Page 103 of Murder on Charity Lane

Mrs. B laid her palm on Sophie’s cheek. “You’re so darling.”

When Lily-Ann stood to leave, Hamilton said, “Actually, Lily-Ann, could you stick around to help me clean?”

She said yes, and Sophie and Nicholas exchanged a look, and Mrs. B fluttered around the buffet table until Lily-Ann said, “Nicholas will escort you home.”

He took the hint. “Right. Let’s go.”

“Oh, Nicholas.” Mrs. B took his arm. “Tell me this will all work out.”

As Sophie followed them to the door, Lily-Ann reflected that Mrs. B hadn’t simply put everyone’s homes at risk, but Nicholas’s inheritance. Yet there was Nicholas, smiling down at her, trying to comfort her. And there was Sophie, watching with her face wreathed in love.

Now what did Hamilton want to discuss in private?

48

OCEAN

That night, Ocean dreamed of newspaper “For Rent” ads, the most terrifying Santa Barbara nightmare. She woke late and grumpy so she drove Riley to school in silence. She was starving as she headed home, probably because she wanted to eat her feelings about Mrs. B using the Cottages as collateral. For what? To help her bra-strap adjuster at the YMCA? To redeem herself for lying to the cops during the previous murders? Or to help Ocean get a date?

Because c’mon. She liked CJ, she liked her brightness and enthusiasm and the noises she made when Ocean kissed her. But you don’t risk your home for someone after five dates! Hell, what did that say about Ocean, that she couldn’t find a woman if Mrs. B didn’t bail one out of prison for her?

So instead of planning a lesson for her students, she planned fat slices of toast slathered in butter.

She was halfway across the courtyard to her cottage when Sophie called out, “You’re heading the wrong direction!”

“You’re telling me,” she muttered.

“What?”

“What?”

“Didn’t you get Lily-Ann’s text? She’s taking us to breakfast at Régina’s.”

The perfect timing cheered Ocean. “Oh! Thank god! But why?”

“Secret Lily-Ann reasons.”

“Just us?”

“No boys allowed! She told Anthony he wasn’t invited.”

“I’m sure she communicated that very politely.”

“Oh, absolutely. She said, ‘You’re not invited.’” Sophie gestured toward the street. “Will you drive? We’re meeting her there.”

“Sounds good,” Ocean said.

She tried to stick to a strict work schedule, because she was terrified that if she slacked for two days in a row, she’d forget how to work. But she needed a break—and Régina’s was forty bucks per person even before mimosas. She couldn’t afford that, so screw her schedule. She drove Sophie southward, then took the exit toward the bird refuge. The restaurant looked shabby and cozy before you took in the quality of the mismatched silverware and the casually arranged pillows on the overstuffed furniture.

Sunlight flooded in from the front door, through arches that separated the bar area from the dining rooms. The air smelled of orange peel and cardamom—or something fresh and herbal. Only a handful of tables were occupied on a weekday morning, so the murmur of conversation was barely audible beneath the classical music playing over the speakers.

Lily-Ann had chosen a table on a raised floor, beside a window with a view of the patio, where furled umbrellas rose above the tables. She wore an elegant white blazer over an olive-green tank dress, while Sophie made thrifting look chic. Meanwhile, Ocean was in brown carpenter pants and the chambray blue button-down she liked to teach in.

After the waitress returned with drinks, Sophie raised her orange juice and said, “To Lily-Ann’s sudden urge for coconut parfait.”

Ocean toasted her. “And her generosity.”

“So are you and Mrs. B okay?” Sophie asked Ocean. “I mean with each other?”