Читать книгу Belinda Blake and the Snake in the Grass - Heather Day Gilbert - Страница 13

Chapter 6

When Red’s black car pulled up early at four-forty, I had to race to put on my finishing touches. I quick-scrunched molding wax into my curls, added a final coat of mascara, and threw my wallet into a beat-up hobo purse with zero swag factor.

Rasputin was still tucked into the hole in his rock, but when I stepped toward the cage, he poked his head out. Maybe he was hungry, but his feeding day wasn’t until tomorrow. Besides, I didn’t particularly want to handle a frozen rat at the moment.

He looked at me with a snake-stare that was predictably soulless, but there was some new hint of recognition in those golden eyes. Or maybe I was imagining things.

As I strode out of the apartment, a different doorman stood sentinel at the front entrance. He was younger, maybe my age, and he looked me up and down twice, restoring my hopes that I had achieved some level of attractiveness. I beamed down at Stone, who was waiting for me on the sidewalk.

However, when I hit the next to last step, I tripped on my own lug soles and took a none-too-graceful tumble. Stone lurched forward in a vain attempt to catch me, but predictably, I landed on my hands and knees, directly in front of his soft, caramel color loafers.

He kneeled and extended both hands, carefully helping me to my feet. His brow furrowed in genuine concern. “Are you okay?”

Nodding self-consciously, I pulled my hands from his and gingerly brushed my palms together, to rid them of the dirt from the sidewalk. He produced a clean tissue to aid the process, and my cheeks burned with embarrassment. Although my knees and palms were a little scraped up, the thing that had sustained the most injury was my one remaining sliver of pride. “I’m fine. Just a klutz, that’s all.”

I hoped against hope he hadn’t noticed my Doc Martens, but he motioned to the black boot tips protruding from under my dress. “Nice shoes. I guarantee Dietrich will love them.”

I nodded, appreciating Stone’s attempt to set me at ease.

Taking my hand, Stone helped me up and led me across the wide sidewalk to the car. Red gave me a generous wink, holding the car door open for me. As Stone walked around to the other door, Red whispered, “You look stunning this evening.”

Stone started filling me in the moment I slid into the leather seat next to him. “My mom called Mrs. Fenton today, to offer condolences and to ask when the funeral would be. She said Margo’s mom was totally beside herself, sobbing into the phone about how she couldn’t believe someone would want to kill her daughter. It was gruesome.”

I didn’t think “gruesome” was the right word for a mother’s grief, but I stayed silent. As I thought about Mrs. Fenton’s grief, an unsettled feeling wrapped around me, just like Rasputin’s coils.

Stone continued. “I honestly can’t fathom it, either. Margo was really good-natured. She was the kind of woman you wanted to hang out with, because she never took things too seriously. She could laugh at herself. You don’t find that quality often in the circles I run in.”

I figured not.

“Actually, something about you kind of reminds me of her, Belinda.” His hand briefly covered my own and he gave a light squeeze, sending an unexpected tingle up my arm. He smiled, effectively lightening the mood. “Why don’t we carpe diem the heck out of this evening? This place has the best grilled quail I’ve ever tasted. And it might be old-school, but I also love their cassoulet.”

My mouth watered just thinking of the pork-laden dish. Stone was truly a man after my own, bacon-loving heart.

Red deposited us by the entrance of The White Peony with time to spare. The red lacquer door itself was a work of art, and it featured a carved alabaster peony as its focal point.

The hostess showed us to a private dining nook, thus proving my suspicions that Stone Carrington the fifth was both a recognized and valued patron. I situated myself on the velvet L-shaped couch, inhaling the scent of fresh peonies that sat on the marble tabletop. How expensive would peonies be this time of year?

Stone slid in next to me, his thigh bumping my own. All coherent thoughts I might have had were utterly derailed. He smiled and his eyes, blue as Caribbean waters, focused on mine expectantly.

I needed to say something. Anything.

“Posh place,” I managed.

“Isn’t it? It’s my mom’s fave.” He glanced over the menu, which was entirely in French. “Now let’s order something delicious.”

* * * *

I had finished my spring salad and polished off the first heavenly bite of cassoulet when Stone circled back around to our information-gathering mission.

“Dietrich Myers is a bit of an odd bird,” he said. “He and Margo dated for years when he lived in Greenwich, and honestly, I never understood what she saw in him. He was the stalker type—always watching her every move and acting creepy when she did anything without him. She finally dumped him a few years ago, but I think he’s still ticked about it.”

“So how do we question him?” I asked.

“Well, he was at my billiards party Monday night, so I figure I’ll just mention that and poke around to see if he knows anything.”

“What do I do? Isn’t he going to wonder why I’m there?”

Stone gave a short laugh. “I came up with a cover story that’s guaranteed to soften him up. He’s an artist, and artists love to have their egos stroked, right? So I’ll introduce you as a painter wannabe and say you’ve been impressed with his style.”

I frowned. “I took oil painting in high school, but I remember next to nothing about it. What kind of art does he do?”

“Weird art. Oils, I think. It’s probably abstract, if that’s still the correct term.” He snorted. “Another perfect description is ‘art you’d never willingly hang on your wall’.”

Although it was true that I was at my best when flying by the seat of my pants, it would be a stretch to pretend to be an artist. I couldn’t even remember the terminology.

Stone seemed to sense my misgivings and his voice deepened, taking on a near-seductive tone. “I promise I’ll be right there to change the subject if he gets too inquisitive. Please don’t back out on me now, Belinda. I’ve been looking forward to this evening with you so much.” He leaned in close when I didn’t respond, his expression cajoling as he covered my hand with his again. “Come on. Seize the day with me.”

I had the distinct impression Stone was playing me, but some lonely part of me didn’t mind being played.

“I’ll do it,” I said.

* * * *

Red dropped us off in a hipster section of Brooklyn called Williamsburg. Along Dietrich’s street, we passed eclectic diners, indie art galleries, and secondhand boutiques. Dietrich’s apartment building was a sleekly repurposed factory that was so large, it basically anchored the street corner.

Dietrich buzzed us in, and we paused in the entry room to gape at the wall-to-wall windows that overlooked the East River. The room gave you the impression you were floating in a spaceship, with its light wood floors, white walls, and spectacular view.

This was not the home of a starving artist, that was for dead sure.

We walked up to the second floor. Stone knocked at a thick metal door with an oversized number one painted on it, and Dietrich swung it open, greeting us with a smile and a waft of citrusy cologne. If I could’ve conjured up an artist stereotype in my head, he would have ticked every box. Dark goatee, check. Black turtleneck even when it was unusually mild outside, check. Slim cigarette dangling from his lips, check. The only thing he wasn’t sporting was a beret.

“Stone, how delightful of you to visit. And who is this charming muse you brought with you?” Even his voice had a hint of international flair.

“Belinda Blake,” I answered, before Stone could rush to explain.

Dietrich scrutinized my face, and I felt he was memorizing every detail of it. He must’ve liked what he saw, because he said, “You remind me of this one Klimt painting—the subject also has blonde hair, and she looks equal parts naive and knowing, like you. There are butterflies and purple and white morning glories climbing up her body.” He nodded, as though agreeing with himself. “Striking, just as you are.”

“Thank you.” I made a mental note to scour the internet for that painting and see if he really meant that as a compliment. Thankfully, I had always been fond of Klimt.

Stone was suddenly staring at me like I had dropped in from outer space.

Dietrich gave Stone a weak slap on the arm, simultaneously taking a deep puff of his cigarette. “Wake up, my good man! Is this the first time you’ve really looked at our Belinda?”

While I appreciated the inclusivity of Dietrich’s “our Belinda,” it was quite apparent that Stone hadn’t actually considered me part of his crowd yet.

Stone cleared his throat. “Very funny. What’re you working on now?” He was launching into the “soften Dietrich up” portion of our visit.

As predicted, Dietrich was more than happy to oblige. The artist motioned us over to a semicircle of canvases. He had propped an oversized canvas on an easel, and we turned to take it in.

It only took me a moment to determine that I’d rather not take in that particular painting. Hideous excrement colors cavorted with blazing reds and oranges around a curvy, elongated purple blob in the center of the painting. The bottom half had yet to be painted, so I stared at that portion of white canvas and feigned a pensive look.

“And what does this portray?” Stone asked. I had to give him credit because he treated this as an inspirational piece of art. He didn’t even crack a grin.

Dietrich frowned and clutched a hand to his chest, as if Stone’s question had mortally wounded him. “Don’t you see it? I thought of all my paintings, this would be the one you’d feel most deeply.”

Stone’s brow creased. He rubbed a hand through his bangs. He squinted closer at the painting and must’ve seen something he recognized in that swirling, psychedelic mess.

“Is this...Margo?”

Dietrich squealed and gave an excited jump. “It is. You must have recognized that the aubergine color represents the evil that overtook her in the end. Now, compare it to this one.”

Dietrich gestured to a finished painting on the floor, this one done in more soothing blue and green tones. A squatty, curvy yellow blob seemed to be melting off the side of the canvas. Dietrich began to explain. “This was a nude I painted just last year—also Margo. I couldn’t believe she finally agreed to pose for me, but then again, it’s been years since our breakup.”

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.