Page 42 of Murder on Charity Lane

She opened the door to a perfectly adequate bathroom. For a man living alone. But she felt protective toward Sophie, and wouldn’t accept anything less than the best. So first she needed an opaque shower curtain. No matter how much you loved your boyfriend, you didn’t want him watching you shaving your bikini line. Then she needed plenty of good lighting and an abundance of surfaces. Lily-Ann worked for an hour before heading to her house for the Kiehl’s grapefruit hand soap and the cream body cleanser she’d decided to leave as a housewarming gift.

When she returned, she ignored Nicholas, who was sitting at his desk with his laptop. She walked past him and peered into his bedroom. “Oh, no.”

He raised his head. “There’s nothing wrong with my bedroom.”

“Your bed’s in the wrong place.” She crossed to the bureau. “And I bet your clothes are—”

“No messing inside the drawers!”

“I’m not messing, I’m tidying.”

“You know what I mean, Lily-Ann.”

“Fine,” she grumbled. “But the bed would be better against the other wall.”

“You think?” he asked, from the doorway.

“I do.”

While they improved the placement of the furniture, she said, “What about the caterers?”

“I know Sophie doesn’t need caterers.”

“I mean at the DeYoungs’ house.”

“Oh,” he said. “They were gone by the time Frank fell. Most of them. A few were waiting in the kitchen for the last of the guests to leave.”

“They could’ve done something before they left.”

Nicholas straightened from moving the standing lamp. “What, drizzled vinaigrette on the stairs?”

“Why are you so dismissive of our investigation?” she asked.

“Because we’re not investigators?”

“If we investigate, we are.”

“Well, not trained investigators.”

“I’m not sure anyone is, despite what you see on TV. So, what about the wine bottle?”

He frowned at the room. “Um…”

“The one that shattered before DeYoung fell, Nicholas. You didn’t see anyone else walking around with one?”

“Only me. Maybe a caterer, but I don’t remember. And I didn’t leave it precariously balanced anywhere. I left it right side up on the buffet table.”

“I’ll get Hamilton to ask his cop about the variety. You said you were pouring a Malbec?”

“Uh, maybe? It started with an M.”

“Merlot? Montepulciano? Mourvèdre?”

“Yeah, that’s it. Mourvèdre.”

“Nice, ancient grape. We’ll have to ask which bottle broke.” Lily-Ann began organizing the bookcase. “And you noticed nothing else about the guests who remained? Sophie told me that her friend Angela says Jane Sheffield’s been widowed twice. She likes to marry older men.”

“How was I supposed to notice that?”