Page 82 of Mother-Daughter Murder Night

“Where did you get this?” Beth pointed to the envelope.

“Mail room,” Miss Gigi said. She settled on a chair, pulled back her sleeve, and presented her arm to Beth. She gave a quick nod of satisfaction when the needle slid in clean on the first attempt. “I have Tuesday shift. And I remember you telling me about Mr. Rhoads’s funeral.”

“And?”

“And he has a very handsome son.” Miss Gigi looked up at her from under a halo of rainbow eye shadow. She pressed two freshly painted fingernails into Beth’s forearm. “You like it? Called crackle polish. I can have Cesar bring you some.”

“Miss Gigi, you can’t just take—” Beth pried the woman’s fingers from her arm, with a bit more force than she intended. Then she shook her head. “You know what? It’s fine. I’m . . . in touch with Mr. Rhoads’s son. I can pass it on to him.”

“In touch?”

The expectant look on Miss Gigi’s face was accentuated by the rainbows on her eyelids. Beth bent down, suddenly very focused on applying medical tape over the injection site to hold the needle in place.

“We’re neighbors,” she finally said.

“You bring him pie?”

Beth stared at Miss Gigi. The tiny woman beamed back. “You bring him his dead father’s mail, you bring fresh pie, he will look at you differently. You have a nice figure, Beth. Good heart. But you need to—”

“Miss Gigi, I’m not—”

The IV stand started rattling, shaking the infusion bag and giving Beth an escape route.

Beth reached over for her buzzing phone, glanced at the screen, and switched off the ringer. “Sorry about that.”

“Maybe it is your neighbor man. You should answer.”

“It’s my mother.”

“Then you should absolutely answer.”

“You don’t know my mother.”

“All mothers are the same. They call, you answer. You want your daughter to ignore when you call?”

Beth started backing out of the room. “Forty-five minutes for this infusion, then I’ll be back to set you free.”

“God has set me free, Beth! Take the envelope. And promise me you will comb your hair before you bring it to him.”

* * *

Lana hadn’t really expected Beth to call her back. She had extricated herself from the MRI and PET scanners, upgraded her outfit in the cramped clinic bathroom, and was now driving south into Carmel to hunt for Diana Whitacre’s precious country club.

“Is Jack okay?” Lana yelled through the car speaker. The views were incredible on 17-Mile Drive, all windswept Monterey pines and rocky coves and tourists snapping photos from their rental cars. The phone reception, on the other hand, was terrible. All that wealth and no one had figured out how to get decent cell service.

“Ma, Jack’s fine. She texted me when she got to school three hours ago. What’s up?”

“I was just calling to check. That everything was all right.”

The words felt strange coming out of Lana’s mouth. But it was true. She didn’t have an agenda for calling. It felt . . . embarrassing.

“Well, thank you.” Beth sounded as surprised as Lana felt. “How were your scans?”

“Laugh a minute. I’ll have the results early next week.”

The sound crackled. Lana was about to end the call when Beth’s voice came through loud and clear. “Ma, I found something. An architectural firm mailed a package to Mr. Rhoads here.”

“That’s fantastic! I can swing by on my way back from lunch—”