Page 75 of Murder on Charity Lane

Inside the gallery, classical music drifted from the speakers and a few visitors inspected the heavily framed California landscapes on the walls. Petra approached with a click of heels and a professional smile. She was the kind of woman Mrs. B called “waspy,” while Thomas was a charmingly ramshackle Brit.

“Welcome to the gallery,” Petra said. “Feel free to—”

Thomas interrupted. “Ocean! It’s been a long time.”

“Oh!” Petra said. “Sorry, I’m on autopilot.”

“It’s great to see you.” Ocean drifted around the gallery until the guests left, then asked, “Did you hear about Frank DeYoung?”

“Such a tragedy.” Thomas clicked his tongue. “He was a good friend of our friends George and Helene.”

“I think I’ve heard of them,” Ocean said. “The Beard and the Bird?”

Petra gave a honking laugh. “Oh, god, that’s perfect.”

“Actually,” Thomas said, “they were there the night he fell.”

The three of them agreed that while Frank’s death was tragic, he’d lived a full life and had helped World of Goods become a major nonprofit.

“He was involved in the arts, too,” Thomas said. “Donated to the symphony mostly. And didn’t he support medical research?”

Petra sniffed. “No, he just supported that friend of his.”

“Sunny Wheeler?” Thomas asked.

“That’s the one. Frank took far too good care of Sunny when he got into legal trouble with his life-extension company. Frank covered for him.”

Thomas shook his head. “I thought he got in trouble for sleeping around?”

“No, it was a medical thing. He wasn’t practicing medicine without a license, but along the same lines. Frank dropped a truckload of cash on the AMA or somebody, and it went away.”

“Don’t listen to Petra,” Thomas told Ocean. “That’s all unfounded gossip.”

Petra winked. “The best kind of gossip.”

Ocean grinned and said, “Speaking of which, I heard Karina is cutting off their donations. Like, completely? She feels like she missed the ‘spending money’ phase of the marriage.”

“In her defense,” Thomas said, “that sounds like a super fun phase.”

The bell over the door jingled and Petra greeted the group of tourists entering. Ocean said goodbye and headed outside. She transcribed the conversation to the group chat before she forgot anything.

She couldn’t imagine that Sunny’s history of legal troubles mattered in the slightest, but it was new information, at least. And one step closer to clearing CJ.

36

SOPHIE

My father phoned while I was eating a salad at my desk at work. I considered answering, but didn’t. I’d been at my new job for two months, learning the ropes, and now I wanted to make my own mark. After the party in Hope Ranch, I’d started thinking about the Big Names. What the Givemore Girls called “high-capacity individual donors,” the ones who dropped a hundred grand without blinking an eye.

There were a few famous Santa Barbara philanthropists, but I needed to focus more on the level of Frank DeYoung, the ones who flew under the radar. So I’d spent the last few days researching. I took special note of a real-estate mogul called Steven “Swede” Braby and a self-described “Wall Street asshole” named Douglas Sudmayer. I got excited at the prospects of the improbably named E. E. Elliot and a Montecito old-timer called Horace Ashley, before I discovered they’d both died in the past year. A natural hazard of trying to raise funds from the elderly.

After I finished my salad, I checked my voicemail for the transcription of my Dad’s call.

“Hey, sweetie! Hope you’re loving your new job. It sounds like a big responsibility, but nothing you can’t handle. Good luck researching those funders. You were always great at research. Remember that history project about Carthage? I love that one and the—” A pause. “Mom’s telling me not to brag about your middle-school work, but you looked so cute in your colander helmet.”

I skimmed to the end: “… looked up that Word of Goods place you mentioned. Remarkable. Helping with natural disasters. Refugee camps. Shipping mosquito nets to developing countries. Such important work. And now you’re in the same industry. Or near enough.”

“Near enough,” I said.