Page 151 of Murder on Charity Lane

“What would proof look like?”

“The murder weapon. Footprints, I guess. Fingerprints or—cut the carrots into matchsticks. Though I suppose we don’t need proof, not if we’re only trying to raise reasonable doubt for CJ.”

“You think she’s alive?”

“Oh!” A worried V appeared on Lily-Ann’s forehead. “Oh, you’re right. Is she already dead?”

“Well, she vanished, tossed her cell phone—and left that note.”

Lily-Ann frowned at the cutting board. “She didn’t kill herself.”

“What did you tell Ocean?”

“Nothing yet.”

“Why not?”

“Because I like her.” She kept frowning at the cutting board. “If she’s dead, why haven’t they found her? Why leave the note and not a body? Was she a threat to him?”

“To who?”

“No. She wasn’t, not really. But he needed to control the timeline.”

Anthony wiped his hands on the dish towel. “Tell me what you’re thinking, Lil.”

“I’m not sure.”

“Well, what do you need from me?”

She gave her head a little shake. “Could you run to the store and pick up Cointreau for margaritas?”

73

OCEAN

Ocean returned home after teaching her adult ed art class, parked on the street, and turned off the car. She didn’t leave the driver’s seat, though. She checked nobody was looking, then played a voicemail from CJ that she’d saved, talking about an Etsy shop that sold handmade felt monsters: “One is part mermaid and part fox. There’s a frog with starfish hands—oh! Oh, one is a sexy polka-dotted cyclops. That one looks a little like you.”

Then she’d giggled, which made Ocean even more embarrassed to be sitting there mooning about her. She hoped she was okay. Despite everything, she hoped she was okay.

As she headed for her cottage, she noticed Mrs. B’s front curtains were closed. Huh. Mrs. B never closed her curtains during the day. So she tried the door, and it was locked. She fished in her bag for the key and went inside, her mouth suddenly dry, afraid of what she might find. What she found was a half-empty box of Entenmann’s apple cider donuts on the kitchen table beside Mrs. B’s collection of pills.

“Golda?” she called. “Golda!”

She checked all the rooms, then went back outside. Mrs. B’s car was still parked in its place, thank god, so at least she hadn’t driven off again. She started for Hamilton’s cottage, to see if he knew anything, when a text dinged on her phone.

She read the message, then ran back to her car.

74

SOPHIE

I slunk away from the office, trying to remain unseen. I felt bad about leaving before five. Of course, nobody else cared. I didn’t have to clock in. I was salaried. Still, I stayed quiet and furtive, eager to return home to contribute something, anything, to the effort of saving the Cottages.

I didn’t know what to make of CJ’s suicide note. Lily-Ann had told me not to worry, but I couldn’t tell if she was just saying that because she found worry inefficient. Still, I tried to put it out of my mind, except for texting Riley and trying to assure her, not entirely honestly, that the note definitely meant nothing.

When I got home, I discovered that Nicholas must’ve left his office even earlier than I had because I found a bottle of sparkling pear cider—my favorite—in the living room, along with a bouquet of dahlias and zinnias.

“What is the meaning of this?” I called, as if I’d caught him cheating. “I come home early and this is what I find?”