Читать книгу Belinda Blake and the Snake in the Grass - Heather Day Gilbert - Страница 11

Chapter 4

The snake’s cage was far from portable, and once the taxi driver pulled to a complete stop in my driveway the next morning, it was obvious he wasn’t going to make allowances for my unusual passenger. Especially since Rasputin was sliding around in plain view, drawing attention to his black-and-gold coils.

The driver vehemently shook his head. “No, miss. I cannot drive with that creature in my car. You leave it in your house, then I will be glad to drive you.”

“But I’m taking him to his home. The snake has to come.”

He nodded. “I understand.”

I breathed a sigh of relief, hauling the cage higher...only to watch the taxi whip away, leaving me stranded.

The Greenwich train station was within walking distance—a long walk—but I had no idea what their regulations were about transporting pets. Besides, Rasputin would doubtless cause a mass exodus from any car we chose to sit in. While it was true I’d hired a private car to drive me from Manhattan to Greenwich, I’d kept a blanket over the cage. I should’ve thought of that before calling for a taxi.

I trudged back to the house, plopping the cage down on the front step and muttering at the snake. “Why couldn’t you just stay all curled up in the flowerpot? You’re such a show-off.” I fumbled with my keys.

“I hope you’re not talking to me.” Stone’s voice drifted my way. He was striding toward me, tennis racket slung over one shoulder.

“Just trying to get back to the city.” I twisted the key in the lock. “It turns out that some taxis aren’t snake-friendly.”

Stone jogged closer. “That’s no biggie. Just call up to the house and Mrs. Lewis will send a car. It’s no problem—our driver, Red, is ex-Army, so I guarantee he can handle a pet snake.”

“Wow! Thanks. I can pay, of course.”

“This one’s on the house. You can make it up to me by showing up tonight at six. I’ve booked us a table at The White Peony, on the Upper East Side.”

I hid my surprise as he mentioned one of the most raved-about restaurants in the city, although I should’ve guessed he’d get us in there. I didn’t even own the caliber of clothing I’d need to darken The White Peony’s door.

I feigned nonchalance. “I’ll be there. Now I’d better call Mrs. Lewis.”

Stone grinned and sauntered back to his tennis court. Ten minutes later, a black car wheeled around and I settled the snake cage onto the leather seat. It was only as we pulled out that I registered that Stone’s appearance was remarkably well-timed. Had he been watching me?

* * * *

Red turned out to be the talkative type, regaling me with war stories as we drove along I-95. By the time he dropped me off at the Upper West Side apartment where the snake lived, my stress levels seemed to have dropped.

Rasputin’s not-so-humble abode was in a lovely section of town—an older, ten-story white apartment building with a view of the Hudson River. As I mounted the wide steps to the building, the doorman recognized me and swung the door open with a flourish. I noticed he didn’t offer to carry the snake cage, though.

“Mr. Foley still out?” he asked. “Where’d he go this time—Chicago?”

It never ceased to amaze me that tenants trusted doormen with their personal information. When I’d lived with a roomie over on the Lower West Side, we hadn’t told anyone about our comings and goings. But we hadn’t had doormen.

Doormen functioned as a built-in security system, so of course they needed to know if residents took extended trips or had other people looking in on their animals. I shrugged off my tendency to play my cards close to the vest.

“Yes, Chicago. He’s out until next weekend. In the meantime, it’ll just be the snake and me.”

I walked across the cool marble floors, jostling the snake’s heavy cage in the process. I pushed the button on an elevator I’d already discovered moved slower than the Upstate snow melts in March. A woman in red, shiny heels joined me right before the door slid closed, and I was instantly reminded of the Louboutins Margo had worn.

I surveyed the quiet, tall woman whose manicured fingernail tapped at her blingy cell phone. A tiny Chanel bag dangled from a chain on her shoulder, and she wore a fitted blue velvet jacket. Gold jewelry adorned her ears, wrists, fingers, neck, and quite possibly her belly button and toes, as well. She was so engrossed in her compelling phone scrolling, she hadn’t even noticed the snake that shifted in the cage at her feet.

Had Margo Fenton been like her, I wondered? Wearing fashionable, but completely uncomfortable shoes to show off her wealth? Keeping her cell handy so she could avoid talking to the plebes on the street?

The woman glanced over at me and I realized she wasn’t as young as I’d initially assumed. Although there wasn’t a wrinkle on her face, her neck and hands gave away that she was somewhere in her fifties—around my mom’s age. I contrasted her fake appearance with my mom’s happy crow’s feet, her sun-freckled cheeks, and the white hairs dotting her blonde, ponytailed mane.

Funny how unglamorous the glamorous were, up close.

I grabbed the cage as the elevator finally jerked to a halt. The woman’s sharp intake of breath told me she’d finally noticed Rasputin, although maybe it was just my Crocs.

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.