Page 126 of Murder on Charity Lane

Ocean didn’t bother asking why she was in her cottage. “What did you hear?”

“That he asked for our help.”

“He’s afraid he’s missed something that will bite him on the ass.”

“He said he wants to know what I’m feeling in my old bones!”

“He did not say that.”

Mrs. B straightened one of Miles’s paintings on the fridge. “Close enough. So now that we’ve been deputized, I need a favor.”

Ocean threw her rag aside. “Is that right?”

“A lift to Hope Ranch.”

“You want to talk to Karina DeYoung?”

“I’m an old lady,” Mrs. B said, in a dramatically wavering voice. “I don’t understand. Why is she so mean to my friend CJ?”

“That’ll never work.”

“It never fails,” Mrs. B announced, and Ocean belatedly realized that she was wearing one of her more elegant caftans, a minimalist design of red silk that highlighted her silver-blond pixie cut.

“Is that what you’re dressed up for? Hope Ranch?”

“These are my Karina-friendly clothes. I came over before I knew the detective was here. Because Lily-Ann can’t drive me.”

“You asked her first?” Ocean asked, not at all sulkily.

“I thought they could bond about wealth. It’s why I’m so glamorous. Speaking of which, you look like you’ve been mud-wrestling again.”

Ocean changed into dark jeans, a black tank, and the linen blazer she wore to gallery openings. She ran product through her hair, which she’d started doing after CJ had called Jane a “knockout.” That had shaken her so badly she’d almost considered wearing lipstick. Instead, she started using the hair serum Lily-Ann gave her. Not that she was trying to appeal to CJ anymore. At least, not now. When this was all over, she might try again.

Ten minutes later, she found herself driving Mrs. B to Hope Ranch. She hadn’t even agreed to give the meddlesome old woman a lift. Well, she’d always had a hard time saying no to Mrs. B. And she hated to admit it, but the detective’s request actually flattered her.

“What did Lily-Ann say about visiting Karina?” she asked.

“That I shouldn’t expect her to answer any of the really important questions. About the cash, or being desperate to remodel, or how she convinced Sunny Wheeler to back up her testimony.”

“So what are you going to ask her?”

“All of that!” Mrs. B said, cheerily. “Lily-Ann is good at logic, but I’m better at—”

“Getting under people’s skin?”

“Emotion. Though we both agree that Anthony is one big slab of cheesecake.”

Ocean slammed the brakes at a stoplight. “Please don’t spy on my models.”

“I don’t spy,” Mrs. B informed her. “I merely ogle. Are you sure this is the way?”

“Yes,” she said.

She’d spent a good amount of time in Hope Ranch over the years. First when a high school friend hosted parties in his fancy house, then after college she’d offered art classes to Hope Ranch women who, despite their wealth, she’d found charming and down to earth. Still, she’d never been to a mansion like the DeYoungs’. The manicured lawns unfurled around rose gardens and outbuildings, stretching to the wildflower-embossed cliff top. Then the earth vanished and the ocean began, the gently rolling Pacific tossing glimmers of sunlight around like Mother Earth’s own disco ball.

She parked in the drive and trotted around the car to open the door for Mrs. B. She offered her arm, because Mrs. B sometimes struggled to stand from low chairs, and said, “So what’s our game plan?”

“You know what they say about plans,” Mrs. B told her, as they headed for the front door.