Page 32 of Murder on Charity Lane

“You think Frank’s wife killed him because CJ doesn’t like her?”

“No! Because she doesn’t like CJ. What kind of person wouldn’t like CJ? A monster!”

“While I can’t disagree with you there—”

“I know!” Mrs. B crowed. “Another murder is exactly what we need.”

Ocean didn’t answer; she just drove along upper State Street, past the post office and the liquor outlet where Mrs. B bought her Drambuie.

“Because,” Mrs. B continued, after a minute of silence, “we’ve never been closer than when we solved the previous murders.”

“We didn’t exactly solve them,” Ocean reminded her. “We framed Piotr while two of us got away with murder.”

“We handled them,” Mrs. B said, like some kind of old lady mob boss. “We need to convene a meeting. We have to clear CJ’s name.”

“There’s no way she’s a real suspect. The guy just fell.”

“Well, wouldn’t that be convenient.”

Ocean turned left at the Presbyterian church. “Old people fall.”

“Bah!” Mrs. B’s bracelets jingled with accusation. “Did Sophie and Nicholas see it happen?”

“No, they were outside.”

“Hmph. At least they met all the guests, so we’re already a step ahead.”

“Of what?”

“The police! Do you trust them to investigate CJ?”

Ocean frowned at the cross traffic. “Okay, good point.”

“And you know CJ’s innocent. She’s lovely.”

“Sometimes,” Ocean said, giving Mrs. B a quick meaningful look, “the loveliest person you’ve ever met is also completely whackadoo.”

Mrs. B shook her bracelets again. “Tease all you want, Ocean. This is clearly a case for the Marigold Cottages Murder Collective.”

18

LILY-ANN

Lily-Ann stood in her walk-in closet and tried to enjoy the well-ordered shelves. “Walk-in” made it sound bigger than it was. Sure, she’d had it customized with Farrow & Ball Peignoir paint and space-saving racks, but it was still nothing grand. Especially when she didn’t even want to dress for this particular event.

“I don’t wear leggings,” she called to Anthony. “I don’t even own a pair.”

“How about your tracksuit?” he asked from the bedroom.

“No one wears cashmere to yoga class.”

“Mm. The way you look in that, you’d start a riot.”

She stepped from the closet and closed the door decisively. “I’m not going. I don’t know why you want to. You have your kettlebells.”

Anthony shrugged. “I like trying new things.”

She had to admit she loved that about him. Piotr had been terrified to try anything he wouldn’t instantly ace, but Anthony didn’t mind looking silly or incompetent. He was so comfortable in his skin that he didn’t get embarrassed. She wasn’t exactly shy herself, but that didn’t mean she wanted to om through a sea of twenty-year-olds with tight asses encased in Lycra.