had a really strong motivation to kill her. He couldn’t afford that kind of scandal in a small community like Greenwich.

  The pieces seemed to fit together, but I still felt like some critical fact hadn’t surfaced yet. Maybe it was something Frannie had overheard, something that would give us some definite, direct proof of motive.

  I sighed and stood, shoving the bulletin in my purse. I knew it would have my prints on it, but I hadn’t thought to wear gloves before rummaging through Margo’s Bible.

  Taking one last glance around Margo’s cozy room, I felt satisfied that everything was in order. Ava could walk into this bedroom at any time and feel closer to her daughter, but she didn’t have to worry about sorting through trash and messes to do so.

  “I’m sorry, Margo,” I whispered, pulling the door closed behind me. I nearly jumped when something moved in my peripheral vision. It was Ava. She’d been sitting in a chair in the hallway, for who knew how long.

  She stood and moved toward me. I reached to shake her outstretched hand, but she flipped it over. Several hundred dollar bills uncurled in her palm.

  “Thank you, my dear. Please take this.”

  I shook my head and withdrew my hand as if I’d been scalded. “No. I can’t take your money. I wanted to do this to help you out.”

  She gave me a curious look. “I’ve never met anyone who rejected my money.”

  I couldn’t explain how wrong it felt to take money from a grieving mother. Plus, I was about to drop a bombshell on her.

  “I appreciate it, but I really can’t accept your kind offer.” I held her gaze. “I wondered, did Margo ever talk about a boyfriend, maybe to you or to her siblings?”