Page 46 of Murder on Charity Lane

I watched Anthony crumple a page from last week’s SB Independent and wrap it around one of my four unmatched champagne flutes. I felt a pang when Jane mentioned World of Goods. I loved the theatre, I planned to devote my life to the theatre, but World of Goods saved lives by the thousands. The tens of thousands. They shipped vaccines and insulin to war-torn regions; they provided water purification, surgical supplies, and antibiotics.

So I said, “I wonder if I could volunteer there. At World of Goods. Like, once I learn more about development?”

“You mean volunteer for free?” Angela asked.

I couldn’t help myself, I laughed. “Yeah.”

“Huh.” She took a sharp breath. “Oh! Did I tell you? Jane didn’t win the Millerbrandt she wanted!”

“That’s the award?”

“Yeah, I guess she’s not the best human on earth after all. She’s so pissed. She actually thinks Frank didn’t support her loudly enough. Tragically, he’s too dead to push down a flight of stairs.” She paused. “Too soon?”

“God, Angela, yes,” I told her. “Wait, was he on the award committee?”

“Nah, but he was a big swinging donor, he could’ve tipped the scales.”

“Why didn’t he?”

“He probably—and I’ll deny saying this to my dying day—thought someone else deserved it more.”

I considered that. “Do you think Karina didn’t want him to support Jane?”

“Why would she do that? Oh! Because Jane’s skinnier and prettier and better in every way? Nah. Karina already bagged the big money. She treated Jane with a sort of gentle pity.”

“Huh. What’s Karina like? Other than resenting CJ. Were they having an affair?”

“Ooooh! Karina and CJ! No, no, nobody was having an affair. Frank was a hundred years old and Karina is toxic levels of het.”

“Boring. What do you know about Sunny Wheeler?”

“He’s worthless,” she told me. “He only donates to life-extension scams. And he’s handsy, too.”

I growled into the phone. “How are men still getting away with that?”

“Because we haven’t figured out how to procreate without them,” she told me. “Also, sometimes they’re nice and wealthy.”

“Like Frank DeYoung.”

“Yeah, he was one of the good ones,” she admitted. “Even minus the millions.”

25

OCEAN

Ocean yawned in the driver’s seat as she followed the morning traffic onto State Street. She’d stayed up too late the night before, doomscrolling art videos and stand-up comics and terrifying advice about dating. Even the vocabulary frightened her: “anxious attachment” and “breadcrumbing” and “rizz” and “situationship.”

“Sleepy?” Mrs. B asked.

“Mm. I should join the water aerobics class for a pick-me-up.”

“You absolutely should,” Mrs. B said, as warm September air flowed into the car windows despite the early hour. “But not today. Turn here.”

“It’s five blocks too early.”

“Here, here!”

Ocean kept straight through the intersection. “Why?”