Page 109 of Mother-Daughter Murder Night

Beth was wrapping up her shift when Martin’s number came up on her phone. She kept scribbling on the last of the day’s charts, letting the call go to voicemail. She’d already gotten two all-caps texts from her mother about Lady Di, and she didn’t need any more distractions. Jack had agreed to join her on a sunset treasure hike, and Beth wasn’t going to screw it up by being late.

On the drive home, he called again.

“Beth, hi.” Martin sounded nervous. “Listen, I’m heading back to the city late tonight. Duty calls. Or rather, my investors do. Seems they’ve run out of patience for my bereavement leave.”

“Did you and your sister work things out?”

“That’s what I’m calling about,” Martin said. “I thought she was finally on board with the sale, but this morning, she told me she wants to do a formal presentation tonight after dinner about her plan for the future and my role in it. And guess who she’s bringing to the house to present alongside her?”

“An architect?”

“Your mother.”

Beth shook her head at the road in front of her. Of course Lana was involved. Was this her mother’s way of getting closer to Lady Di to collect evidence? Or maybe she just couldn’t resist the opportunity to nose her way in on a real estate deal.

Martin kept talking. “I thought this was something Di and I could figure out on our own. Keep it in the family.” He sighed. “I feel silly asking you this, but could you possibly call your mother off?”

“Call her off?” Beth tried to keep the incredulity out of her voice. “My mother doesn’t have an off switch, let alone one I control. And if your sister asked her . . . couldn’t you just hear them out?”

“I just feel like I’m going to get blindsided.”

“By what?”

“I don’t know. That’s the problem. I don’t know your mother at all.”

Beth bit her lip. She knew how formidable a negotiator her mother was. She’d once met a banker at one of her mother’s work parties who’d confessed that just hearing the sound of Lana’s heels clicking toward his office was enough to lower the interest rate he’d offer her.

“You know her,” Martin continued. “And I trust you. Maybe you could come? To balance the scales a bit?”

“I’m sorry. I wish I could help, but I’ve got plans tonight with my daughter.”

“What if you bring her along? There’ll be plenty of food. And there’s cool stuff for a kid her age to mess around with on the ranch. Please, I—”

Beth scrunched up her forehead. She had no interest in participating in a sparring match over the future of the ranch. But maybe this wasn’t about real estate. Maybe it was about murder. And if Jack heard that Lana was gathering evidence at the ranch, she’d probably want to go too.

“What can we bring?”

Chapter Forty-Eight

Lana got to the marina just after four. The Kayak Shack looked deserted, strung up with police tape and guarded by a single black-and-white parked head-in to the entrance. Inside the vehicle, Lana could see a young deputy with thick black hair and a clipboard on his lap. He appeared to be logging every vehicle that entered and exited the marina.

Lana waggled her fingers at the officer and continued into the gravel lot, breathing steady. She parked on the far end, by the yacht club, alongside two squat, mustachioed fishermen who were spraying down their boat. Lana touched up her lipstick and added one more bobby pin to her wig. She was just about to go knock on the door of the club when she saw Scotty O’Dell get out of a truck nearby with an awkward bundle in his arms. It was all the confirmation she needed.

“Mr. O’Dell!” Lana clicked her heels a little faster across the gravel.

The man turned around. Dark stubble covered his jaw, and his arms were tangled in a mess of wires and purple-tinted light bulbs. He gave her a short nod and took a step back toward the side of the building. Lana closed the gap between them before he reached the service door.

“Mrs. Rubicon,” he said.

“Ms.”

“We’re closed.”

“I’m aware of that.”

Lana dropped into silence, watching him juggle the awkward assembly of light bulbs.

“How can I . . . uh . . . help you?” His voice broke over the back half of his sentence, as if the words came out against his own volition.