Page 12 of Murder on Charity Lane

“It’s tough to want to say no to her.” CJ brushed a lock of auburn hair off her face. “She’s so lovely. She just shines. Don’t worry, Frank is the same. Well, he’s slowing down, but he’s got the same big heart. And the New Vic is great, so—good causes all around!”

I felt myself wrinkle my nose. “I mean, I love the theatre, but it’s not World of Goods.”

“What do they do?” Nicholas asked.

“Deliver emergency supplies to disaster zones,” I told him. “Mostly medical goods. They save thousands of lives every year. They’re amazing.”

“Frank’s been a big supporter for many years. Although recently…” CJ hesitated. “Well, he’s a friend of Jane Sheffield’s, I don’t know if you know her?”

“I don’t think so,” I said, an instant before I remembered she was my friend Angela’s mentor.

“She’s in charge of development for World of Goods.” She gave me a sidelong smile. “She’s here tonight. You can’t miss her.”

When we stepped inside, I gaped at the foyer. A wide staircase swept upward to the second floor, drawing my eye toward the arched ceiling that lofted high overhead. Across the glazed concrete floor in an oversized fireplace, a stack of logs burned merrily, warming the room too much for early September. Mission-style furniture provided accents here and there, along with an oval table with an enormous vase holding sunflowers, wild grasses, and eucalyptus.

Everything looked a little too old-school, but also extremely grand.

CJ ushered us along a corridor toward the murmur of conversation and I said, “I’ve been meaning to thank you for helping Mrs. B at the Y.”

“Well, I owe her now, for introducing me to Ocean.”

“Ocean’s the best,” Nicholas said. “She’s so … there.”

I shot him a look, as his usual eloquence abandoned him. “Yeah, in addition to being kind, loving, beautiful, brilliant, funny, and strong, she is in fact often present.”

“Like I said.”

CJ laughed. “Did Mrs. B mention she challenged Bettina to an arm wrestle?”

“Oh, god, who’s Bettina? Is she the one she calls her ‘frenemy’?”

“She doesn’t say ‘frenemy,’” Nicholas told me.

“She does! I’ve heard her.”

“She says ‘funemy,’ and she has no idea what it means. She called me her ‘fun-in-law’ once.”

I snort-laughed. “So Bettina is her funemy?”

“And also the water aerobics instructor,” CJ said.

“She challenged the teacher to an arm wrestle?”

“Oh, god, I can’t wait to tell Ocean,” Nicholas said.

“Don’t do that,” I said. “She’ll make Mrs. B write ‘I will not arm wrestle the teacher’ a hundred times.”

At the end of the hall, a great room stretched in front of us. Sofas faced each other in the center of the room, while geometrical chairs and clunky side tables formed conversation nooks illuminated by track lighting. Everything looked expensive and about fifty years out of date. Still, even now, the room had the swanky-cool vibe of a bygone era, like there was a hint of cigarettes and martini lunches lingering in the air.

In the lawn beyond a wall of windows, floodlights illuminated the sweep of a fountain, a sculptural tree, the silhouette of a gazebo. During the day, the windows must’ve framed the even-more-extraordinary view of the ocean and Channel Islands.

There were fewer people than I expected. About twenty guests sipped wine, nibbled hors d’oeuvres, and chatted. One caterer circulated with trays while another stood behind a white-clothed buffet table. Most of the guests appeared to be in their seventies, and all of them were burnished with the unmistakable gloss of wealth, which was good news in terms of networking for fundraising opportunities.

CJ ushered us through the murmur of conversation toward an elderly gentleman sitting in a nook with a few others. Frank DeYoung looked old even for this crowd, with a fringe of hair like a monk’s tonsure and a Band-Aid on the side of his neck. He wore a black velour tracksuit and thick glasses that didn’t conceal his warm brown eyes and white eyebrows. The woman beside him looked closer to sixty than mid-eighties. She had short, tousled bleached hair and a lot of wrinkles, like she’d spent her youth on the beach, which was a real Santa Barbara type. She wore a pink sequined top over stretchy black pants, but the friendliness of her outfit didn’t match her peevish mouth.

Frank raised his empty glass to CJ and greeted her with, “Stiff nut.”

Not the greeting I’d expected, and I guess my surprise showed on my face.