Chapter 22
LILY-ANN
The painting in the entryway of Nicholas’s cottage was a geometrical picture of figures around a swimming pool. Bright colors, clean lines. To Lily-Ann’s eye, it looked like Mondrian and Southern California at the same time.
“That’s new,” she said.
“Sophie was flipping through Ocean’s old portfolio,” Nicholas told her. “She bought it for my birthday.”
Lily-Ann looked closer. “That’s Mrs. B. In the caftan.”
“And Ocean in the water.”
“What’s the other blob?”
“Ocean’s wife, when she was pregnant with Riley. I guess that’s why it was in storage.”
She squinted. “I prefer photography.”
“Maybe don’t mention that to Ocean.”
“Why not?”
“It might hurt her feelings,” he said.
“Oh, of course.”
She appreciated when people at the Cottages made social cues explicit.
Those were the only riddles she didn’t enjoy unraveling.
She knew that her neighbors explained things to her out of kindness, because Ocean had told her, so now she found it comforting.
They helped her, and she helped them. For example right now, by visiting Nicholas.
Hm. She wondered if Sophie had asked him to invite her, or if he’d realized on his own that he needed her help.
Because currently his cottage was a quite acceptable bachelor pad, but Sophie deserved better.
Lily-Ann didn’t truly care who’d decided to ask for her help, but she still said, “Does Sophie know I’m here? ”
“Yeah.”
“Did she make you invite me?”
“Not exactly.”
“Are you lying?”
“Only a little,” he admitted. “I don’t like anyone going through my things.”
“But for Sophie, you’re willing to put up with it?”
“Exactly. And she knew you’d enjoy it.”
“She’s sweet.”
“She said she’s going to miss you, even though she’s only moving across the courtyard.”
“That’s silly.” Lily-Ann considered for a moment. “I’ll miss her, too. Okay! Let’s start in the bathroom.”
Nicholas looked startled. “The bathroom?”
“Yes.” Lily-Ann paused, wondering how to break this to him gently. “How do I break this to you gently?”
“It’s okay, just tell me.”
“Your bathroom is horrible, Nicholas. Poor lighting, inadequate ventilation, and insufficient surfaces.”
“There are three lights, a cabinet, and a fan!”
“Mm.” She crossed the living room toward the bathroom, her gaze flicking to the side. “Oh, and dump your couch. Keep hers.”
“Mine is bigger.”
“Have you ever seen Sophie on her couch?”
“She curls up like a cat.”
“Exactly.”
His expression softened. “Good point. Thanks.”
“Now, the bathroom…”
She opened the door to a perfectly adequate bathroom.
For a man living alone. But she felt protective toward Sophie, and wouldn’t accept anything less than the best. So first she needed an opaque shower curtain.
No matter how much you loved your boyfriend, you didn’t want him watching you shaving your bikini line.
Then she needed plenty of good lighting and an abundance of surfaces.
Lily-Ann worked for an hour before heading to her house for the Kiehl’s grapefruit hand soap and the cream body cleanser she’d decided to leave as a housewarming gift.
When she returned, she ignored Nicholas, who was sitting at his desk with his laptop. She walked past him and peered into his bedroom. “Oh, no.”
He raised his head. “There’s nothing wrong with my bedroom.”
“Your bed’s in the wrong place.” She crossed to the bureau. “And I bet your clothes are—”
“No messing inside the drawers!”
“I’m not messing, I’m tidying.”
“You know what I mean, Lily-Ann.”
“Fine,” she grumbled. “But the bed would be better against the other wall.”
“You think?” he asked, from the doorway.
“I do.”
While they improved the placement of the furniture, she said, “What about the caterers?”
“I know Sophie doesn’t need caterers.”
“I mean at the DeYoungs’ house.”
“Oh,” he said. “They were gone by the time Frank fell. Most of them. A few were waiting in the kitchen for the last of the guests to leave.”
“They could’ve done something before they left.”
Nicholas straightened from moving the standing lamp. “What, drizzled vinaigrette on the stairs?”
“Why are you so dismissive of our investigation?” she asked.
“Because we’re not investigators?”
“If we investigate, we are.”
“Well, not trained investigators.”
“I’m not sure anyone is, despite what you see on TV. So, what about the wine bottle?”
He frowned at the room. “Um…”
“The one that shattered before DeYoung fell, Nicholas. You didn’t see anyone else walking around with one?”
“Only me. Maybe a caterer, but I don’t remember. And I didn’t leave it precariously balanced anywhere. I left it right side up on the buffet table.”
“I’ll get Hamilton to ask his cop about the variety. You said you were pouring a Malbec?”
“Uh, maybe? It started with an M.”
“Merlot? Montepulciano? Mourvèdre?”
“Yeah, that’s it. Mourvèdre.”
“Nice, ancient grape. We’ll have to ask which bottle broke.” Lily-Ann began organizing the bookcase. “And you noticed nothing else about the guests who remained? Sophie told me that her friend Angela says Jane Sheffield’s been widowed twice. She likes to marry older men.”
“How was I supposed to notice that?”
She frowned at him.
“That’s not dismissive, Lily-Ann, that’s my inability to look into a person’s eyes and know that two of her husbands died. I don’t see how that’s motive, though, considering she wasn’t married to Frank.”
“True.”
“She seemed normal, for whatever that’s worth. Sunny Wheeler is weird, though. He staged a funeral for his seventy-fifth birthday. He’s narcissistic and obsessed with cryogenics.”
“Life extension,” Lily-Ann mused. “Shift the bed a foot to the left. And the Kagans?”
“Kagants. Helene and George. They’re not ‘superrich weird,’ just ‘normal weird.’ She’s got a great vibe, she’s immediately likable, and he’s like the guy at the cocktail party who you hope monopolizes the conversation. Your family is wealthy, right?”
“Does that make me superrich weird?”
“Ha! No, you’re normal weird like the rest of us.”
For some reason, that pleased her so much that she felt herself smile at the bookshelf.
“What I mean was, maybe your family knows people who know these people?”
“Hm. Improbable, but possible. I’ll inquire.”
“See? I’m helping.” Nicholas shifted the foot of the bed closer to the window. “Now, who else? There’s Pax the massage therapist. He’s suspicious as hell.”
“Why is that?”
“Too handsome. And who invites their massage therapist to a party?”
“You think he’s sleeping with one of them? Oh, he could be a gigolo! Is that a term we still use?”
“Mrs. B probably does.” He adjusted the bed, making everything parallel. “How’s that?”
She surveyed the bedroom. “Another inch. Right there! Perfect.”
“You know it wasn’t a murder, right?” Nicholas rubbed the back of his neck. “A half-drunk old man fell down the stairs.”
“His wife says CJ pushed him.”
“Yeah, but Ocean can’t be that unlucky.”
Lily-Ann considered. “Should I ask Ocean if she’d rather we didn’t investigate?”
“Nah, she’d think we suspect CJ, which isn’t great for a new relationship. And sure Karina blames CJ, but she was drinking, too. I heard she doesn’t like CJ.”
“There’s a large gap between disliking someone and accusing them of murder.”
“True, but just … don’t get too excited, okay?”
“Why not?”
Nicholas took a breath. “I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed when it turns out there’s no mystery. You and Mrs. B.”
“Ah. That’s true. I do hope this was murder and not simply another tedious accidental death.”
“Lily-Ann,” he chided.
“Don’t worry, I won’t share that with Ocean.” She smiled. “Just Mrs. B.”