Page 34 of Mother-Daughter Murder Night

“Do you have a relationship with Mr. Rhoads’s children?”

“We are still getting to know each other. They came to my office together two months ago, after Señor Rhoads moved to Bayshore Oaks, to learn about the nature of his commitments. I am hopeful they will honor their father’s intentions for the ranch.” He looked over Lana’s shoulder and smiled. “And its glorious potential.”

Lana turned and saw Mr. Rhoads’s daughter gliding toward them with a determined look on her face. Diana Whitacre was in her early fifties, with porcelain skin that splintered into faint lines at the corners of her chilly slate-blue eyes. Her mouth held a smile that was equally cold.

“Señor Morales,” she murmured, leaning away as he moved to kiss her cheek, “you aren’t signing up new donors at my father’s wake, are you?”

“Señora Di. I would never—”

“I’m very glad to hear it. If you might excuse us?”

Victor raised an eyebrow at Lana. Then he turned to Diana and tipped his hat. “I hope you will allow me to take you and your brother to lunch soon, Señora Di. We have much to discuss.”

“We’re quite occupied at the moment,” Diana said.

“I only want to honor your father—”

“Another time. Please.” She waved him off with a tiny flick of her hand.

“Charming man,” Lana said, watching him walk away.

“I suppose that depends on your definition of charm.” Diana’s voice was low, clipped. “Are you a patient of that nurse?”

Lana felt a prickle of heat under her silk scarf. Had something given away her condition? Was it the new wig?

“No, I . . . she’s my daughter.”

“I see,” Diana said. “Visiting?”

“From Los Angeles. I’m here temporarily. Lana Rubicon. My condolences.”

The blond woman dipped her head in acknowledgment. Apparently she was too polite to ask why precisely Lana had decided to crash her father’s wake. But not too polite to keep her hands to herself. Diana reached a well-manicured finger out to stroke a dancing horse on the scarf around Lana’s neck.

“Forgive me. I saw you earlier and I had to ask. Is this—”

“Dior,” Lana said. She resisted the urge to step back.

“The dressage collection,” Diana said. “Only one hundred were made.”

“It was a gift,” Lana said. “I thought it might be appropriate for this occasion.”

“Quite. My father and I shared a deep love of horses.” Diana looked off across the fields, then focused back on the scarf. “A gift from a friend?”

“Business partner. We developed the Zuniga Spa and Ranch together, down in Malibu.”

“Zuniga.” Diana repeated the word under her breath, like an incantation. “I’ve stayed there. Very impressive.” She paused and looked at Lana uncertainly. “Are you . . . working on a project up here?”

“In a way,” Lana said. Diana was fishing for something, but Lana couldn’t figure out what. So she decided to do her own digging. If Ricardo was working with Hal Rhoads, perhaps he was connected with others here as well. “I’ve been learning about the slough. And that young man who died.”

“Ricardo Cruz?”

“Did you know him?”

The blond woman looked off over the rolling fields that led down to the water. She straightened her shoulders and adjusted the veil over her hair. When she turned back to Lana, her cool, thin smile was again in place.

“Hardly, my dear. I’d heard that he was back, working for the land trust. I only saw him once, walking the fields up here with Daddy.”

“Back?”