“A dead woman. What do we do?” My heart was pounding.
“Sacré bleu!” He grabbed my arm. “Who was it?”
“I have no idea. I didn’t look at her face. I didn’t know the...protocol...for finding a dead body outside my rental house.”
Jacques took off his work gloves and shoved them in the pocket of his navy coveralls. “I will tell Mrs. Lewis and she can call the police. Perhaps you should come in with me.”
Mrs. Lewis. I had forgotten the name of the house secretary, a thin, older woman with the brisk air of someone who never veered from schedule.
Today might be a bit of a shock for her.
As for me, I felt a little under-terrified. But my ability to distance myself from gruesome situations was a habit I’d perfected as I’d helped my dad with his veterinary procedures. I was able to maintain a relatively decent level of detachment unless something horrible was touching me, like a snake that wrapped its way into my hair and clothing.
Jacques led me around to a flagstone patio behind the mansion. Fountains burbled and birds chirped politely from the hedges. It really was an idyllic place, save for the dead body over in my yard.
We walked onto a fully furnished, covered porch that spanned a considerable length. Jacques pushed open a charming red Dutch door that gave onto a kitchen gleaming with steel and granite. By the time we’d made our way through five or six impeccably decorated sitting rooms, I was thoroughly lost.
Jacques took an abrupt turn into a smaller room where Mrs. Lewis sat at an antique desk, pecking at an ancient computer keyboard.
“There has been an incident,” he said.
Jacques struck me as a master of calm and understatement.
I waited as he explained to Mrs. Lewis, who in turn shot several dubious looks my way. Even I had to admit it seemed strange that this body showed up at the exact time I was moving into my rental house.
Without getting my side of the story, Mrs. Lewis first called Security, then the police. Did most families in Greenwich retain their own security forces?
Her task finished, she finally walked over to me, her dainty kitten heels clicking on the dark wood floor. “Thank you so much for bringing this to our attention.”
“Of course,” I said, rather bemused. She’d chosen an odd turn of phrase under the circumstances. I couldn’t think of one good reason I’d keep a dead body a secret.
“I will notify Mr. and Mrs. Carrington and I will let the police know you were the first on the scene. They did advise us not to touch anything...” Her voice drifted off as she scrutinized my casual attire. For the second time today, I felt underdressed at my own new home.
“Of course,” I repeated. I couldn’t seem to come up with anything else to say.
* * * *
Jacques stayed behind to help Mrs. Lewis as she broke the news to the family, so I had to find my own way out of the labyrinth of rooms in the manor house. By the time I got back to my own place, both Security and the police had descended on the crime scene.
I sat at the bistro table and gave my statement while keeping a curious eye on the corpse. When the officer left me to help pull the body out, I was shocked at how young the woman appeared—I had pictured a middle-aged, Botoxed housewife of Greenwich. This girl couldn’t be far from my own age of twenty-six. She wore a chic miniskirt, flowing periwinkle blouse, and long gold necklace.
As they wheeled the gurney past me, I caught a closer glimpse of the body, which hadn’t been zipped up yet. The woman was a bottle blonde—easy to spot since I’m a natural blonde. Her highlights were perfectly placed and well-maintained. Not cheap.
It also looked like her face was mottled—more like spotted. Either she’d had some kind of contagious disease, or all the blood vessels had burst. And given the raised red welts around her neck, it seemed pretty clear she must have been strangled.
As they cordoned off the flowerbed with police tape, my attention shifted to the security guard who had pulled up a seat next to me. The man was built like a bear, but his skin had paled and he looked like he was about to be sick.
“Do you want to come inside and get a glass of water?” I offered.
He shook his head, his eyes following the mystery woman as they zipped the body bag and loaded her into an ambulance. There would be no screaming sirens, no flashing lights for her today.
The shaky security guard spoke up. “I need to get back to the house. If you happen to remember anything else, my name’s Val.”
“Thanks.”
As he stood, he nearly knocked the tiny bistro chair over before hurrying toward my driveway. I heard an engine rev, then he ground the small truck into gear and took off down my gravel drive. Maybe he felt more nauseated than he’d let on.
I walked back to my front door, watching to make sure Val made it back okay. But to my surprise, he didn’t head to the manor house. Instead, his blue and white security vehicle made a sharp turn and he whipped into a parking space right next to the tennis courts.
* * * *
That night, as I crushed garlic for my penne arrabiata, I put my dad on speakerphone.
“How’s the snake?” he asked.
“Doing okay, but he had a kind of rough day, so he’s still curled up in his clay flowerpot. I’m going to keep him here tonight, then take him back to the city tomorrow.”
“Makes sense. Don’t forget to keep his water bowl full to provide a little extra humidity in the tank. You might want to mist the interior once in a while with a water bottle, too. And be sure to flip on that heat mat you told me about. How long have you been watching him?”
“A few days. His owner will be back next weekend, after Thanksgiving.”
“So you’ll be feeding him.” Dad was subtly reminding me that snake food doesn’t come neatly packaged in a can.
“I plan to give it a try when I get back to the apartment. Nothing like handling some frozen rats.” I shivered, wishing I’d come up with a different career for myself. But this job paid the bills, when combined with my video game review articles. Not to mention, it allowed me to function as my gloriously introverted self. Most days.
“Hang on—your mom wants to talk.”
I heard the front porch door slam, and I imagined a breeze blowing my way from Larches Corner. Mom was probably sitting in her favorite yellow Adirondack chair, smelling like the juba oil she’d worn since I was small.
My crunchy, organic mom had no greater dream than to get off-grid someday. She actively worked at it, too, much to my dad’s dismay. Her latest attempt was to install a composting toilet, which Dad categorically refused to use, for fear the waste would somehow wind up fertilizing our tomato plants.
“Sweet girl,” Mom said. “How are you? All settled in?”
Mom’s alto voice unleashed the emotions I’d reined in tight throughout the day. I found myself spilling the entire story of the dead woman in the flowerbed, even though I knew what would happen—I’d rouse the Mama Bear.
Sure enough, Mom launched into a diatribe. “What kind of owners let a girl die on their grounds? Do you think they covered it up? Are they strange?”
I intuited her next question before she asked it.
“Should I come down there?” What was insinuated but not spoken was: “And kick some butt?”
I had to put on a show of confidence, no matter how fake it was. “No, Mom. I’ll be okay. I love the space in this carriage house, compared to that studio I had to share in the city. My career is thriving and the clients are lining