Page 44 of Mother-Daughter Murder Night

In Lana’s experience, unexpected compliments were usually followed by unreasonable requests.

“I’m hoping we might be able to meet. Soon. My children are in town until Wednesday, but after that, I’d like your counsel. Regarding the future of the ranch.”

“Surely there’s plenty of time to consider that.” The woman’s father was barely in the ground. Lana assumed Diana had at least ten designer black veils to go through before she turned her attention to anything as crude as real estate.

“I wish that were the case. But there are sharks circling, and I need to speak to someone disinterested, someone with discretion.”

“Sharks?” Lana said.

“I’ll tell you when we meet. Of course, I’d be happy to pay for your consultation.” Diana coughed, as if the very idea of talking about money had to be cleared from her throat.

While Lana was discreet, she wasn’t exactly disinterested. And there was no way she wanted Diana to think of her as an employee. “That won’t be necessary.”

“Much appreciated.” Diana’s voice shifted back into its clipped accent. “Might you be able to squeeze me in? Wednesday?”

“I have a meeting in Santa Cruz that afternoon . . .” Lana couldn’t decide if it would be efficient or exhausting to do two meetings back-to-back.

But Diana chose for her. “Perfect. I have to drop my daughter off at the airport early in the morning. Then I was going to take a ride. The little stable where my horses board is on your way. Could you pop by before your meeting?”

Lana took a long nap that afternoon. By the time she padded into the kitchen, dinner was over. Beth was bent over the table, surrounded by succulents, using hot glue to line a rusted-out teapot with sphagnum moss.

“I was thinking about what you said this morning,” Lana said. “You were right.”

A handful of moss flew into the air. “Ma! Can you not sneak up on me in my own house?”

Lana brushed a bright green tendril off her cheek without comment.

“Right about what?” Beth asked.

“The Rhoads ranch. It is massive. Valuable. And now it’s in play.”

“Is this your way of apologizing for the other night?”

“What? This has nothing to do with that. We were upset. We had a chat. It’s over. What’s there for us to apologize for?”

“Whatever.” Beth resumed dotting the inner rim of the teapot with tiny beads of glue.

“Beth, listen. Jack says Ricardo probably died on the north side of the slough. Mr. Rhoads’s ranch is over there. And the land trust, where Ricardo worked, it owns the land just east of the ranch. The two men died just a couple days apart. So I got wondering—what if their deaths were connected?”

Beth stared at her mother. “Hal Rhoads died in his sleep.”

“Was there an autopsy?”

“Doctors don’t order autopsies for deaths by natural causes, Ma. Not unless the family requests it.” Beth put the glue gun down on the table. “Look, I’ll give you this. Ricardo worked for the land trust. Maybe he died on land trust property and drifted down into the mud. Maybe there’s a big torrid mystery there with your new friend Victor and his tree-hugger buddies. But I’m not seeing any connection to Mr. Rhoads.”

“What if the connection is the ranch? There may be a battle brewing over control of the property. Lady Di and Martin are involved. Victor as well. It’s possible Ricardo might have been too.”

“Leave it to you to turn this into a real estate drama,” Beth said.

The comment stung, but only for a moment. Lana considered whether it was possible she was projecting, forcing the world she knew onto this small-town tragedy. She didn’t think so. The Rhoads ranch was substantial. That many acres, that much money—Lana knew plenty of developers who would kill for less.

Lana cleared the far end of the kitchen table and sat down with her legal pad to make a list. Who was connected to both Ricardo Cruz and Hal Rhoads? Victor Morales, of course. He’d worked with both Ricardo and Hal, one as an employee, the other as a donor. He seemed intent on turning the ranch into a conservation showpiece, a golden feather in his cap. She put Victor’s name in big block letters at the top of a page.

Next on her list were Hal Rhoads’s family. Diana Whitacre. Her husband, Frank. The son, Martin Rhoads. The cousin from Houston, Caleb something? And the hippie niece from Jackson Hole.

Lana looked at the list. It felt too short. Was there anyone else who knew both Hal Rhoads and Ricardo Cruz?

“Jack?” Lana called over to the couch. “Do you think it’s possible your boss, Paul, knew Mr. Rhoads or Ricardo Cruz?”