Page 63 of Murder on Charity Lane

A double moose meal.

Anthony

CAP SLOCK

The conversation drifted, and Nicholas fiddled with his mouse. He didn’t care much about Frank DeYoung’s death, but he was terrified about the detective poking around in their lives. What if someone—well, Mrs. B—let something slip about the previous murders? And considering that Detective Enible already suspected him and Sophie, he might simply adjust the evidence to fit like he had with Anthony’s arrest. Which meant they needed to unequivocally prove CJ innocent.

Whether she’d killed the guy or not.

30

SOPHIE

I promised the Collective that I’d squeeze more information from my networking friend Angela, so I arranged to meet her for lunch at Leadbetter Beach. To my surprise, Nicholas asked to join us; he wasn’t Angela’s biggest fan.

He picked me up at my office and we chatted happily as he drove to the beach. Well, I chatted happily. I’m more of a talker than Nicholas, but he usually contributed better than this. So as he flicked the turn indicator I said, “You’re worried about Detective Enible, aren’t you?”

“I’m afraid of Detective Enible.”

“So you came along to help me pick Angela’s brain?”

Nicholas pulled into the public lot at the beach. “That, plus I can’t think about State Street for another minute.”

“Also for the fish and chips,” I said, “because that’s what we’re splitting.”

We didn’t often see each other midday, even though we both worked downtown. I liked how he looked in his Santa Barbara business clothes, a forest-green button-down tucked into black trousers that were just the right amount of not skinny. He asked the restaurant server for a beach table and we waited for Angela to join us. I kicked off my chunky loafers to run my feet through the warm sand. The ocean sparkled with midday sun and we watched kite surfers skid across the surface while seagulls squawked on the fence to the parking lot.

“Should I take off my boots?” Nicholas asked.

He was wearing black Red Wings, which I really dug for some reason. “Nah, you’ll only regret it when you have to put them back on.”

“How come you won’t?”

“I’m just that carefree,” I said.

He started to make a teasing reply when he spotted Angela slinking through the tables with her bouncy blond curls, formfitting white suit, and black stiletto sandals. Which was ridiculous. Nobody wore stilettos to work in Santa Barbara.

Nicholas stood to greet her, because he was a gentleman. Specifically, he was my gentleman, so I didn’t love how Angela eyed him. I knew she was hanging out with a guy from Montecito, where Prince Harry and his family lived, so I greeted her with, “Hey. How’s Jasper?”

She gave me a kiss hello, then said, “Zut alors! I need a man who doesn’t think school nurses are giving kids sex change operations.”

“How would that even work?” I asked, wondering if anyone in France ever said “zut alors.”

“I was afraid to ask,” Angela said, folding herself elegantly into a plastic chair. “He probably thinks they’re in league with”—she lowered her voice to a foreboding whisper—“librarians.”

I laughed. “At least tell me he disqualified himself before you slept together.”

Angela shot me a guilty look.

“Oh, Angela.”

“I know! I should be using my hotness for good.”

“I hope at least he donated to Bright California,” Nicholas said.

She winked at him. “That’s how he got a second date.”

The server came and Angela ordered fish tacos and a margarita while Nicholas and I stuck to fish and chips and iced tea. I was okay with wine, but what kind of monster can stop after a single margarita?