Page 141 of Murder on Charity Lane

And how were Mrs. B and her tenants involved? He didn’t know, but for the first time that struck him as more of an opportunity than a curiosity. There were people who didn’t talk to the cops, but everyone opened up to the Marigolders.

69

SOPHIE

“Explain this one more time,” Nicholas said, a teasing note in his voice. “I’m taking off work for what exactly?”

“Not for what,” I said. “For whom.”

“For you.”

“No. For Lily-Ann.”

He shifted his hands on the steering wheel as he drove away from Old Town Goleta. “Lily-Ann is fine. She’s got all the money in the world.”

“She’s not fine, Nicholas.” I steadied the pastry box in my lap. “This whole thing is a mess, and you know how she feels about messes. None of us are fine.”

“But you know we’ll be okay, right?” He glanced at me. “You and me. Even if Mrs. B loses the Cottages?”

“Don’t even say that.”

“I know, but…” He turned in to the World of Goods parking lot. “We have each other.”

I ignored the catch of emotion in my throat and unbuckled my seat belt. “We do. I—we do. But if we lose the Cottages everything falls apart for everyone else. So we’re doing whatever Lily-Ann asks, to keep that from happening.”

“And that’s why we’re bringing mini-cupcakes to Cougar Jane Sheffield?”

“For an informational meeting,” I said. “About working in development.”

“And I’m here because—”

“Eye candy,” I said, which I enjoyed maybe a little too much.

When I’d mentioned in the Givemore Girls chat that I was visiting World of Goods, Angela warned me that Jane didn’t warm easily to younger women. She claimed that if I brought Nicholas, Jane might open up a little, show off her wisdom and expertise. “Also, her legs.” Which sounded ridiculous, but I found myself amused at the thought of Nicholas getting ogled.

World of Goods was housed in a lofty space with offices around the margins and a warehouse in the center, complete with pallets and forklifts. When the receptionist brought us to Jane’s office, she was all smiles … until she caught me gazing at her shelf of awards. Most were thick black plaques, though a few were of the clunky cut-glass variety. What stood out, though, was that she’d arranged them in a semicircle, with an empty place of honor in the middle.

Where clearly that big national prize, the Millerbrandt Award, should’ve gone. But hadn’t—possibly because of Frank DeYoung’s lack of support.

“I, uh, promise we won’t take much of your time,” I said, looking away from the display, “but I’m new to the field and would love to hear your advice.”

“You’re the one from Frank’s party,” she told Nicholas, as if I hadn’t spoken. “I remember you standing with Pax.”

“I went as Sophie’s plus-one.”

Her gaze flicked to me. “Such a tragedy.”

I couldn’t tell if she meant Frank’s death, or that Nicholas was my plus-one, so I blurted, “Wow, that’s a lot of awards.”

“Yes.” She bared her teeth. “All of them except the one that matters.”

“Well, er…” I offered the mini-cupcakes. “Consolation prize?”

Her eyes turned to ice. “Refined sugar is poison.”

Oops. Time to change the subject with a little ass-kissing. “No wonder you’re so skinny!”

“One’s body is a temple,” she said. “Not a trash can.”