Page 135 of Murder on Charity Lane

“No,” he told her, before asking Ocean: “Are you going to need a lawyer to talk to me?”

“Not if you agree to never tell Anthony,” she said.

“Hah. That’s a deal.” He pulled out his notebook. “So you’re a ways from home.”

“Because you deputized us to investigate Frank DeYoung’s death,” Mrs. B explained.

“Uh…” That took him a second. “Oh, right. My mistake.”

She nodded happily. “You know Sunny Wheeler was a good friend of Frank’s, yes? Well, apparently, years ago, Frank helped him out of trouble. Maybe legal trouble? Something to do with a failed business. With this failed business.”

Vernon peered at the abandoned-looking house. “That’s not a residence?”

“It’s VivX,” Ocean explained. “A life-extension company Wheeler owned. Now closed.”

“Life extension like freezing your brain?”

She shrugged. “As far as we know.”

“Okay, so you drove out here … why?”

“Because we’re thorough,” Mrs. B told him.

He considered her wrinkled face. “Are you thorough, or are you bored?”

“Oh, I’m never bored! Especially not now. Ocean went entirely eggshell when she found the body, yet she wouldn’t even let me peek, which for the record I am not claiming qualifies as elder abuse. Why haven’t you inspected the car? Aren’t you supposed to march over there and look soulful?”

“The officer confirmed there’s a body,” Vernon told her. “Now we wait for forensics, they’re the experts.”

“Ocean confirmed there’s a body,” Mrs. B said.

He shook his head. “I once got called to investigate a murder behind a dumpster that turned out to be four rotisserie chickens.”

“Is the body Sunny Wheeler?” Ocean asked. “Or it’s just his car?”

“We haven’t established the decedent’s identity,” he said, looking toward the Genesis. “Though yeah, I suppose I should take a stroll around.”

“I don’t suppose you’d escort a harmless old woman?” Mrs. B asked.

“I’d love to,” he told her. “If there were any around.”

She hooted a laugh. “Oh, good point! Point to you, Officer.”

Vernon felt himself smile along. God help him, he needed more irreverent, joyful energy in his life. Everything felt fresher in the company of the nutjobs of the Marigold Cottages. Still, he dropped the smile as he crossed the lot to talk with the officer who’d arrived first, a short steroidal guy who said he’d “secured the zone” by checking there was no ingress or egress from the building.

“Egress,” Vernon said. “Good job.”

Halfway to the Genesis, the scent struck him. Yeah, that wasn’t rotisserie chicken. His stomach bubbled so he secured a surgical mask over his nose, then walked in slow spirals around the car. After he documented the surroundings, he placed a gloved hand against the passenger window to block the glare of sunlight. The stench seeped through the scent of eucalyptus oil in his mask, and he felt his lips turn down.

He forced himself to catalog what he saw inside the car: an elderly man in a button-down shirt, now stiff with blood, slumped in the driver’s seat. Sure enough, he matched the description of Sunny Wheeler. Dried fluids made ugly shapes on his sunken, purple-white face. A dark slash on his neck was oriented more vertically than horizontally.

“Huh,” Vernon said too softly for anyone to hear.

That was rare, an up-and-down cut to the throat. He took a few pictures, even though the CSI officer would take better ones. He wondered what cutting up and down meant in terms of positioning. The cut seemed to follow the jugular, which maybe explained the quantity of blood. And possibly implied a perpetrator who knew how to kill.

Okay, so did this relate to Frank DeYoung’s death?

Vernon hoped not, for the sake of his current case. Still, two old men had died violently after attending the same party. Two longtime friends. Which meant, first, he needed to check in with CJ Moore, establish her whereabouts. She’d already killed one old guy.