I felt the same way about Margo’s death. I’d found her, so it seemed I should go one step further and search for the one who’d viciously strangled her. For her family’s sake, and for my own peace of mind as I tried to settle in at the carriage house.
Chapter 8
Rasputin’s stomach was clearly distended when I picked him up to switch him to the smaller cage for our trip, so I figured he was still digesting his meal. I was amazed that snakes could go a week or two without food—some even went months during the breeding season, I’d read online.
I doubted poor old Rasputin would be breeding anytime soon. Reginald had mentioned the snake was already twenty-one years old, which was getting up there for a ball python.
He managed to slide into his flowerpot, hiding his head but leaving his tail hanging out. I misted his cage with water to make sure he had some humidity, since the air was dry and chilly this morning. Glancing out my front window, I wasn’t surprised to see Red waiting for me—a full fifteen minutes early. I scurried around, making sure things were tidied up, then I grabbed the snake crate and my backpack, locked up, and went to meet Red.
* * * *
Red continued to solidify his easy friendship with me by sharing about some of the undercover ops he’d participated in over the years. By the time we reached the carriage house, I wondered if Red wasn’t the original Michael Westen.
I unlocked my door, inhaling the homey smell of my cinnamon plug-in freshener. I set Rasputin down and turned on my coffee machine, then headed over to boot up my desktop computer.
My gaze skimmed over the living room, stopping on something white that lay on the floor just behind the front door. I must’ve stepped right over it when I walked in.
It was an envelope with my name written on it.
I rushed over and started to reach for it, but serious misgivings stopped me. I turned and went to the bathroom, returning with a pair of cleaning gloves. Maybe I was being paranoid, but the image of Margo Fenton’s lifeless body lying in the flowerbed right outside my window flashed like a red warning light through my mind. While it was entirely possible this was a welcome note or some other legitimate form of correspondence, there was also the distinct possibility it wasn’t.
The outside envelope was addressed to “Belinda” in a blocky print. I retrieved a knife to slit the top, then pulled out the crinkly paper that was shoved inside. This was no welcome note. It read:
If you’re smart, you’ll let Margo Fenton rest in peace.
My hand trembled as I slid the paper back into the envelope. It wasn’t an out-and-out threat, but there was some implied malice accompanying those cryptic words and that carefully disguised block print.
I hesitated. Should I tell Stone, or should I call the cops? Val had asked me to let him know if anything else turned up, but that was before Stone and I became confidants. I might as well tell Stone first, then we could hash out our next step. He would be by soon to pick me up for Frannie’s.
* * * *
I wasn’t sure what to wear for this afternoon’s meeting. Stone had said we’d be visiting Frannie at her parents’ home. I really needed to take fashion notes the next time I went into downtown Greenwich. When I’d last visited the Rag and Bone store on Main Street, native shoppers seemed to sport a plethora of crisp white Brooks Brothers shirts, expensive accessories, and straight, blonde hair.
At least my hair could fit in—when I straightened it.
I did happen to be wearing a white shirt, but it was a Star Wars T-shirt.
My mom would tell me to embrace myself and to stop trying to be someone I wasn’t. That seemed as good a philosophy as any. So instead of changing my shirt, I left it on and upped the quirky ante by pulling on my Doc Martens.
I could almost hear Mom’s approval in my head. “Why fit in when you can stand out?” she’d say.
There was a brief knock on my door and I realized Stone and Red were waiting for me. I checked on Rasputin—his tail still drooped out of his flowerpot and he had barely moved. I shoved my bathroom gloves and note into my purse. I could explain on the way to Frannie’s.
Stone greeted me at the door and gave me an appreciative glance. “Nice shirt,” he said. He seemed very relaxed and a little sloshed, to boot.
“Thanks,” I said.
Stone opened my car door, waving me in with a flourish. He leaned in as I sat down. “So how was your Manhattan sleepover with the snake?” He smiled, showing two rows of beautifully aligned teeth.
“Amusing...hey, you know what else was amusing? Giving said snake a bath. You ever tried that, Richie Rich?”
Stone laughed—a deep, pleasant sound—and closed the door.
Red gave a low chuckle from the front seat. I’d gone and done it again—blurted the first thought that popped into my head. I really needed to be a little more circumspect.
Stone opened his door and slid in next to me. He grinned. “So, Belinda, why don’t you just say what you really think of me?”
I gave an enigmatic smile, because if I did share my current train of thought, I’d have to say how tantalizing Stone smelled—like tobacco and leather.
He slipped lower in his seat, letting his legs sprawl out. We sat in companionable silence.
After a few minutes, Red veered off a road and I could see the sound come into view.
“We’re almost there,” Stone straightened a bit in the seat. “Let me brief you on Frannie. Her full name is Frances Rutherford, but she never answers to that. Since she knows me, I’ll probably lead the conversation as much as possible, but if you want to ask something, go ahead. Just phrase it carefully, because she’s a little touchy about any insinuation that she’s not pulling her own weight—even though she’s not. She’s been living with her parents since high school and although she’s puttered around with sales jobs, she hasn’t stuck with anything more than two months.”
A little like Dietrich, living off the parents. I glanced at the man next to me, whose clothing, bearing, and hair screamed luxe. Did Stone himself have a job?
My musings were cut short when Red announced, “Here we are.” I hadn’t even had time to mention my mysterious note, but that would have to wait until our trip home.
I looked up at a sprawling, Tudor-style mansion. It had at least four floors and numerous side gables. It backed right up to the sound, and as soon as I stepped out of the car, I could hear the water gently lapping at the shoreline.
A tall, redheaded sylph in a fluttery dress pranced down the driveway like it was a catwalk. The oversized straw hat she wore dipped over her eyes, so I couldn’t make out much of her face.
“Stone, darling. It’s simply been too long.” She extended a hand, as if he should kiss it.
Instead of obliging, Stone took her hand and gave it an unimpassioned pat. “Frannie, I saw you on Monday.”
She shrugged and turned her attention toward me, actually pushing her hat brim up a few inches in order to better scrutinize my appearance.
“And this must be...Brunhilda?” she asked, with a totally straight face.
I couldn’t stop myself. I snorted. “Actually, I’m Belinda,” I said. “Stone, what on earth did you tell her about me?” I gave his arm a playful squeeze, kicking off our dating farce.
Frannie’s eyes slid over to Stone, then back to me. Her condescending manner transformed into an uninhibited, flaming jealousy that matched her vibrant hair.
Frannie Rutherford was not someone to be trifled with, and here we were, trifling with her. I was ready to confess our ruse on the spot, but Stone had picked up the baton and he was charging along with