Page 66 of Mother-Daughter Murder Night

“What are you—”

“Is it straight?” Lana demanded.

Beth could see Jack’s shoulders trembling. “It’s fine.”

“Good!” Lana bounced forward with the hammer, Jack ducked out of its path, and the corkboard clattered to the floor.

“Shit. Well. Third time’s a charm.” Lana gave Jack an upward nod, and the teenager climbed back onto the desk.

Beth looked around the bedroom. The desk was stacked with Lana’s books: The Art of War, The Emperor’s Handbook, and one featuring a woman with big hair and shoulder pads under the title They Can Kill You but They Can’t Eat You. The bedspread was buried under a pile of printouts: contracts, maps, and blurry photographs. It was clear they’d been at it—whatever it was—for a while.

“What’s going on here?”

“Prima found a lot of good stuff at the land trust.”

Beth looked back at the papers on the bed. “You stole all these?”

“Of course not.” Lana was lining up an army of pushpins on the corkboard. “I took photographs with my phone.”

“I see.”

“And I used the printer at the library after school,” Jack added.

“Uh-huh.”

“We’ve been going through it, and Mom? It’s pretty interesting.” Jack held her breath and prayed this wouldn’t turn into a fight.

“Well . . . good. I brought dinner. Maybe you and the Zodiac hunter can tell me about it over fried rice.”

“I’ve decided to recalibrate my approach,” Lana said. “To focus on finding evidence. Not apprehending the murderer.”

“Seems wise,” Beth said. She looked apprehensively at the hammer, which was now sitting on the table next to Lana’s plate.

“The woman detective, Ramirez, she’s the one who should get the solve.”

“Very generous of you, Ma.”

Lana nodded. “But no one involved in the investigation is more qualified than I am to review these real estate documents.”

Lana held forth about the land trust, sharing what she’d learned from her visit. The land to the west of the Rhoads ranch was public. The land to the east was managed by the land trust. The ranch was a linchpin. For what, she didn’t quite know yet. But she was sure she’d figure it out.

“You still think there’s a connection between Mr. Rhoads’s ranch and Ricardo’s death?” Beth tried to keep the skepticism out of her voice.

“There’s more than one. Jack, can you get the list?”

Jack picked up an old Spanish test and flipped it over. The back was covered in neat lines of purple ink. “One,” she read. “Ricardo talking with Mr. Rhoads about the future of the ranch.”

Lana nodded to her to continue.

“Two. Suspicious note about taking a big project away from the land trust. Three. Mr. Rhoads’s daughter, Diana Whitacre, squirrelly about Ricardo at the wake.”

“She seems . . . complicated,” Beth said.

“Strong women often are. I like her. We’re having lunch later this week.”

Beth looked at her. “If you’re up to it.”

“Please. I got more sleep in that hospital than I have in months. If I have enough energy to get strapped in a box for my MRI and PET scans Thursday morning, I think I deserve a little reward afterward. Now, Jack”—Lana brandished a chopstick at the girl—“back to our list.”