Page 57 of Murder on Charity Lane

“Ocean Mistral,” he greeted her.

Ocean felt her heart thump. “What are you doing here?”

“Found myself in the neighborhood, thought I’d say hello.”

“Yeah? I’ll let Mrs. B know.”

“I haven’t even knocked yet.”

“Don’t bother.” Ocean worried that she sounded too defensive so she added, “She’s busy right now.”

“How about Sophie Gilman?” The detective jerked his head toward Sophie’s former cottage. “Looks to me like she’s left town.”

Ocean remembered, belatedly, that she wasn’t supposed to talk to cops. Anthony had made that clear: Don’t explain, don’t justify, don’t argue. Don’t even respond to the most innocuous questions.

After a silence, Enible said, “Damn, Anthony trained you well. Never mind. I’ll find Sophie at her job.”

What a prick.

“She’s usually home by six,” Ocean told him, because she knew Sophie would hate the cops stopping by her office.

“Where’s home?” he asked.

“She moved in with Nicholas.”

Enible hitched up his pants in satisfaction. “Is that right? I knew the two of them were dating. Or what does my daughter call it? Talking? Hooking up?”

“I wish I knew.”

“Aren’t you going to ask me how I know they’re dating, Ms. Mistral?”

“I know how you know.”

“That’s right, they were together at the Hope Ranch party where Frank DeYoung died.”

“When he fell down the stairs,” Ocean said.

“His widow thinks Sophie and Nicholas’s friend pushed her.”

Ocean managed not to glance toward CJ’s new cottage. “People believe all kinds of things.”

“Never have truer words been spoken.” Enible scratched his nose. “Still, I’m obliged to inquire. The widow wonders why, if the friend planned to kill Frank DeYoung at the party, did she invite two of her friends along? What were they doing there?”

“It’s almost as if the friend didn’t plan to kill anyone,” Ocean said.

“As a thought experiment, though, if you’ll indulge the—”

“CJ’s not their friend!” Mrs. B said, opening the screen door behind him. “She’s mine.”

The detective smiled in what looked like genuine pleasure. “Mrs. Bakofsky, how good to—”

“You don’t have to talk to him,” Ocean cut in. “He arrested you for no reason.”

“Everyone makes mistakes, dear.” Mrs. B stepped out of her cottage, her pink silk caftan fluttering. “I met CJ at the YMCA. She helps with my bra straps. I’m not as flexible as I used to be, and clasps are fiddly. We’ve known each for, oh, a year or two now? Time flies at my age. Which is ironic because I only shuffle. What was I saying?”

“You’ve known CJ Moore for two years.”

“Approximately! Write that down! Approximately. I’m only guessing.” She sniffed at him. “We talked once or twice a week. She drove me home a handful of times and I gave her coffee and advice. I’m a bit of a yenta.”