Page 127 of Murder on Charity Lane

“What do they say?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I thought you did.”

“Hoo boy,” Ocean muttered, before she pressed the bell. “We could tell her a version of the truth—you spent all your money bailing out CJ, and now you’re worried she’ll run.”

Mrs. B scrunched up her nose. “The truth is so drab.”

“This is going to go super well,” Ocean said.

To her surprise Karina DeYoung opened the door herself. She was prettier than Ocean had expected, with short hair, a strong nose, striking light brown eyes, and the build of a sixty-year-old woman who played tennis three times a week. On the other hand, she was dressed fairly sloppily, in an oversized T-shirt and leggings, though Ocean could hardly throw stones.

“You must be Karina DeYoung,” Mrs. B said, offering a jangling hand to shake. “I’m Golda, I called a little earlier?”

“Of course,” Karina said, with a quick smile. “Please come in.”

“And this is my driver and dogsbody.” Mrs. B nodded to Ocean as she swanned into the big foyer. “Oh, goodness! What a beautiful home.”

“It could be,” Karina said, her smile fading. “With a little love and a lot of effort.”

Ocean missed a few words of their conversation, too busy contending with “dogsbody.”

“—glad you could come on such short notice,” Karina was saying.

“Think nothing of it,” Mrs. B assured her. “Now, as I mentioned on the phone, my stepson works for the city. Nicholas Perez, did you goggle him as I suggested?”

Ocean gritted her teeth. First dogsbody and now goggle. Mrs. B absolutely knew the word was “google,” which meant she was amusing herself by acting like a dotty old woman. But for what nefarious reason had she called ahead and roped Nicholas into her lies?

“I did, yes,” Karina said. “Would you like a drink? Iced tea?”

“Please,” Mrs. B said. “And a light beer for Ocean, if you have one.”

She didn’t bother saying she didn’t like light beer—or any beer, this early. Instead, she studied the bottom of the wide staircase leading to the second floor. So that was where Frank DeYoung had died. There was no sign now, of course. She didn’t know what she’d expected, a chalk outline?

Karina didn’t seem to notice her inspection of the floor. She just led them to a sparsely furnished room on the far side of the house, with French doors and brown carpeting and chunky built-in bookshelves, then gestured unhappily. “As you can see, nothing’s been updated in thirty years.”

“Oh, dear,” Mrs. B said.

“Just passing through,” Karina assured her, then opened the doors to the patio.

Sunlight poured into the drab room, which made it look even drabber. Karina narrowed her lips as she gestured for them to step outside. Ocean followed Mrs. B onto a flagstone patio where two round tables stood in the shade of fancy market umbrellas, and flowers ruffled in the ocean breeze.

Karina invited them to sit, then returned inside for the drinks.

“A dogsbody?” Ocean asked, flopping into a wrought iron chair.

“I meant to say factotum,” Mrs. B confided.

She wasn’t sure what that was, either, so she said, “You told her Nicholas would help with her building permits?”

“Well, I mean—a little, yes.”

“Did you ask him about this?”

Mrs. B scoffed. “And incriminate him? What do you take me for?”

“A Ferris wheel in human form.”

“You know I don’t like heights,” Mrs. B told her.