He said “breakup” as if it were a mutual thing, but according to Stone, it wasn’t. This man was obviously still hung up on Margo Fenton, even if she was dead.
“Speaking of Margo,” Stone said, “what happened that night? One minute she was shooting pool, the next she was nowhere to be found—didn’t even say goodbye. Do you think she left with the killer?”
Dietrich sank into a white couch shaped like a kidney bean. He gave Stone a long, measured look. “I have asked myself that a thousand times. I don’t remember anyone else leaving, do you?”
Stone shook his head. “There were only six of us that night. Sophie and Jet weren’t paying attention to anything, wrapped around each other as usual. I figured Frannie’d had an argument with Margo, since she’d plopped into that corner armchair and buried herself in booze. You and I were shooting pool. Lani was the only other person to come in, when she brought our appetizers and refreshed the ice at the bar.”
“Lani,” Dietrich murmured dreamily. “Your in-house Hawaiian kitchen goddess.”
“She’s fifty and has kids your age,” Stone snapped. “You always romanticize things. Come on, can’t you think of anything out of the ordinary that night? I have racked my brain and I sure can’t. Or some clue as to who would’ve wanted to strangle her? Who’s she dating now?”
Dietrich bristled. “That’s not something she shared with me. I was no longer in her inner circle of friends, I suppose.” He glanced at his paintings. “Still, I was content to paint her occasionally and try to capture her beauty for generations to come. Do you think I should send her family a painting, in memoriam? Maybe the one I’m working on now?”
Stone shot me a look and I lowered my head, unable to meet those dancing blue eyes. I was about to lose it. Thank goodness we’d never gotten around to feigning that I had an artistic interest in Dietrich’s paintings.
“I think I’d wait until things settle down for the Fentons,” Stone managed.
Dietrich nodded vigorously, jumping to his feet. “How about a glass of Prosecco? I have a little left. Adele hasn’t picked up my groceries yet, so I regret to say the cupboard’s a bit bare.”
Stone glanced at his phone. “We should be going. Red just texted that he’s pulling in down the block, and you know how parking is around here. By the way, did you know Margo’s funeral is going to be tomorrow? The police said they would finish the autopsy today, so the Fentons can get things wrapped up before Thanksgiving. Will you be there?”
Dietrich shrugged. “Probably not. I don’t believe in funerals. I mean, why mourn people who were going to die sooner or later anyway? I prefer to celebrate lives through my paintings.” He tenderly stroked the edge of the partially-finished painting, then added in an almost reverent tone, “True artwork lives forever.”
Unless it’s destroyed by floods, fire, or worse. I squashed my cynical thought.
Stone and I said goodbye and slowly walked down the metal stairs from the second floor to the main landing with all the windows. Without speaking, we both stopped to gaze out at the green-gray river. The sun had set and city lights were flickering to life all around us.
“Do you think he’s telling the truth?” I finally asked.
“I don’t know why he wouldn’t,” Stone replied, seemingly mesmerized by the water.
“Well, he’d lie if he strangled her,” I said.
Stone turned and gave me a thoughtful look. “Do you really think he did? He’s shorter than Margo was. And probably not half as strong.”
“Hate can fuel people, too.”
“I guess so.” He linked his arm in mine, leading me to the main door. Out on the well-lit sidewalk, the temperature had dropped, and I gave an inadvertent shiver. Stone noticed, and without a word, he took off his blazer and helped me slide it on. I reveled in its warmth and the masculine scent that lingered in the wool.
He offered me his arm again, and I tucked mine in his. He gave a sigh and said, “I dread going to the funeral.”
I didn’t offer to accompany him, because I was already booked for a ball python feeding tomorrow. Besides, I hadn’t known Margo, save for my discovery of her body in my flowerbed.
“It’ll be okay,” I said. “Her family will be glad you’re there.”
But part of me wondered if they would, since Margo probably took her last breath on the Carringtons’ estate.
Chapter 7
Katrina called bright and early the next day. “Tell me all about your date with Mister Manor House.”
I groaned. “It wasn’t really a date. And I didn’t have time to go shopping, so I wore that floral maxi dress.”
She gave a prolonged hmm. “What shoes did you wear with it?”
My sister knew me well.
“Doc Martens,” I practically whispered.
Katrina took a few moments to ream me out for my shoe choice, declaring that no matter where I traveled, I should always pack a pair of leather heels. Then she gave me mental whiplash by launching into a lecture about how I needed to keep my pepper spray on me at all times. Apparently Mom had told her that I’d turned up a dead body outside my carriage house.
“You should’ve told me, sis! I’ve met a few psychopaths in my sessions, and I’ve seen how they think. I mean, what if this was a serial killer?”
“Thanks for that uplifting thought. I’m sure I’ll sleep really well once I get back to my new place.”
She huffed. “You really need to be careful, Belinda. I know you’ve done some dangerous things in your time, like parachuting and mountain climbing and going on that African safari, but this is different.”
“Those things were hardly dangerous. And I doubt this is, either. I like my new little house and there’s no way I’d consider moving again so soon. Do you know how hard it is to land an old stone carriage house like this, much less in Greenwich?”
“Doesn’t matter where you live if someone’s out to kill you,” Katrina said sagely.
“How’s Tyler?” I asked, changing the subject. Katrina usually loved talking about her obstetrician husband—either deriding him or extolling him, depending on her mood.
“You would not believe the size of the TV he just bought,” she started. And I was off the hook, just like that.
* * * *
Rasputin didn’t waste any time slithering out to greet me when I walked into the living room, proving without a doubt he was hungry. I went into the kitchen to retrieve the thawed, smelly rat I’d set out the night before.
Using the metal calipers Reginald had showed me, I grabbed the rat’s flaccid neck and practically ran toward Rasputin’s cage. I opened it and dangled the corpse in front of Rasputin, but he stayed curled in the corner, acting all casual about catching his dinner.
I realized that might be the key—he had to feel like he was catching something alive. I wriggled the rat in front of him and he started sliding my way. Rejecting the impulse to drop the rat and slam the cage shut, I wriggled the rodent harder and the next thing I knew, Rasputin had grabbed and flipped it into his golden, squeezing coils, constricting it. I gently tugged the calipers free and shut the cage so he could eat in peace.
There’s a first time for everything, my grandma was fond of saying. But I hoped this was the last time my exotic pet-sitting career demanded I handle a floppy, thawed-out rat. Sure, I was partially awed to see a constrictor in action, but the larger part of me was convinced I’d die if Rasputin decided to give my neck a squeeze like that on our next “walk.”