Page 132 of Murder on Charity Lane

“With CJ.”

“I know what you meant. I’m fine, I promise. We went out a few times, we weren’t even dating.”

“Yes, but aren’t lesbians known for yoohooing?”

“What?”

“Yoohooing. You told me about it! Getting too serious too soon.”

“First, let’s never say that again. Second, you mean U-Hauling, and don’t say that either.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re not upset. I know after your ex-wife…” She trailed off. “Well! In any case, I doubt Pax is grieving, though I never really got a sense of him. We’ll stop at his house on the way home.”

“What are you going to do? Pretend you’re a city planning consultant?”

“I’m an old person who needs a massage. That’s what he does.”

“Oh, true. We don’t have his address, though.”

“Lily-Ann does.” After a few silent minutes of pecking at her phone, Mrs. B announced, “He lives back behind the Riviera, Mission Canyon, around there. She gave me a link to click for directions.”

“So we’re definitely going, are we?”

Mrs. B showed her a smug smile. “I knew I could count on you.”

She grumbled, but Mrs. B was happy, and frankly that was all that mattered. Nothing like bullying a rich widow to put a spring in one’s step.

The Mission Canyon area confused Ocean. Too many long windy roads, too many hillsides with looming eucalyptuses and live oaks. Still, she followed the directions on Mrs. B’s phone past the reservoir toward the outer fringes of Montecito. The homes tucked into the foothills probably cost three or four million, which raised the question of how a bodyworker, even one who charged three hundred bucks an hour, could afford to live there.

The question was answered when she discovered Pax’s residence was a mobile home on a property that must’ve burned during the Tea Fire. The building’s remaining walls were a smudged blue, and flowering hibiscuses in large clay pots flanked the drive as if to compensate for the fire damage. To the right of the mobile home, a semicircle of Adirondack chairs faced downhill, and Ocean caught sight of a trampoline around the corner.

“That’s got to be his,” she said. “I’ve never seen a place that looked more like a massage therapist’s house. Who else could live here?”

“A palm reader,” Mrs. B said.

She parked on the road and escorted Mrs. B to the front door. She knew better than to ask about a plan, so she just knocked and waited.

“We should look inside,” Mrs. B said, when nobody answered.

“Why?”

“Maybe he’s got a Trader Joe’s bag of cash on the kitchen counter.”

“Or a client on a massage table. Golda, you’ve seen enough nudes today.”

“You’re such a prude.” She stepped backward to eye the mobile home, either looking for the best place to peek inside or the best place to break a window.

“Well, this was a waste of time,” Ocean said, as they returned to the car.

“Only because you’re afraid to break and enter.”

“You’ve spent enough time in jail, Golda. Maybe we should ask Pax to meet for coffee, like normal humans?”

“That sounds boring,” she said, “but effective.”

Ocean drove them past one of the entrances to Parma Park, freshly planted with native grasses and shrubs, and got halfway to the reservoir before Mrs. B’s phone buzzed.

“Oh!” she said. “Lily-Ann wants us to make a stop on the way home.”