Page 38 of Mother-Daughter Murder Night

Jack smiled. This, she could do.

* * *

Lana woke three hours later to the rattle of a pill bottle.

“Ma.” Beth was standing over her. “Time to get up. Chemo day.”

Lana rolled over and groaned.

“Let’s go,” Beth said. “Get dressed.”

Beth left the room, closing the door harder than she needed to. Lana pushed herself up and into the cashmere sweater, wide-legged slacks, and fleece infinity scarf she wore every third week for her chemotherapy treatment. This was not Stanford Hospital with its attractive doctors and orderlies dashing around. Chemo was five mind-numbing hours in a glorified hallway on the second floor of a strip mall, sitting in a cross between a BarcaLounger and a dentist’s chair getting poison pumped into her veins. The treatment room was freezing, and the knockoff boutique on the ground floor of the shopping center did a brisk business in wool jackets and fuzzy socks for the underprepared. Lana made sure her shoes were cute—today, black-and-white Italian leather booties—but other than that, she focused on staying warm.

Beth was silent on the drive. Each time Lana attempted to start a conversation, Beth turned up the radio. By the time they’d reached the clinic, the weatherman was practically shouting at them about the chance of rain.

Beth pulled in between the nail salon and the math tutoring center and idled.

“Aren’t you coming in?” Lana asked.

“Can’t,” Beth responded. “Too busy.”

Lana paused for a moment, considering whether to pout. She decided to go on the offensive instead. “So, it’s Jack’s big day back at the Kayak Shack?” She smiled at Beth.

Beth stared straight ahead, hands clamped to the steering wheel. “I’ll pick you up at four.”

Sensing the distinct possibility that her daughter was about to shove her out of the car, Lana picked up her purse, swung herself out of the passenger seat, and sashayed to the elevator. She didn’t look back.

* * *

Jack’s thorough examination of the boat locker left it in better shape than it had been in years. Eighty-five kayaks and seventeen paddleboards crack-free and accounted for. Sixty paddles standing at attention. Two hundred thirty-seven life jackets hanging on rods in long rows labeled by size. She still didn’t know why there was a double kayak in Mr. Rhoads’s barn, but it wasn’t part of the tour inventory. At least for today, it wasn’t worth worrying about.

She had a momentary hitch while inspecting kayak 33. As she adjusted the foot pegs, Jack remembered the ragged O the boy’s mouth had formed when he made his horrible discovery the Sunday before. But then she moved on to kayak 4, which was caked in muck for no good reason, and her attention shifted to hauling it outside and untangling the hose to spray it down.

By 8:45 a.m., the entire Kayak Shack shone with dingy pride. Two life-size stuffed otters flanked the entrance. A fresh logbook was out on the counter. Paul had even rustled up a collared polo shirt from somewhere deep in his office. When Detective Ramirez pulled up, he was outside, grinning like a golf caddie who cut his own hair.

Jack was wary when Teresa Ramirez emerged from her car. But the detective looked even less comfortable. She launched out of the Buick, propelled by an enormous pair of neon-green waders over a tight black turtleneck. She had cinched her sheriff’s duty belt around the outside of the fishing bib, causing the nylon to pool over her waist, revealing glimpses of radio, handcuffs, and holster as she squeaked her way toward the Shack. Her frosted hair was in a high, stiff braid, waterfalling away from the top of her head without making contact with her neck.

After a perfunctory tour of the Shack, Ramirez strapped herself into a life jacket and shuffled down to the docks to join the 9 a.m. tour. She chose to sit with Jack in a two-seater instead of getting the full tourist experience in her own kayak. She waved off the paddle Jack offered her and braced herself as Jack hopped into the rear seat.

Jack wasn’t used to having someone in her boat while guiding, but thankfully the group was big enough to merit two guides. Jorge was in the lead boat, telling guests about the five major differences between sea lions and harbor seals. All Jack had to do was hold up the rear and make sure no one got lost or stranded. And answer any questions from the nice green detective with the gun.

In the first ten minutes, Ramirez asked Jack only two questions: what were the chances the boat would tip over, and what do you do if a jellyfish stings you. After that she fell silent. They spent the two-hour tour in a quiet trance, Jack keeping them moving steadily forward, watching the detective’s braid swing back and forth and hoping she wasn’t feeling seasick. Out of habit, Jack pointed out the wildlife along their path. The otter who seemed to wave at them from under the bridge. Hawks and plovers launching off of Bird Island, diving for anchovies. The detective said nothing. Her head twisted back and forth from the boats to the north bank. What she was looking for, Jack didn’t know.

When they got back to the marina at the end of the tour, Jack offered the detective a hand getting out of the kayak. Ramirez paused, eyeing a seagull on the dock. “It’s pretty out here,” she said. She stepped out of the boat. “Too bad about all the bird poop.”

Ramirez spent the next few hours in the office, watching Paul sweat his way through a dozen bookings and paperwork for two more group tours. She rejoined Jack in the double kayak for the 4 p.m. sunset tour, the same one Ricardo Cruz had signed up for the Saturday before.

There were sixteen guests, and once again, Jorge took the lead boat, with Jack and Ramirez minding the stragglers in the back. This time Ramirez accepted a paddle. She even attempted a few shallow strokes before dropping the paddle back in the cockpit next to the first aid kit.

The wind was favorable, and they made it farther than they had on the morning tour. Just before they turned to head back in for the evening, Ramirez pointed port side, to the north bank. “The body was found up there, right?”

Jack leaned forward, and Ramirez grabbed the hull to keep from tipping. “More like over there.”

Jack crouched just behind the detective, pointing to the mud flats glinting in the quick-setting sun. Jack could smell the detective’s perfume mixed with sweat and swamp grass. When she glanced down, she could see Ramirez’s snub-nosed gun in its holster.

“How did someone on your tour get all the way out there?”

Jack grimaced. “I told you. He wasn’t. On. My. Tour.”