Page 6 of Murder on Charity Lane

“I don’t have a skirt.”

Riley turned back to her phone. “Well, that answers that question.”

“C’mon, Riley. You know I’m not good at this.”

Riley sighed, but glanced up. “Those jeans, your knit black tank top, and your burgundy Adidas.”

“What if I get cold?” Ocean asked.

“Then suffer. You have nice arms. They’re doing all the work here.”

“The literal heavy lifting?”

Riley ignored her, so Ocean went back to her room and changed into the tank top. She enjoyed the idea that she had nice arms. Thank you, Rock Sculpture 101, which some days felt like chain gang labor. She added a chunky belt, then felt stupid for caring so much, so she went into the kitchen for a slug of whiskey and felt better.

CJ wasn’t due for another half hour. Instead of pacing nervously, Ocean headed for Mrs. B’s house to check in with her. She found Miles and Anthony in the living room with Mrs. B, eating rugalach and watching a show about cuttlefish.

“What’re you doing watching TV?” she said, because Mrs. B had claimed she hated “the boob tube.”

“Waiting for something dramatic to happen,” Mrs. B told her.

“Do cuttlefish lead lives of drama?”

“Oh, not to them, dear. To us.”

As if on cue, the doorbell rang. Ocean made a face, then stepped into the entryway, expecting … Well, she didn’t know what to expect. She still dreaded surprise visitors after the murders last spring. But when she opened the door, she found CJ, looking too young in a short cotton dress that showed off her perfect legs and sandals revealing a turquoise pedicure.

“I’m a little early?” CJ said, with a sweet uncertainty.

Her eyes shone under her sap-green winged liquid eyeliner, and her sienna lipstick enhanced the tawniness of her skin. Ocean wanted to paint her. She wanted to stand there and admire her, to walk in a circle around her like a sculpture in a museum.

Instead, she resisted the urge to flex her arms and kissed CJ hello. “Early, gorgeous, and at the wrong cottage.”

“I am?”

“Yes. Stunning.”

CJ flushed. “I mean at the wrong cottage!”

“That, too. This is Mrs. B’s.”

“And this is Mrs. B!” Mrs. B said, swanning in from the living room, her rust-brown caftan billowing behind her. “Look at you all dressed up! And look at me, dressed at all. I’m usually naked when you see me in the locker room. Oh! I’ve been meaning to ask, does CJ stand for anything? Catherine Julia, that’s my guess. Or Complete Joy.”

Mrs. B swooped in to hug CJ before she could answer, and Ocean spotted Miles in the archway, looking uncharacteristically shy, half-hidden behind Anthony.

“This is my son, Miles,” she said. “And our friend Anthony.”

“Miles is the one in the back,” Mrs. B informed CJ, perfectly straight-faced.

CJ giggled, and Miles said hello, and Anthony looked at CJ—which was a lot coming from Anthony.

“I’m glad to meet you,” CJ said, with an impish little smile.

“We should go,” Ocean said.

“CJ said she was early,” Mrs. B reminded her. “Should I make cocktails? I pour a mean gin and tonic, by which I mean an extremely friendly one. Positively convivial. I’ll squeeze in too much lemon, shall I?”

“Aren’t you helping with my map project tonight?” Miles asked Ocean. “I need to memorize them by next week.”