Page 23 of Murder on Charity Lane

He paused outside the grand front door. “‘Decedent’?”

“What in your day was known as ‘the dead guy,’” Aldwell explained, while glancing at her notepad. “Mrs. Karina DeYoung, sixty-four, has been married to the decedent for about ten years. Hosted a party tonight. The last guests were gathering in the foyer before heading out. As per usual.”

“As per usual?”

“They always said goodbye there, it was a kind of tradition.”

“And you already found that out?”

“I did,” Aldwell said.

“Huh,” he said, impressed despite himself. Aldwell was just a kid, but already thinking ahead. “Now tell me the good stuff.”

“Karina DeYoung saw the housekeeper push her husband down the stairs.”

“The housekeeper?”

“CJ Moore, thirty-five. She started working for Frank DeYoung soon after graduating college.”

“Good,” Vernon said.

“Why’s that good?”

“A housekeeper can’t afford the kind of high-powered crime attorney who makes my life miserable. Where is she?”

“Separated into the downstairs library, waiting for you. Eight guests were on the premises at the time of death. The two members of the catering staff stayed behind to clean up. They’re in the kitchen, they didn’t know anything happened till the ambulance arrived.”

He listened while Aldwell continued briefing him, then he perked up at a familiar name. “Sophie Gilman, the half-Chinese girl?”

“I didn’t ask about her ancestry.”

“You know what I mean. And Nicholas Perez, too?”

“You know them?”

“They live at the Marigold Cottages.”

Aldwell whistled. Everyone on the force knew the site of a double homicide. “You want to talk to them first?”

“Nah, I’ll start with Mrs. DeYoung. She’s the one making the allegation.”

After glancing into the party room, Vernon paused at the door to a den on the second floor. Officer Aldwell indicated Karina DeYoung, huddled on a couch, her eyes red with grief. She struck Vernon as unglamorous and middle-aged, which surprised him. He figured music producers married women who looked like the dancers in videos. Two other women, whom the officer identified as Jane Sheffield and Helene Kagant, were comforting her while two men, George Kagant and Jonathan “Sunny” Wheeler, murmured into their phones, apparently spreading the news.

“Mrs. DeYoung,” he said, stepping into the room. “I’m Detective Sergeant Vernon Enible. I hate to intrude but I need to clarify a few things.”

He said “clarify” instead of “question” because wealthy people got squirrelly about being “questioned” but were highly confident that they saw things clearly. Karina DeYoung tearfully said that of course she’d help, and he reiterated his condolences before asking her to tell him exactly what she saw.

Karina sniffled. “I saw her. CJ. I saw her push Frank.”

“You’re referring to CJ Moore?”

“She just reached out and … oh, god.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am. Could you set the scene a little?”

She smoothed her black pants with trembling fingers. “We were—we were at the top of the stairs. Most of the guests had left, but the rest of us … we’re the kind of people who, once someone says, ‘I should be heading home,’ it’s thirty minutes before anyone actually leaves.”

“You’d all been in the, uh, room with the buffet table?”