Page 8 of Murder on Charity Lane

After Mrs. B shrugged her bra onto her bony shoulders, she peered around the locker room looking for help. She eyed the remaining two older women before she turned to CJ and tutted. “You didn’t have to wait for me!”

“I’m not sure Santa Barbara can handle you unleashed.”

“Ha! True!” Mrs. B turned around. “Be a dear, won’t you?”

CJ straightened the straps and worked the clasp. “There you go.”

“I am decent once more,” Mrs. B announced. “How tedious decency is. Don’t you find it boring?”

“Hm. Not real decency, no.”

“Feh! I bet you preheat your oven.”

“Of course I preheat my oven. Who doesn’t?”

“This is your mission, my dear. See what happens if you don’t.”

“I know what’ll happen, Mrs. B. My cakes will be raw.”

“You don’t know that, you only suspect. What’s that old saying? Life is short, eat dessert raw.”

“Eat dessert first,” CJ corrected.

“Oh! Oh, yes, that makes more sense. Well, now that’s settled, is everything still set for tonight? With Sophie at the party?”

“You can stop worrying. Nothing changed since last night.”

Mrs. B huffed at her, then said, “I don’t know why they call it development. It’s just a fancy way of saying fundraising. Trying to make it sound more professional than a bake sale. Not that Sophie can cook. Well, she makes a fine shortbread, but that is all.”

“I hope she preheats.”

“Ha!” Mrs. B slipped her purple caftan over her head. “Mark my words, young lady. One must eat the raw cookie dough of life.”

“Who said that, Aristotle?”

“That’s why you and Ocean get along so well. You both like mocking old ladies. Now Sophie, on the other hand, is sweet. And her new job is all about connections, so…”

“You’re hoping she’ll connect with Frank?”

“To the tune of thousands of dollars!” Mrs. B’s eyes sparkled. “Is he interested in the theatre?”

“Not really,” CJ told her. “He’s more about music.”

“Well, Sophie’s office is in the same building as the symphony.” Mrs. B shut her locker. “So that’s settled. Oh, except, can she bring a friend?”

“You’re always welcome.”

“Not me. There’s no telling what I might say. Nicholas.”

“Which one is he?”

“Sophie’s boyfriend. He’s not quite my stepson, which is a pity because I’d fancy myself as the wicked stepmother. Why are they so reviled? It’s typical, don’t you think, that nobody blames the father? What were you saying? Oh! Yes, Nicholas.”

“Is he looking for connections, too?”

“No, no, he works for the city. When I was a girl, there was no higher dream.”

CJ slipped into her navy linen button-up over knit pants. Frank’s wife liked her to wear dark blue when she was working, to make clear that she was an employee. She’d once shown up in an exuberantly tacky sundress just to watch Karina side-eye her all day.