Page 98 of Mother-Daughter Murder Night

“Even to meetings?”

“Everywhere.”

“So even if he was meeting with a big donor . . .”

“He’d bike. He had two panniers—bike bags—that were strapped behind the seat. He used one for his laptop, and he carried a change of clothes in the other.” Gaby smiled at the appalled look on Lana’s face. “Some of our donors? They thought it was cute. Like he was really committed. And he was. To his bike.”

“He took good care of it, huh?”

“Have you ever known a guy who loved his truck? Always shining the chrome and rotating the tires and calling it baby?”

Lana gave Gaby a wan smile, along with a silent thanks to God that she had never been intimate with such a man.

“Ricardo was like that with his bike. He even had a drawing of it tattooed on his butt.” Gaby blushed. “I mean, that’s what I heard.”

“Sounds like quite an athlete.”

“Oh yeah. A health nut too. He refused to get a smartphone, said it rotted your brain. And he never took a sick day. Ever.”

Lana closed her eyes for a moment. She should have known it wasn’t a doctor. Just because she had cancer didn’t mean the whole world was ailing. She could see the letters DR curled on the inside of her eyelids, Ricardo and Diana, on Wednesday nights, rolling around on a bearskin rug in front of the fire at the Rhoads ranch house.

Lana pushed the image out of her mind and refocused on the young woman in front of her. Gaby looked at ease now, watching the tanned, toned gap between the delivery man’s T-shirt and his jeans. But Lana had caught a whiff of discomfort earlier. There was something Gaby didn’t want to talk about.

“So Ricardo often came in late on Thursdays,” Lana said, drawing Gaby’s attention reluctantly back to her. “But the week he was killed, he didn’t come in Thursday at all?”

“That’s . . . right.” Gaby’s face turned nervous again, like the conversation had careened into a ditch. There was something ugly there. Something about that Thursday, the day before Ricardo died.

“Surely the detectives asked about his absence,” Lana said.

“Yes.” Gaby was looking at her shoes now.

“What did you tell them?”

The girl traced a tiny circle in the sidewalk with the toe of her shoe.

“Victor told us to say he was out sick,” she mumbled.

“But Ricardo didn’t take sick days.”

“No.” Gaby’s voice was getting softer, as if she were trying to fade into the asphalt.

“Gaby. Just between us. What happened?”

Gaby looked miserable. She glanced around the sidewalk, but there was no one to overhear them, or to rescue her.

“There was a fight,” Gaby whispered. Her words were tumbling out quickly now. “That Thursday. The day after the meeting with the doughnuts. Ricardo and Victor were in the library. At first it was quiet, but then Victor started yelling. When Victor is passionate about something, he can get really intense. Not violent or anything . . .” Gaby shook her head. “But we could hear everything. It was awful.”

“What was he saying?”

“He was shouting about honor and betrayal and how Ricardo had taken advantage of him.”

“What happened after the argument?”

“Ricardo grabbed his panniers and stormed out. I—I never saw him again.”

Gaby raised her eyes to meet Lana’s. Tears were running down her cheeks, bringing wet streaks of mascara with them.

“Victor cared about Ricardo. I know he did. He called him hijo, his son. And for that to be the last time they spoke . . .” She broke down again.