Page 126 of Mother-Daughter Murder Night

She walked up to the young detective, who was sipping from a coffee cup an officer had delivered to her a few minutes before.

“Can you help me with something?”

Ramirez looked at Lana. Lana could only imagine what she saw. Her wig was a mess, and the left side of her face was blossoming into a purple bruise. The old stitches on her cheek had broken open as well. But Lana’s eyes were bright, her voice clear.

“What is it?” Ramirez asked.

“Paul Hanley.”

“Oh. Right. He’s not a priority now that—”

“I just want to confirm that. He’s no longer a suspect? Not wanted for anything?”

The detective shook her head.

“And I wouldn’t be in trouble anymore for harboring a dangerous criminal?”

Ramirez looked at Lana, perplexed, as if she hadn’t just lived through the past two hours.

“No.”

“Good,” Lana said. “Then could you help me get him out of my trunk?”

Chapter Fifty-Five

Lana walked into the yacht club three weeks later in a new tailored suit, with a large gift-wrapped box under her arm. Her face had finally healed. The only evidence of what had happened was a thin yellow halo under her eye, one she easily covered up with concealer.

At the door, Lana paused to run her hand across her scalp, checking that everything was in place. Her real hair was growing in, and she had paid a tattooed girl in Santa Cruz a small fortune to shape it into a chic pixie buzz cut. Lana was still undecided about the wigless look, despite Jack’s repeated assurances that she didn’t look like a Chia pet.

She found Paul and Scotty at the bar, deep in conversation about a new business scheme involving giant inflatable hamster balls you could rent and take out on the water. Scotty gave her a friendly nod. Paul shrank back, as if he was still afraid of her. Not as if—he was still afraid of her. Which was ridiculous. It wasn’t her fault the key fob had slipped out of his pocket in the trunk.

Lana fluttered her hand at Fredo and his compatriots at the bar before making her way to the booth in the corner, where her date was waiting.

Even in the shadows cast by the brocade curtains, Teresa Ramirez shone. She was wearing a long, canary-yellow blazer over a white V-neck. Her fingernails were a deep cerulean, with metallic gold tips.

Scotty materialized just as Lana was sitting down.

“Corona, please,” Ramirez said.

“Make it two,” Lana said.

“Congratulations on your arraignment,” Lana said. She tipped her beer toward the younger woman. “I hear he pled guilty on all charges?”

“Pretty much.” The detective ticked them off on her fingers. “Murder of Ricardo Cruz. Murder of Hal Rhoads. Arson at the land trust. He pled to everything except the last fire. He says that was caused when your granddaughter threw him across the barn.”

Lana smiled. “I’ve been in touch with Diana Whitacre. I don’t think she’ll be pressing charges against Jack.”

“Do you know what she’s going to do with the ranch?”

“A hybrid. She’ll have her luxury spa, plus a smaller version of the farm incubator her father and Ricardo had envisioned. Supplying her wellness center with organic, hyperlocal produce. A win-win.” Diana was handling the situation extraordinarily well, all things considered.

“So Verdadera Libertad lives on.”

“Renamed. La Reina de la Libertad.”

“The queen of liberty,” Ramirez said. “Very modest.”

“Indeed.” Lana took a tentative sip of beer and shot a glance over at the men congregated by the bar. “Did you really think Paul was the murderer?”