Belinda Blake and the Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing

Book 2: Exotic Pet-Sitter Mystery

by Heather Day Gilbert

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Cozy Mystery; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

Exotic pet-sitter Belinda Blake is nervous about her new job at the White Pine Wolf Preserve, but it turns out that the care and feeding of wild carnivores may be the least dangerous part of the gig . . . Pet-sitter Belinda Blake is no stranger to dealing with wild animals, but she’s wary when the owner of the Greenwich, Connecticut, preserve asks her to help out with her “fluffy darlings.” Her caution seems justified on her very first day, when she discovers a tour guide—dead, bloodied, and surrounded by wolves in the enclosure. Was it death by predator or something more sinister? The body count rises, but something’s not adding up. As she gets to know the rescued wolves and wolf-dog hybrids better, Belinda realizes that her human colleagues are not above suspicion. With help from her own “pack”—her pregnant sister, Red the chauffeur/bodyguard, and hunky farmer Jonas—Belinda is hot on the killer’s tail, but if she doesn’t find him soon, he’ll do more than muzzle her to keep the truth from escaping. “With a well-paced plot, engaging characters, and exotic animals, Gilbert’s new series featuring pet sitter Belinda Blake will tick all the right boxes for cozy mystery fans.” — Ellery Adams, New York Times and USA Today bestselling author

Release date: October 1, 2019

Publisher: Lyrical Press

Print pages: 166

Sample

1

Rainy weather was an introvert’s best friend.

At least that’s the way I’d felt for years, but after four days of nonstop drizzle alternating with heavy deluges in Greenwich, Connecticut, I was about to change my mind. I needed to get out of my stone carriage house, needed to take in the rich smells of spring, needed to touch the velvety red tulip petals that had finally started to unfurl in my flower bed out back.

I cozied up on my blue couch, setting my warm mug of Arabica coffee on the low table in front of me. Snagging one of my favorite Agatha Christie mysteries, By the Pricking of My Thumbs, off my shelf, I tried to pick up where I’d left off.

Instead, my gaze wandered to my wide front window, where I could see the shamrock-green lawn stretching up to the Carringtons’ manor house. I tried not to think of my last encounter with Stone Carrington the fifth, but I couldn’t help myself.

When Stone had broken a couple months’ silence and shown up on my doorstep in early March, it was obvious something had changed. I could see it in his face—the way those turquoise eyes shone with expectation. I figured he’d tell me he’d found someone who’d made him forget all the stresses of his complicated family life.

Instead, he’d said something far worse.

He was heading to Bhutan.

Dietrich, our artist friend, had told Stone about a yoga retreat in the mountains of Bhutan that had revolutionized his perspective on just about everything. After researching the retreat, Stone had decided it might be just the thing to clear his head.

“I have to get strong enough to fight my own demons,” he’d said.

“I think you already are,” I’d responded.

He had smiled wistfully, then pulled me into a hug. His luxuriant leathery scent utterly wrecked my ability to concentrate, so I relaxed into his long arms.

“I’m glad you believe in me, Belinda.” His lips had brushed my curls as he murmured into my hair. “And Dad’s partner assures me that it’s all systems go for me to take over the family hedge fund business. But I don’t feel right stepping into that position until I’m sure that’s what I want to do. I don’t want to be locked into a life that sucks out my soul.” He drew back, and I met his serious gaze. “You understand what I mean. Look at you—you started a pet-sitting business in Manhattan, then you moved to Greenwich and grew your clientele even more. I love that you’re so unafraid. That’s how I want to live.”

Several responses had run through my mind, but I was only able to articulate one.

“I do understand,” I’d said.

And with that, I’d inadvertently given my blessing on Stone’s big adventure, but I knew that was the way it should be. I would never hold someone back from finding their purpose in life.

Besides, my feelings for Stone were seriously conflicted. Since my visit home at Christmas, my parents’ neighbor, dairy farmer Jonas Hawthorne, had given me weekly calls to discuss the classics I was reading along with his book club. Every time I hung up the phone with him, I found myself smiling like I’d won the sweepstakes. I hadn’t analyzed our relationship yet, but I was pretty sure my psychologist sister, Katrina, would be more than happy to help me figure things out.

Life in the carriage house had seemed dreadfully boring since Stone hopped his plane for Bhutan. Doubtless, he’d had a full month of epiphanies while I’d stayed mostly housebound, playing video games and taking every pet-sitting job I could to pay the bills.

I turned back to By the Pricking of My Thumbs. I was reading the same sentence for the fourth time when my cell phone rang. I grabbed it from the coffee table and barked, “Hello,” without even bothering to check who was calling first.

A woman’s soft voice filled the line. “Is this Belinda Blake, the pet-sitter?”

“It is.” I was ready to jump on any sitting job she offered, because it’d been two weeks since my last one.

“I’m Dahlia White. I have several large-breed animals I was wondering if you’d be available to help care for. You’d need to start in a couple of days, and I’d need you for an eight-day stint. I’m sorry it’s such late notice, but the other person I asked wasn’t able to do it.”

Dogs—my favorite. I responded enthusiastically. “Sure thing. I grew up with German shepherds, so I’m no stranger to the larger breeds.”

After a miniscule pause, Dahlia responded. “Well, that’s the thing. They’re not dogs—they’re wolves.”

I caught my breath as she rushed on.

“But my fluffy darlings are no trouble to care for, I promise. They’re like my babies. You wouldn’t have to do much, just help my primary feeder with his chores so he wouldn’t have to stay overtime to get things done. Since you’d advertised that you specialize in exotic pets, I assumed you would be quite comfortable with unusual jobs like this.”

I hesitated. I’d never been to a wolf preserve—much less seen a wolf up close—but the way Dahlia was talking, you’d think they were just like dogs.

“Um.” I floundered about for something to say, but nothing coherent sprang to mind.

“I’ll tell you what, why don’t you look up the preserve website online and check us out? It’s the White Pine Wolf Preserve site. Many of our guests have left reviews of their tour experience, and they’re all extremely positive about their interactions with the wolves.”

“Okay. I’ll do that and get back to you.” I wanted to buy myself time.

“That sounds great. Actually, if it’s not too much trouble, could you call me back in a couple of hours so I’ll know if I need to find someone else?” She gave a brief pause. “Oh, and I forgot to mention that I’ll pay top dollar for your services—I know you come highly qualified.”

She must have read my endorsements from the Greenwich and Manhattan elite. I always tried to snag a quote when one of my wealthy clients praised my pet-sitting skills.

I had to admit, the top-dollar payment Dahlia promised was more than a little tempting because it was sorely needed. I agreed to check out the preserve and touch base in an hour. As I hung up the phone, a book slid from my overstuffed bookshelf and hit the floor.

I walked over to pick it up and glanced at the title.

White Fang.

Was it a good sign, a bad sign, or just a coincidence?

At this point, it was impossible to guess.

* * * *

The White Pine Wolf Preserve website yielded minimal information. As I should have guessed, the featured reviews were completely positive. One guest bragged about how her autistic son had made an instant connection with a white wolf and had enjoyed his time petting it. A teen posted that during the tour, a timber wolf had begged for his piece of watermelon—and when he’d offered it through the fence, the wolf had gobbled it up and begged for more.

I clicked on Dahlia White’s “About the Owner” section, and it certainly tugged at the heartstrings. Dahlia had rescued her animals from lives of fighting or even from euthanization.

“Once I knew of the plight of these animals, it would have been heartless to walk away,” Dahlia was quoted as saying in the local paper. “My animals have found healing here, and it’s a joy to share their stories with our visitors.”

Everything sounded very professional, and the pictures showed people and wolves frolicking like it was the most normal thing in the world. The grounds looked spotless, and the wolves had clean teeth and coats, so it seemed they were well looked after.

I grabbed an umbrella, unable to sit around any longer. After pulling on my rubber boots, I sloshed out to the mailbox. My mom had mentioned that she’d sent me a care package, and I’d been anxiously awaiting it, even though I knew it would likely be filled with inedible cookies, healthy snacks, and vitamins the size of horse pills.

Creaking open the black mailbox door, I peered inside. There didn’t seem to be a yellow package slip. Instead, I withdrew a handful of bills. I didn’t even want to think about whether I had the money in my account to cover these, plus the rent, plus repairs on my car.

My older-model Volvo, which I fondly referred to as Bluebell, was temporarily out of commission. Bluebell had decided to shed her rusting tailpipe smack in the middle of I-95, and I was still waiting for the replacement to come in.

Sure, I could ask my parents for money, but it felt like giving up to have to do that. I had survived in Manhattan, scraping by on smaller pet-sitting jobs, so when I moved to Greenwich last year, I’d had high hopes that my business would take off.

Although Greenwich had widened my clientele, my income was still somewhat sporadic. And, truth be told, I needed an influx of money right now. My video game review checks wouldn’t arrive until the end of April.

I shoved the mail into my jeans pocket and trudged back to my house. I knew what I had to do. Besides, it couldn’t be that hard to work at a wolf preserve, could it? And the experience would look fantastic in the bio on my website. I mean, if I could handle pet-sitting wolves, what couldn’t I handle?

Summoning my confidence, I dialed Dahlia’s number and agreed to come in the next morning to sign the contract and tour the facility. She sounded understandably relieved. The number of people in Greenwich who would like to work with wolves could probably be counted on one hand—and I was betting those were the people who were already employed at the preserve.

Once I’d squared things away with Dahlia, my next call was to Red, the Carringtons’ chauffeur. Once Stone the fourth had heard my car was in the shop, he’d volunteered Red’s driving services so I could get where I needed to go. I wasn’t sure if Stone the elder was being kind because I was a good tenant or because he felt he owed me something since I’d narrowly escaped a life-or-death situation in his house this past winter.

Red’s gruff voice filled the line. “Yes?”

Red’s ex-army persona didn’t throw me, even though his habit of carrying concealed weapons did make him seem more like a bodyguard than a proper chauffeur.

“Red, could you run me somewhere tomorrow morning? We can stop for Dunkin’ Donuts.” I knew Red had a sweet spot for their oversized bear claw pastries.

“You don’t have to butter me up, Belinda.” He chuckled. “I’ll take you wherever you need to go. What time?”

“How about eight-thirty—that’ll give us a little time to stop by Dunkin’ D. And no, I’m not buttering you up—I promise. I like their coffee.”

However, if the coffee and bear claw happened to loosen Red’s lips as to any updates about Stone the fifth, it would be a happy bonus.

* * * *

Red pulled up ten minutes early, but I’d known this was his habit, so I was ready. I had donned jeans, my Doc Martens, and a light blue, paint-splattered Columbia University hoodie I’d swiped from my dad the last time I visited home. Normally, I wouldn’t wear such casual gear for my first visit with a client, but the wolves were outside, and though the rain had stopped, the ground had turned to mush.

I splashed through a couple of puddles to meet Red, who had walked around to open the door for me. He didn’t bat an eye at my unusual attire, but instead tipped his chauffeur’s hat toward me in an old-fashioned gesture of respect that warmed my heart. Red always made me feel like I fit into Greenwich society, even though it was quite obvious I didn’t.

Sharing Dahlia’s address, I carefully omitted the fact that we were heading to a wolf preserve. If Red knew what I was stepping into, it was possible he’d balk at driving me there, and I didn’t want to have to pay for a cab or car service.

On the way, Red stopped at the Dunkin’ Donuts drive-through to pick up our goodies. He drove into a parking spot and distributed our food.

I took a slow sip of the deliciously strong coffee. Red pulled the tab back on his cup and positioned it in the holder, then started backing the car out.

I tried to sound casual. “So, has Stone called lately from Bhutan?”

The middle-aged chauffeur threw a quick glance at me in the rearview mirror. “Matter of fact, he did call, just yesterday. Wanted me to take his car in for inspection—he remembered it expires this month.” His lips curled into a half smile as he bit into his bear claw, bits of icing dropping all over the napkin in his lap.

I wasn’t sure if he was smiling about the pastry, or about having the opportunity to get behind the wheel of Stone’s yellow Lamborghini. I figured it was the Lamborghini.

An inadvertent sigh escaped my lips, which seemed to trigger Red’s memory.

“He did ask about you,” he added hastily.

“And?”

Red grinned. “He wondered if you’d been pet-sitting any more snakes.”

I’d watched a ball python named Rasputin last year, and the experience was memorable, to say the least. “Ha. No more snakes of late.”

I didn’t add that I’d made a few trips into Manhattan just to see Rasputin. I kind of owed that snake, after all, and on some reptilian level, I was convinced he liked me.

Chartreuse-budded tree limbs arced alongside the road as we drove through a heavily wooded area. When Red slowed to turn off on Dahlia’s road, I realized we’d gone a full three minutes without seeing one typical Greenwich McMansion—or any houses at all. Although I’d grown up in a rural area, the complete seclusion of Dahlia’s wolf preserve felt a little sinister.

Halfway up the drive, a gate stood open, with a large sign affixed to it reading White Pine Wolf Preserve. My cover was blown. I slid down lower in the seat because I knew what was coming next.

Red pulled to an abrupt stop and turned to stare at me. “You sure this is the right place?”

I didn’t meet his eyes. “Yes, it is. This is the address I gave you, right?”

He didn’t even bother to answer my question. “Will you be working directly with wolves? This job sounds too risky.”

“I don’t know the details yet,” I answered honestly. “And the owner said they’re perfectly safe.”

“Of course she would,” Red muttered into his coffee cup.

2

“Please keep driving,” I said firmly.

Red finally gave a half-hearted nod and gently pressed the gas. As we neared the end of the long, paved drive, the White Pine Wolf Preserve began to resemble the tourist destination it was. An extended, renovated red barn bore a Visitors’ Center sign. Behind the barn, I caught a glimpse of a white farmhouse with fresh new siding. Red pulled into a space in the good-sized parking lot adjacent to the barn.

He seemed to struggle for words, like he was hoping I’d back out of this, but his chauffeur decorum won out. “What time should I pick you up?” he asked briskly.

“I’ll text you.” I couldn’t allow myself to chicken out, uneasy as I felt. Dahlia was counting on me, and I knew she’d never find anyone else on such short notice.

Since no one had appeared to greet me, I gave a brief, hopefully confident nod to Red and stepped out of the car. I shouldered my purse and strode toward the barn. The outside bore a glossy coat of apple-red paint, and plum and lemon colored pansies had been painstakingly planted in the window boxes.

I pushed open the rustic wooden door. The inside of the visitors’ center was just as carefully kept. The walnut plank floors and massive overhead beams emphasized the spaciousness of the barn. The shop was well organized, and I didn’t find myself bumping into display tables like I usually did in places like this. Although there were the predictable wolf trinkets and T-shirts, it was the homemade items such as natural stone jewelry, handmade soaps, and unusual jellies that drew my eye. Burning wax melts and small twinkle-light grapevine trees lent the place a welcoming air.

“Good morning.” A chic woman with a British accent stepped from behind the natural wood counter and made her way toward me. “How may I help you today? Were you interested in a tour?”

“Actually, I was looking for the owner, Dahlia White. I’m supposed to be helping with her animals.”

The woman smiled, adjusting the silk scarf knotted around her slim neck. With her dark pixie haircut and flawless makeup, she looked like she belonged in an upscale art gallery, not working the cash register at a wolf preserve.

“You must be Belinda!” she said, extending a hand. “Dahlia had to motor into town before her trip, so I was instructed to have Shaun give you a tour around our facilities. I’m Evie Grady, by the way—Dahlia’s administrative assistant.”

Evie pulled a cell phone from her pocket, punching in a number to call Shaun, whoever he was. After a brief conversation, she returned her attention to me.

“He’ll be here in a moment. Shaun Fowler has worked at White Pine since it opened three years ago, and he’s one of the best tour guides out there. He puts the tourists at ease with his sense of humor, which is important for their first encount. . .