Page 90 of Mother-Daughter Murder Night

Lana sighed. This was as far as she was going to get today.

“Of course,” Lana said. “I’ll ask her. Would that be helpful?”

“Verified information about Mr. Cruz’s movements is helpful, Ms. Rubicon. Other theories, well, why don’t you just keep those to yourself.”

Chapter Forty

As Beth drove away from Bayshore Oaks, her eyes kept sliding to the manila envelope protruding from her messenger bag on the passenger seat. She knew she should bring it to the Rhoads family. She could hand it off to Martin at the yacht club tonight. Easy.

But there was another option too. She could bring the envelope home to Lana first, just for a peek. It would be a prize, an olive branch. A gift to the investigation, which, she had to admit, was getting more comprehensive by the day. It would also be illegal, or at least unethical. Mr. Rhoads had been her patient, and she had responsibilities to him, even in death.

She drove north and west, weighing her options. It was past seven, and the sun had already fallen below the horizon line of the ocean. Ahead of her, the safety lights on the decommissioned power plant outlined two ghostly smokestacks, towering over the water and the artichoke fields. As she got closer to the slough, an enormous flock of seagulls, hundreds of them, rose from the marsh in a dizzying swirl of white against the darkening sky.

She looked one more time at the envelope and made her decision, swinging her wheel to the left to go across the bridge.

The marina was quiet. No boats being washed, no fishermen coming in late. The fluorescent lamps in the parking lot were shot through with salt, casting weak pools of light on the handful of cars outside the yacht club. One lonely cop car idled outside the Kayak Shack. Beth shrugged on her jacket, grabbed her messenger bag, and headed to the club.

From the minute she stepped into the yacht club, she wondered if she’d made a mistake. The dining room was as empty as the lot and twice as gloomy. Three fishermen on their stools were arguing about the Warriors, and in the corner, a sour-faced woman was drinking the harbormaster under the table. Beth scanned the dark-wood tables and spotted Martin at a velvety booth, alone. There was a glass of amber-colored liquid in front of him. From the overlapping, wet halos on the table, it looked like it wasn’t his first drink.

She was debating whether to turn and leave when he saw her.

“Beth!” he called, overloud. His smile was broad. He looked younger than she’d seen him in the past, looser. As if the weight of the world had temporarily been relocated to someone else’s shoulders. “I’m glad you came.”

She ducked under the naval ship bell hanging above the booth and lowered herself onto the bench across from him. He smiled, and she got a whiff of pine needles and granite, laced with scotch.

Scotty walked over, a dish towel in his hand, thick eyebrows raised high above his weathered face.

“Can I have a Corona, please?” Beth asked.

“And another one of these,” Martin added.

“You got it, boss.”

After Scotty brought their drinks, Martin raised his glass.

“I’ve learned a lot about my father, these past few days,” he said. “The work he did, the things he held on to. But there’s still so much I’ll never know.”

Beth raised her beer bottle, unsure how to pick up his thread. “That’s the beauty of the people we love,” she finally said. “No matter how well we know them, there’s always more to discover.”

It wasn’t the most graceful toast, but then again, Martin didn’t seem sober enough to notice. They clinked, then sat there, sipping in companionable silence. The jukebox flipped from Sammy Davis to the Smiths, and Martin bobbed his head to the music, drumming along with his fingers on the table.

“I wouldn’t have pegged you for a New Wave fan,” Beth said.

“My mom.” He pulled his hands back from the table and smiled again. “She’d sing along to the radio while she was cooking. When I was a kid. She loved those mopey British guys.”

“You were close.”

“You only get one mother, right?” Martin ran his hand through his hair. “My dad passing, it makes me think of her too. The ranch is full of ghosts these days.”

“How’s your sister handling it?”

“General Di? Driving me up the wall. I keep telling her she can go home, but she insists on staying at the ranch with me, getting drunk on expensive wine and making wounded noises about every item I put in the pile to give away.”

“She must really miss your dad.”

“I think she’s been using the ranch to get away from her husband. From what I hear, Frank’s got girls all over town. I pitched him on an investment once, for my last company, but he said start-ups were too risky for his bank to get involved with. Please. The guy’s banging cocktail waitresses and I’m the one taking a risk? No wonder Di was always riding horses in Elkhorn with Dad.”

While Beth had never cared for Lady Di, she felt a prickle of discomfort at Martin’s drunken revelations. She tried to steer the conversation in a less embarrassing direction. “Were they close?”