Chapter 19
SOPHIE
Hamilton left his front door unlocked, so I knocked once and let myself in.
Every time I visited his cottage, the neatness surprised me.
His brain was cluttered and idiosyncratic, but his living room was serene.
The walls were a neutral cream color, the couch was white and unstained, and his birch bookshelves were organized with game boxes and fantasy novels.
The living room was empty so I crossed toward the kitchen, listening to Hamilton in mid-conversation: “—my current theory is that we’re going to find levels of toxicity in the Mississippi River that mimic the effects of lead on the brain that we’ve—”
“Interesting,” Lily-Ann interrupted. “But I asked if you have soda.”
“Oh, right. To drink?”
“Yes,” Anthony said.
“No.”
“Tap water’s fine,” Lily-Ann told him. “We’ll cut up lemon wedges.”
I smiled to myself and called, “What smells so good?”
Anthony appeared in the kitchen doorway, holding a plate of toasted baguette slices. “Salty cheese in garlic and olives.”
“Feta,” Lily-Ann said.
“My kombucha won’t be ready for another week,” Hamilton announced.
“Good thing I brought iced tea.”
I set the pitcher on the coffee table, then separated the bread onto two plates so nobody would have to reach. As I finished, Nicholas came in with Ocean and Mrs. B, who pointed a small wooden hammer at me.
“I brought a gavel!” she told me. “Will you take notes? Not notes, what do I mean? Moments?”
“Minutes?” Ocean suggested.
“Minutes! What an odd term.” She peered at me. “Do you have your computer?”
I didn’t, so I ran home. By the time I returned with my laptop, everyone was settled in a half circle with plates on their laps, as Mrs. B presided from her place of honor in Hamilton’s gaming chair.
She wore a full-sleeve black caftan embroidered with off-white thread.
Classy of her to put on mourning clothes as we discussed the recent death.
She banged her gavel on the chair’s plastic armrest and announced, “The Marigold Cottages Murder Collective is now in session! So. I’ve spoken, despite all of you turncoats and backbiters, to my friend CJ who told me—”
“She doesn’t want to talk about this,” Ocean interrupted.
“Yes! That’s exactly what she told me.”
Ocean pinched the bridge of her nose. “Naturally, you backed off immediately.”
“She also told me she is suspected of pushing her boss down the stairs. Which is seven flavors of nonsense. Still, she’s terrified they’re going to arrest her, so she asked me to look into the case and—”
“Except she didn’t ask, did she?” Ocean said.
“Not in so many words. However, in order to compensate for not being entirely honest about the previous murders, we should—”
“Don’t even think that,” Nicholas snapped.
“Especially not aloud,” Hamilton added, while Lily-Ann said, “Mrs. B! We don’t discuss that case.”
Mrs. B blinked. “Oh, yes. Right. Sorry.”
I didn’t transcribe any of that, naturally, though I was a little relieved that I wasn’t the only person still affected by the murders earlier in the year. Or by how we’d hidden the truth.
“That—not said—does anyone have any questions?” Mrs. B continued.
“What’s CJ’s last name?” Ocean asked.
Mrs. B glared at her. “I’m sorry?”
“Her surname. The surname of this close friend of yours.”
“I don’t know, Ocean. And you know I don’t know.”
“Yet you’re nibbing in—”
“However, I know that you know her surname, which is just as good as me knowing it.”
“Uninvited,” Ocean finished.
“Because that poor detective has another innocent person in his sights…”
I took a breath to remind her that the “poor detective” had, in fact, had guilty people in his sights, too. But I decided not to mention that.
“And CJ helps with my bra straps!”
“And as we all know,” Ocean said, “in the People v. Maidenform, the courts ruled that as proof of innocence.”
Mrs. B slammed her gavel again. “It’s like you want her to be guilty!”
“Of course, I don’t.”
“Does anyone other than Ocean have questions?”
“What’s sweet in this?” Nicholas asked, dipping his bread in the feta and olives. “It’s so good.”
“Nicholas!” Mrs. B said.
“Honey,” Anthony told him.
“All right,” Lily-Ann called us to order. “Before we begin, Mrs. B, Ocean, can we agree on one thing? If CJ is guilty, we will turn her in to the police.”
“What level of guilty?” Mrs. B asked.
“That’s a good question,” Ocean said.
“How are there levels?” Nicholas asked.
“Manslaughter, murder one, murder two,” Hamilton said, gesturing with a crostini for emphasis. “Then there are mitigating circumstances and mens rea. That is, state of mind.”
“Malice,” Anthony said. “Aforethought.”
Silence fell. Partly because Anthony rarely said anything like that, but mostly because he knew more about crime and punishment than the rest of us. Well, punishment, at least.
“It’s not murder,” I said. “CJ says he tripped.”
Lily-Ann stood from her chair in an elegant swirl of burgundy silk. She never missed. I wondered if she’d let me borrow any of her jewelry for fundraising events. Never mind, that ruby and gold bracelet probably cost more than my rent.
“Sophie is correct. The most likely case is that Frank DeYoung simply fell down the stairs. The second most likely case is—”
“Wait!” Hamilton said, springing to his feet. “Wait, wait. Whiteboard!”
He dashed into the other room, his Birkenstocks slapping the floor, then returned rolling a whiteboard. He tossed the dry erase marker to me. I wasn’t sure how I was supposed to take notes and also write on the board, so I gave it to Nicholas, who listed Lily-Ann’s points as she said them:
1) Accidental death. Old man falls down stairs. Why is wife/Karina so sure CJ pushed him?
2) If CJ did shove him, why?
3) Ocean says shut up, she didn’t. Mrs. B seconds that motion.
4) If Karina is guilty, that’s why she’s pointing a finger at CJ.
5) Bottle breaking distraction. Did several people collude? Planned in advance?
6) If so, what’s the motivation for collusion?
“I can’t tell if numbers five and six are the same,” Nicholas said, looking un-thrilled with his own list.
“Each of the guests who were in the house at the time of death deserves their own number,” Lily-Ann said. “And there’s another possibility, as well.”
Ocean squinted at her. “I can’t think of one.”
“There’s a remote chance that someone who wasn’t present at the time set this up.”
“A remote chance!” Hamilton crowed. “Ha! Like a trip wire or similar.”
“I’m not writing down trip wire,” Nicholas told him. “Or any other Wile E. Coyote–style causes of death. I’m all out of anvils.”
Lily-Ann said, “I was thinking more along the lines of someone tampering with his medications.”
“That’s a good point,” I said. “But shouldn’t we start with the motive?”
Ocean scrubbed her short hair. “Which I guess means finding out about the will and beneficiaries.”
“CJ might know,” Mrs. B suggested.
“Oooh,” I said, “I wonder if she’s expecting to inherit.”
Mrs. B gave me a prim look. “Somehow that never came up in the YMCA locker room.”
“As if you wouldn’t have asked!” Ocean chimed in. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten the dermatologist! And you ask complete strangers how much they paid for their house!”
“That’s different, everyone cares about property values. In any case, what motivations should we look for? I mean, other than money?”
“Love, hate, fear, guilt,” Lily-Ann said.
Anthony grunted. “If Frank DeYoung spilled his drink on someone’s shoe.”
“I don’t follow,” Nicholas told him.
“People kill for small reasons,” Anthony said. “So small you can’t see them.”
“So motivation is too vague to focus on?” I asked.
Lily-Ann gazed at Anthony for a moment, then said, “Where does that leave us?”
“I’ll talk to my cop friend,” Hamilton said.
“The one from your online game? Will he help again?”
“He will if Miles asks him.”
“Miles, my son?” Ocean asked. “My son, Miles?”
“Yeah, Miles plays a healer in Realm of Rangers, and those are rare. They’re excluded from a lot of experience points, which is bad game design unless the player understands how to leverage their rarity into access to more powerful parties.
Miles is happy to help anyone, so he gets invited to everything.
There are a few late-game raids that require a healer. ”
Nicholas drew the nerd-face emoji on the whiteboard.
“I’ll talk to my friend Angela,” I said. “She’s a fiend for gossip, and she’s got an in with Jane Sheffield, who’s her mentor.”
“I’ll pretend you’re all normal,” Nicholas said.
Ocean huffed a laugh. “I’d like to help with that, but I won’t be able to pull it off.”
“I’ll talk to CJ!” Mrs. B said.
“Please don’t,” Ocean said.
“You can come along.”
“Oh, thank you.”
“Can you talk to your artsy friends, Ocean?” Lily-Ann asked. “It’s a small town and art galleries rely on wealthy philanthropists. Someone might have a connection to the DeYoungs.”
“Sure,” Ocean told her. “And what’re you going to do?”
“Puzzle it all out,” Lily-Ann said.