Page 11 of Murder on Charity Lane

“What would we do without her?” I asked.

“Right? Look at her, making connections for you in a public gym.”

“Me? She found Ocean a girlfriend in a locker room! We should’ve brought her along. She loves a party—and any chance to spend time with you.”

“I’m trying,” he said.

“You’re doing great.”

“I just can’t stand the idea that she thinks she owes me anything. The idea of taking advantage of her because I’m her husband’s son…”

“You know that ‘debt’ doesn’t exist in Mrs. B’s vocabulary. And you love spending time with her, too.”

“Yeah, she’s just so … her.”

“She’s the her-est,” I agreed. “Okay, Charity Lane is coming up.”

He took a left onto a narrow road, then pulled into a drive that snaked through olive trees and ended at a mansion that faced the bluffs overlooking the Pacific. I’d searched the address on a real estate website, and the description mentioned a saltwater pool, bocce court, sunken rose garden, and a calf-high hedge maze surrounding a fountain. In addition to the expansive main residence, there was a guesthouse, pool cabana, a music studio, and a dining pavilion—whatever that was.

A dozen high-end cars were parked beside the four-car garage. Nicholas pulled his Honda next to a white Mercedes as I checked myself in the mirror. I’d started cutting my own bangs using a YouTube tutorial … then made Nicholas fix them. I’d never seen him so nervous, but he managed to minimize the damage. At least they’d finally grown long enough to touch my eyebrows. I’d pulled the rest of my hair in a low ponytail. Forget the cool-girl no-makeup trend, I needed loads of black mascara and burgundy lipstick.

“You are gorgeous,” Nicholas told me. “All you have to do is introduce yourself and hand out your cards.”

“Oh, god! I forgot my new business cards! They’re—”

“In the back seat,” he said.

“Aw. You remembered.”

“We’re a good team.” He looked at the mansion. “I just hope they’re expecting us.”

“I hope they’re expecting just us,” I told him. “I love Mrs. B, but for all we know she promised the DeYoungs I’d give a ukulele recital.”

Nicholas reached into the back for my cards. “Ukulele?”

“I strummed the one Mrs. B keeps on her shelf, and now she thinks I’m a savant.”

I stepped from the car and took a slow, steadying breath of salt air and jasmine. My outlook on life had changed a lot in the last six months, but I was still nervous about showing up at a Hope Ranch party I’d barely been invited to. So I grabbed Nicholas’s arm for moral support. He felt solid, in his navy suit and matching shirt, with his silver rings and bracelet keeping him from looking uptight. CJ had been vague about the dress code, so I’d scanned a copy of Santa Barbara Magazine for photos of wealthy parties. Brightly colored dresses seemed to be the consensus, so I’d worn the red floral midi-dress I’d thrifted, along with my best pair of heels. At least Nicholas and I were dressed for the same event.

Floodlights illuminated the drive and the nearest wing of the house, which was a sprawling two-story building that reminded me a little of a Frank Lloyd Wright, sort of blocky and layered, teetering on the line between stunning and ugly.

CJ opened the door when Nicholas knocked. She was a tall woman with a beautiful head of wavy auburn hair and absolutely on-point makeup that made her look younger than me, even though she was probably five or so years older.

“Sophie!” She gave me a hug. “I almost didn’t recognize you outside of the parking lot.”

She meant the lot at the YMCA, where we exchanged polite greetings when I dropped off Mrs. B. And I was so nervous that I said, “Ha! If I had a nickel for every time I heard that.”

CJ’s smile widened. “And this must be Nicholas?”

“Thanks so much for, uh…” He gave one of his self-deprecating looks. “Squeezing us in.”

“Oh, of course. Although, I don’t know what Mrs. B told you?”

“Just to come.” My nerves jangled again. “I hope it’s all right. She didn’t put you in an awkward position, did she? She said the DeYoungs were hosting an event for World of Goods and I should mingle?”

“Oh, no, that’s perfect.” She looked relieved. “I was afraid you were expecting something bigger. It’s only an informal get-together—not a proper networking event.”

“That’s perfect. As long as we’re actually invited. I know it’s tough to say no to Mrs. B.”