Page 73 of Mother-Daughter Murder Night

He cast a nervous glance around. There was no one else on the dock.

“Let me help you.”

He flung the duffel over one shoulder and threw a ragged sweatshirt on top of the cooler in the kayak. “Dock L,” he said. “Tell Beth to meet us there.”

While Lana texted Beth, Paul took out his phone and turned away from her.

“Scotty, hey.” He shot a nervous glance back at Lana. “Listen, I’ve got a little situation here. Can you pick up the cooler? Dock B. I know . . . We’ll find a better place soon, bud. Promise. Catch you later.”

Lana resisted the urge to take a closer look at the cooler.

“What’s on Dock L?” she asked.

“I have a motorboat we use for stranded kayakers, tourists who lose a paddle or get caught out too far when the wind picks up. I’ll take you out and we can look around.”

“We already did that—”

“But you were in a car, right?”

Lana nodded.

“Everything looks different when you’re in the water,” Paul replied. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep you safe.”

* * *

They peeled out of the marina in a rush of seagull cries and motor oil. Beth watched the water, muttering curses at every bobbing shape that turned out to be a sea lion instead of her daughter. Lana watched Paul.

The boat cut a rippling line up the center of the slough, pushing them past kayaks and clutches of otters. They zipped by Beth’s house on the right, Beth’s eyes tracing every inch of the narrow beach, praying for a sign of her daughter. The back bedroom window winked at her. But there was no one there.

They kept going, up past Bird Island, past the decrepit shark-hunting blinds and the long spit where harbor seals liked to sleep the day away. There was an old falling-down shack at the end of the spit, and Beth almost asked Paul to stop, to let her out to run toward the slimy, gutted wood and rip the rotted door off its hinges. But it looked too much like a place for a dead girl or a skeleton, a secret long buried. Not a place for Jack with her bright red life jacket over her powerful, thumping heart.

When they passed the mud flats, Lana’s voice rose sharply over the whine of the motor.

“There. Stop.”

Paul let the boat idle, and Lana pointed north, to a break in the bank where a narrow channel intersected the slough. The channel was edged in tufts of horsetail reeds, a feathery mouth of water that ran perpendicular to the slough for fifteen yards before snaking up to the west in a dizzying swirl of switchbacks and brush.

“Last night, Jack and I were looking at some maps,” Lana said. “Those creeks back there, they link the slough to the land trust. Maybe to the ranch as well. Jack and I were wondering . . .” She turned abruptly to Paul. “Can we go in there?”

Paul shook his head. “It’s not deep enough for a motorboat. Most of the time, even a kayak would get stuck back there.”

“Do you know where it lets out?”

Paul shook his head again, too quickly this time. “It’s all private property back in there.”

Lana looked at him for a long moment. She knew his leased land for Fruitful LLC was back there somewhere. There had to be more he wasn’t telling them. But if his boat couldn’t go up the channel, pushing him wasn’t going to help them find Jack. They needed him on their side until they found her.

“Do you want to go up farther?” Paul asked, nodding toward the slough, which continued eastward into the Salinas hills.

“Give us a minute, Paul.” Lana leaned in close to Beth. “I think she’s up that creek somewhere. On the land trust property, maybe. Or the Rhoads ranch.”

“We already drove up there.”

“I know, but . . . I just have a feeling.”

Beth stared at her mother curiously, as if Lana had stolen something from her when her back was turned. Then she nodded.

“I’ll call Martin. You call Lady Di and the land trust. We’ll find someone who can help us.”