Page 163 of Murder on Charity Lane

“Simple as that?” he said.

“Yes.”

“And CJ Moore’s abduction and drugging?”

“I suspect Pax told CJ that he wanted to talk privately about something important to Frank. She couldn’t have resisted that. He took her to the soundproofed music studio and fed her an overdose of drugs. He wanted it to look like she hid there, then killed herself—something like that. I doubt he was thinking clearly after he cut Wheeler’s throat. That was the first time he’d committed a real murder. Especially one as bloody as that.”

Golda Bakofsky and Ocean Mistral told the same story, with the addition of a few elaborate and unhelpful tangents from the former. Sophie Gilman’s tale didn’t deviate from the narrative, and neither did Nicholas Perez’s. Everything fit together neatly, yet Vernon found one fact jarring: the tenants of the Marigold Cottages all spoke to him without hesitation. Nobody refused, nobody requested a lawyer. Which was normal, for normal people. But for these glorious weirdos? For them it was extremely suspect, especially considering how closely the stories matched.

There were no contradictions. The whole thing felt rehearsed, like one of Sophie Gilman’s plays. Too pat, too tidy, too perfect.

They were hiding something—again.

Well, fine. He’d look into the cash withdrawals and he’d question the families of Pax’s now-deceased clients. And if CJ lived, her statement would make Pax’s behavior pretty damn clear. And Vernon would lock down another tricky case, and close some old files. He might even ask Sophie Gilman for the theatre tickets for his wife.

82

SOPHIE

I pushed through Hamilton’s front door with my hip, holding the plate steady. I’d baked shortbread cookies again. Keeping things simple after my whole “she killed him with ice cubes and bocce!” fiasco. That made theatrical sense, but maybe I’d leave the actual clues to Lily-Ann.

I stepped inside and glanced at the banner Miles painted, with HAPPY PARTY MRS. B! in huge letters and a dozen stick figures prancing around colorful marigolds. At least three of the figures were Mrs. B, with white hair and bracelets, which I thought really captured her ubiquity. The drawing of Anthony looked like the Michelin Tire Man, while I looked like a stick figure in a skirt with a ponytail. At least I’d gotten off easier than Nicholas, who was the most default stick man possible: five lines and a circle, which made me laugh. Poor Nicholas. For some reason Lily-Ann’s stick figure was the only one with eyelashes, and Hamilton’s was wrapped in a flowery shirt.

I smiled to Ocean and Mrs. B, who were bickering about the best way to unwrap a present. Having a grand old time. Those two really enjoyed a good bicker.

As I brought the plate to the table, Lily-Ann called, “Close the front door.”

“Hm?” Nicholas asked, entering behind me with an armload of drinks.

“We need to talk before CJ gets here.” Lily-Ann’s sharp gaze swept across the room. “And agree not to tell the whole truth.”

I glanced at Ocean, but she was focusing on fiddling with the presents so I couldn’t see her face. According to Riley, she’d tried to talk to CJ in the hospital, and again after she returned home. Unsuccessfully, both times.

“She deserves to know,” Mrs. B said.

“Does deserving matter?” Lily-Ann asked.

“She won’t say anything to the police,” Nicholas assured her, setting the drinks down. “She can’t.”

“Telling her the truth is your birthday gift to me,” Mrs. B told Lily-Ann, in a wheedling voice. “Please?”

“It’s not your birthday,” Ocean said, setting a present aside.

“CJ doesn’t know that. She’s still weak and uncertain. She needs a party, but she refused to let me throw a welcome-home-from-the-hospital bash, so here we are.”

“She said she’s not ready.”

“Bah,” Mrs. B said. “Readiness is overrated. And just because she’s not ready to talk to you, Ocean, doesn’t mean she’s not—”

“Telling her is a bad idea,” Lily-Ann interrupted.

Mrs. B sniffed. “Of course you think you know best.”

“That is correct.”

Hamilton interrupted by offering everyone his homemade fruit leather, in strawberry, strawberry-zucchini, and spicy strawberry-zucchini. He was explaining that he used a mix of habanero and jalapeño when a knock sounded and CJ stepped inside. She still looked wan, but she was getting better every day—and I was happy to see she’d recovered enough to do her full eye makeup for the pretend birthday party.

After Mrs. B kissed everyone, we settled in for a feast: mounds of rice and mapo tofu and spicy green beans and orange chicken and plates of dumplings and spring rolls. We chatted about everything except murder … until CJ dinged her glass with a chopstick.