Mother-Daughter Murder Night

“What did I tell you about wearing jeans to a funeral?” Lana hissed as they headed for their seats.

The program consisted of a series of speeches from Hal Rhoads’s family and closest associates. His son, Martin, played master of ceremonies, introducing speakers and gently removing the ones who broke down crying on the dais. Diana offered a host of generic platitudes in an affected English accent. A gruff-looking cousin from Houston proved too torn up to speak. A dreadlocked niece who lived on an ashram in Jackson Hole said a prayer that suggested her great-uncle was now a red-shouldered hawk, or a sycamore, or possibly a hawk nested in a sycamore.

It got more interesting when friends came up to the microphone. Scotty O’Dell, the manager of the yacht club, told a story about how Hal had taken a chance and staked him as a professional windsurfer, the only guy on the racing circuit with a cattle rancher for a sponsor. Beth’s boss at Bayshore Oaks, Cecelia, talked about the meticulous notes Mr. Rhoads had given her regarding how she might improve the productivity of the small herb garden that lined the exercise yard. Victor Morales, a distinguished-looking man with salt-and-pepper hair, spoke at length about Se?or Rhoads’s generosity to the Central Coast Land Trust, his support for small farmers, and his vision that old ranches might find new ways to exist in harmony with nature.

Victor gestured to Martin and Diana and beamed. “The whole Rhoads family, we are lucky to have them in our community. I look forward to working together to protect this precious land for many generations to come.”

There was a smattering of applause, which Martin cut short by stepping to the microphone. Martin was a tall, slender man, the kind who retained a boyish awkwardness into adulthood. The local men seated behind Lana whispered about how he’d made a killing in tech but couldn’t shoe a horse to save his life.

“Thank you all for coming,” Martin said. “My father was not a religious man, but he was a dreamer, and we have all been touched by his dreams.” He looked over his right shoulder and gestured to an ancient oak tree on a hill beyond the cow pasture. “After today’s remembrance, my father will be laid to rest in the family plot. So he can keep dreaming on this land that he loved.”

Once the speeches were over, the Rubicon women stood up from their uncomfortable chairs, intent on different directions: Beth to pay her respects, Lana to look for clues, Jack to explore.

“Try not to get into trouble,” Beth said.

Lana flicked her wig behind her beret and headed toward the refreshments.

*

At the wine table, Lana found a local sauvignon blanc and Victor Morales.

“It was lovely, what you said about Mr. Rhoads.”

Victor smiled and tipped a bottle of wine in her direction. She nodded and he poured. Lana had never had reason or desire to learn the finer points of land trusts and the do-gooder side of real estate. But Victor Morales was worth studying. He was about sixty, one of those men who aged into their attractiveness, with broad shoulders and warm, crinkling eyes. Lana bet he was aware of the effect the combination might have on women.

With a flourish, Victor presented her with a glass of wine and winked. Well aware.

“Se?or Rhoads was a prince among men.”

Lana caught a sliver of accent in his speech. “Are you from Oaxaca?”

“How did you know?”

“I developed a resort there. A long time ago.”

Victor regarded Lana with increased interest, his eyes holding hers as they migrated together away from the wine table.

“And how did you know Se?or Rhoads?”

“I didn’t. My daughter, Beth, is a nurse at the facility where he died. They were close. Talked about the slough. She lives across the water from here.” Lana offered her hand. “I’m Lana. Lana Rubicon.”

“Lana Rubicon.” He turned the name over in his mouth, savoring it.

From where they stood at the edge of the ranch’s driveway, Lana could see 270 degrees around, with the slough and Beth’s little house to the south, the ocean glinting to the west, and farmland stretching east. The marsh below them was a no-man’s-land of pickleweed and sludge cut through with tiny creeks, spiraling and crisscrossing from the grassy hills of the ranch to the slow-moving slough. Lana spotted a few patches of solid ground, but mostly, the bottom of the hill was a mess of muck and stagnant water, a perfect feeding ground for the birds that punctuated the marsh in little crowds.

“You should see it at king tide.” Victor was standing at her left shoulder. “Twice a year, the whole marsh floods. The cows have to swim back to the ranch. When the water recedes, there are new streams, new ponds, new valleys. It reshapes everything.” He looked at her. “Do you live nearby?”

Lana paused, unsure which version of her saga she wanted to share. “I’ve spent my whole life in Los Angeles. Working in real estate. But for now I’m here, with my daughter and granddaughter.”

“Real estate? Then we are in the same business!” A mischievous smile lit up his face.

“To be honest, I’m not precisely clear on how a land trust operates.” Lana had yet to meet a man who could resist the opportunity to explain himself.

“It is our ambition to ensure that all of this”—Victor swept his arms out wide—“persists. We work with property owners who share this vision.”

“Preserving all land for nature? What about people? What about progress?”

Victor locked eyes with her. “We are not so simpleminded as that. Just like the marsh, the land will keep evolving. We are here to balance it in harmony with the changing of the world.”

He told her about some of their current projects. The heiress of a timber empire had donated a ten-thousand-acre forest to the land trust, and they were now converting it from a clear-cut operation to one that could be logged sustainably. Two property owners on either side of a forest highway had formed an easement to build a wildlife tunnel, so animals could cross the busy road without becoming roadkill. And near the slough, just beyond the Rhoads ranch, the land trust managed nearly a thousand acres on the north bank, converting the land from bedraggled vegetable farms into a world-class refuge for coastal wildlife.

“And what were you cooking up with Mr. Rhoads?”

Victor glanced back to the main house. “It is so sad,” he sighed. “This is a terrible week. First, to lose Ricardo, and now Se?or Rhoads . . .” He remembered himself. “My colleague Ricardo Cruz, he was working with Se?or Rhoads on a big dream. This ranch, this one property, will enable us to make the entire northern bank of the slough a wildlife protective zone. Se?or Rhoads and I agreed to form a partnership years ago, and Ricardo was working with him to finalize the details. It will be the largest conserved wetland in the western US, saved forever from development and extractive practices.”

“Sounds like quite the undertaking.” Lana’s mind raced. She wanted to ask more about Ricardo Cruz, but it felt awkward to do so at someone else’s funeral.

“It is what dreams are made of. This project will mean international recognition, federal funds . . .”

“And a home for the animals.”

Victor looked at her, his eyes shining. “Of course, it is all for the animals.”

Then he blinked, and his thick eyelashes erased the glorious vision he’d been erecting. “But now, with Se?or Rhoads and Ricardo gone, it is hard to imagine the project without them.”

“I’m so sorry. How did Ricardo die, may I ask?”

She decided to play dumb, hoping he’d have additional information to add to what she’d already learned. But Victor’s face clouded over, and he shook his head. “They do not yet know what happened.”

He turned toward the house, his voice hardening. “This is our one chance to protect the bank, all the way from the ocean to the hills. This is generations of possibilities. Thousands of species. This was Se?or Rhoads’s vision. The project must go on.”

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