Page 22 of Mother-Daughter Murder Night

They didn’t.

Chapter Thirteen

The next morning, Lana caught a break.

Beth had to be the only person under seventy with a landline. Lana couldn’t understand it. Her daughter refused to pay to get her eyebrows waxed, but she’d drop fifty dollars a month for the privilege of a direct connection to every robocaller on the West Coast.

Lana shuffled to the kitchen and snatched up the receiver.

“Hello?” she said.

“Is Tiny there?” It was a man’s voice.

“Who’s calling?”

“It’s Paul, from the Kayak Shack.”

Lana felt a flicker of excitement. If anyone had the ability to clear Jack—or make things worse for her—it was her boss.

“Hello, Paul. As you may be aware, it’s ten thirty on a Wednesday morning, so . . .”

Nothing. His brain must be waterlogged.

“She’s in school,” Lana said, enunciating each word.

“Oh. Right. Sorry, who’s this?”

“I’m Jacqueline’s grandmother. Lana Rubicon. From Los Angeles. Are you calling about Ricardo Cruz?”

“What? No. I mean . . . can you just have Tiny call me?” He sounded stressed. Maybe the detectives had squeezed him too, about Jack, or his own involvement. Either way, Lana wanted to know more.

“Paul, you’re asking me to ask a fifteen-year-old girl to call you about a dead body she found wearing your life jacket while working for your kayak hut. I think I’m owed some assurance before I—”

“It’s not a hut.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s not a kayak hut. It’s a kayak shack.”

Lana rolled her eyes at the decoupaged cupboards.

“Paul, I don’t care if it’s a kayak jetport. Why do you want to speak with my granddaughter?”

“I don’t wanna talk about it with a stranger over the phone.”

“Then let’s change that.” Lana lowered her voice, her words padding softly over the line. “Let’s have a drink.”

“At ten thirty in the morning?”

“I don’t accept same-day invitations.” There was silence on the line, and Lana caught a whiff of the familiar scent of a man aroused by his own confusion.

“But I can tell you feel some urgency, Paul.” Her voice held his name and stroked a lower part of his brain. “And I’d like to help. Let’s meet in a few hours. For lunch.”

“Uh . . . okay. I’ll meet you at the yacht club.” He paused. “How will I know what you look like?”

“You won’t have to guess.”

Lana didn’t have to see the man to know he was smiling.