Page 19 of Murder on Charity Lane

“You know what would be useful?” She gave Sophie the stiff nut and a plate of empanadas. “Bring these to Frank on the veranda. And, uh, would you mind asking him for advice about fundraising? He loves playing the wise old man.”

“Sure, as a favor to you, I’m happy to ask the rich guy about fundraising.”

CJ nodded solemnly. “Thanks. And ask about playwriting, too. He worked with creative people for decades, he might have a tip or two.”

“I can see why Mrs. B introduced you to Ocean,” Sophie said.

“All this,” she said, “and bra straps, too.”

11

SOPHIE

When I stepped through the sliding glass doors, an ocean breeze cooled my face. The night smelled of jasmine with a distant tang of seaweed.

Frank was sitting on a cushioned bench, gazing into the darkness, his shoulders stooped. He seemed deep in thought, maybe brooding. I felt awkward disturbing him, but when he turned, his big-framed glasses couldn’t disguise the warmth in his eyes. He had a character actor’s face, the likable fixer in a 1970s mobster movie. Dream casting: Joe Pesci.

“You’re not CJ,” he said.

“No, but she did send me with food and drink.”

He patted the bench beside himself. “Then you’d best deliver it. She’s a harsh taskmaster, that one. What’s your name again?”

“Sophie.”

“I’m Frank.”

I took a seat. “This is such a beautiful spot.”

“It is. I’m so spoiled.” He gazed at the ocean. “You know how, back in the day, elderly Eskimos would climb onto an ice floe and float away?”

I didn’t mention that I thought they were called Inuit and also that I wasn’t sure if that was a myth. I just nodded.

“Me personally, I don’t like the cold. But put me on a canoe in the Pacific, with the sun shining down and the waves bobbing?” He raised his glass. “I’ll drift away on an endless supply of stiff nuts.”

“Don’t forget the empanadas.”

“CJ just had you bring those to soak up the alcohol. That girl is such a mother hen. Did she send you out here to ask me for money?”

“Well, she claims she sent me out here to ask you for advice.”

His laugh surprised me, low and easy. “She can’t help trying to help. It’s like a reflex for her. Advice about what?”

“I want to be a playwright.”

“Have you written any plays?”

“Oh, sure. Though only my most recent is any good.”

“Then you are a playwright.”

“Well, I want to be a better one?”

He took a bite of empanada. “Do you believe in your work?”

“I think so?”

“Creatives are always the last to know. Does anyone believe in your work?”