Page 99 of Mother-Daughter Murder Night

Lana dug into her purse and extracted a set of tissues and a compact. She handed them to Gaby and waited, thinking, while the girl pulled herself back together.

She was finally getting somewhere. She knew where Ricardo had been: on Wednesday night, he stayed with Diana. Thursday, he broke the news to Victor about leaving the land trust to work with Hal on Verdadera Libertad. They argued. And then Ricardo went—where?

“Do you remember which direction Ricardo biked when he left? After that fight?”

Gaby still looked miserable. “South.”

South. Back to Diana. Lana tried to imagine how Ricardo must have felt that day. Did he bike to the ranch after the fight with Victor to seek comfort from Diana? Did he go there to tell her about the Verdadera Libertad project, only to be murdered by her the next day? Or was it possible Victor had been angry enough to kill Ricardo over his betrayal? Victor could have contacted Ricardo asking to meet at the land trust property by the slough that Friday, to talk things out, to reconcile. Ricardo wouldn’t have thought to be afraid, wouldn’t have necessarily told anyone or brought someone with him.

Her thoughts were broken by Gaby, pressing Lana’s compact back into her hand. When Lana looked up, Gaby’s face was back in order. She looked luminous, unbreakable, as confident as Lana felt unsure. Lana knew the look, knew its benefits, the way beauty could serve as armor.

Lana accepted her compact and the unused tissues with a nod. “You’ve given me a lot to think about, Gaby. And no need to mention our chat to anyone. Women like us have to stick together, right?”

For a moment, Lana saw a fault line open on Gaby’s face, a tiny frisson of worry rippling the perfectly smooth surface of her skin. Then the girl breathed out a small sigh. She turned away from Lana, toward the clump of workmen, stretching her back in a way that lengthened her hair and pushed her breasts toward the sun.

“Ms. Rubicon, I’ve already forgotten we spoke.”

Lana slid back into her car and checked her watch. There was just enough time to get home and lie down for a bit before Jack got back from school.

As she drove, her mind drifted. She imagined Ricardo biking down to the ranch to see Diana. It had to be at least fifteen miles. Biking. What was the appeal? Lana passed two women in tight floral unitards, pedaling hard on the shoulder of the highway, the ocean glittering off to their right. Sure, their calves looked phenomenal, but the idea of going head-to-head with automobile traffic terrified Lana. Not to mention the damage a helmet could do to your hair.

Not that cardio was a high priority for Lana these days. She thought again about the PET scans from yesterday. She hated waiting for results—waiting for anything, really—but part of her felt safe in this life in Elkhorn, its known aches and pains, balanced with simple pleasures. Lana passed another cyclist by the marina, a wobbly guy in army fatigues with a tiny dog in a basket in front of him. She had a sudden memory of the bike she’d had as a kid. White basket. Red streamers. Lana remembered sailing through the warren of streets behind the synagogue, that sense of freedom, the rush of wind lifting her sticky hair off the back of her neck. She wondered if she’d ever feel that alive again.

Lana parked outside the house and sat in her car, her thoughts turning back to murder. She had to admit it. She’d been wrong. She’d been biased by her professional experience into thinking this whole thing was about land. Who owned it. Who controlled it. What you could and couldn’t do with it. Hal and Ricardo had Verdadera Libertad. Victor had his conservation plans. Paul had his mysterious Fruitful company. And the Rhoads children had an entire ranch to fight over. It added up to a hundred different reasons for someone to commit murder.

But love was the trump card. Love was more potent than land. Especially when it got twisted into something ugly by surprise.

What kind of love had led to Ricardo’s death? Was it the fatherly love Victor had for Ricardo, and the pain that followed when the older man discovered the younger had betrayed him to pursue his own dream? Or was it lust—an affair gone wrong with Diana?

Lana thought back to Jack’s comment about Ricardo being the linchpin, and what Diana had said about not suffering betrayal by men. Perhaps Ricardo was the operations manager she’d mentioned, the one she’d picked out for her wellness ranch. Lana could imagine Diana mapping it all out: Ricardo running the spa by day, then keeping her bed warm at night. Maybe she’d even pitched him on that fantasy. Maybe he’d pretended to go along with it. If Ricardo was promising Diana one thing about her project, stringing along Victor on his, and then making plans behind both their backs with Hal about something entirely different . . . well, that was the best motive for murder she’d heard so far. For either of them.

Chapter Forty-Four

Jack spent the bike ride home from school debating what to write back to the guy with the boat in San Luis Obispo. When she got inside, Lana emerged from the back bedroom with a roll of papers in her hand.

“What are you up to tonight?” Lana asked.

“Um . . . homework? I have to write an essay about early twentieth-century presidents. What about you?”

Lana unfurled the roll onto the table. “Learning what I can about Lady Di’s horse spa.”

“Ooh . . . can I look?”

“You do your work. I’ll do mine. Then we’ll talk.”

While Jack tackled her essay, Lana marked up the set of plans Diana had given her at lunch the day before. After her discoveries that afternoon, she’d decided to do whatever she could to stay close to Diana. And the plans were interesting. Lana didn’t really know whether a wellness spa needed two equine hydrotherapy pools, but the business model looked sound. She had just shot Diana an email with a few bullets on the profitability calculations when she looked up and saw Jack staring at her.

“What?” Lana asked.

“You know how you told me winners never mumble?” Jack held up the book she was reading about Theodore Roosevelt. “He says you should speak softly and carry a big stick.”

Lana scoffed. “You think they let women have sticks?”

Nicoletti appeared on the six o’clock news, after a segment about a despondent lady in Salinas whose winning lottery ticket got shredded in a lettuce harvester. Jack and Lana watched from the couch, sharing a pot of mac and cheese, peas, and corn all mixed together.

The detective stood on the asphalt behind the Kayak Shack, his nubbly brown suit making him look like a bedraggled teddy bear. Nicoletti’s droning recitation of the facts of the case was intercut with ominous shots of the slough at night, pickleweed popping out bloodred against the dark water.

“They made the slough look kind of scary with those weird angles,” Jack said.