“Is this your way of apologizing for the other night?”
“What? This has nothing to do with that. We were upset. We had a chat. It’s over. What’s there for us to apologize for?”
“Whatever.” Beth resumed dotting the inner rim of the teapot with tiny beads of glue.
“Beth, listen. Jack says Ricardo probably died on the north side of the slough. Mr. Rhoads’s ranch is over there. And the land trust, where Ricardo worked, it owns the land just east of the ranch. The two men died just a couple days apart. So I got wondering—what if their deaths were connected?”
Beth stared at her mother. “Hal Rhoads died in his sleep.”
“Was there an autopsy?”
“Doctors don’t order autopsies for deaths by natural causes, Ma. Not unless the family requests it.” Beth put the glue gun down on the table. “Look, I’ll give you this. Ricardo worked for the land trust. Maybe he died on land trust property and drifted down into the mud. Maybe there’s a big torrid mystery there with your new friend Victor and his tree-hugger buddies. But I’m not seeing any connection to Mr. Rhoads.”
“What if the connection is the ranch? There may be a battle brewing over control of the property. Lady Di and Martin are involved. Victor as well. It’s possible Ricardo might have been too.”
“Leave it to you to turn this into a real estate drama,” Beth said.
The comment stung, but only for a moment. Lana considered whether it was possible she was projecting, forcing the world she knew onto this small-town tragedy. She didn’t think so. The Rhoads ranch was substantial. That many acres, that much money—Lana knew plenty of developers who would kill for less.
Lana cleared the far end of the kitchen table and sat down with her legal pad to make a list. Who was connected to both Ricardo Cruz and Hal Rhoads? Victor Morales, of course. He’d worked with both Ricardo and Hal, one as an employee, the other as a donor. He seemed intent on turning the ranch into a conservation showpiece, a golden feather in his cap. She put Victor’s name in big block letters at the top of a page.
Next on her list were Hal Rhoads’s family. Diana Whitacre. Her husband, Frank. The son, Martin Rhoads. The cousin from Houston, Caleb something? And the hippie niece from Jackson Hole.
Lana looked at the list. It felt too short. Was there anyone else who knew both Hal Rhoads and Ricardo Cruz?
“Jack?” Lana called over to the couch. “Do you think it’s possible your boss, Paul, knew Mr. Rhoads or Ricardo Cruz?”
Jack looked up from her homework in confusion.
“I’m making a list of everyone who knew both the men who died,” Lana said.
Jack walked over to the table to look. “I don’t know,” she said slowly. “I mean, Scotty talked at the funeral, and he and Paul are tight, so maybe Paul knew Mr. Rhoads? And there was that kayak hanging there . . .”
It was good enough to put him on the list. There were already plenty of suspicious connections between Paul and Ricardo Cruz. Paul had taken the tour booking. Ricardo was found wearing one of Paul’s life jackets. And then there was the missing Maglite.
“Are you going to tell the cops about this, Prima? I mean, they might not even know about Mr. Rhoads’s death.”
More likely they wouldn’t care. “They won’t listen to me. I need to find evidence that links the two deaths, something real, to get them to pay attention.”
“Can I help?” Jack asked. “I mean, I already met the detectives. And now that I’m not a suspect . . .”
Jack seemed eager, her pupils dilated with excitement. But then Lana looked past Jack, to Beth, who was aggressively snipping leaves off a tiger-tooth aloe plant with a pair of shears.
“You’ve already done a lot, Jack,” Lana said. “We don’t want to draw attention. You can help me stay organized here.”
Jack’s eyes lost a bit of their sparkle. But she quickly recovered. “What are you going to do next?”
“I’m visiting Victor Morales at the land trust on Wednesday. And Lady Di, at her stables. You can tell me if you hear anything from Paul or anyone at the Shack about what the detectives are asking.”
There was another suspect on Lana’s list who wasn’t spoken for. Lana looked up at Beth.
“Is your date with Martin Rhoads happening?”
Beth decapitated another succulent. “It’s not a date.”
“Why not?”
Jack coughed. “Mom only goes out with lumberjacks.”
“Jack! What are you talking about?” Beth’s tone was annoyed, but she was smiling.
“There was that park ranger who only wore flannel. The paramedic with the beard. And that musician who—”
“I date laid-back, capable men . . .”
“Who all happen to look like lumberjacks.”
It was one of those moments that would have been sweet if Lana didn’t feel so left out. She told herself she didn’t want what Beth and Jack had: the casual banter, kitchen-table craft projects, or questionable standards for male company. But she wanted them to see her. To listen to her.
“I’m not asking you to date Martin,” Lana said. “But can you spend some time with him?”
Beth’s smile faded. She looked down at the garden shears in her hand.
“This is important, Beth. You can ask if he knows anything about the murder.”
“If it’s so important, maybe you should get a beer with him.”
Lana took a step back. She needed this. “Beth. Please.”
Lana and Jack both looked at Beth. Her face was a mottled mess of irritation at the request and pleasure at their interest. Lana knew if she’d asked Beth when they were alone, Beth would have stormed out or snapped back at her. But Jack had softened her up. Jack was Lana’s trump card.
Beth put down the clippers. “I can’t make any promises.”
“But maybe you’ll try?” Jack said.
Beth gave a curt nod and picked up the freshly planted teapot. A ribbon of moss dangled from her sleeve, following her out the front door.
*
By the time Beth had all her cuttings potted, Jack and Lana were on the couch, a giant bowl of popcorn nestled between them.
“Hey, Mom, you want to watch with us? They already showed the murder, but Columbo hasn’t figured out yet how he did it.”
“Can’t. Too busy.” Beth dragged a rag across the table, wiping away little bits of aloe and moss.
“It wouldn’t kill you to take a break.” Lana took a single kernel of popcorn from the bowl and turned to Jack. “When your mom was a kid, Columbo was her favorite. She even dressed up as him one year for Halloween.”
“Did you give her a cigar?”
“I made a fake one out of a toilet paper roll.” Beth plopped down on the end of the couch and wiped her hands on her jeans.
“I didn’t know you were into detective shows.”
“It was a long time ago.” Beth reached across Jack and pulled the bowl of popcorn toward her. “It started after Dad left, before Ma became a big shot. We’d melt cheese on bialys and watch in her bed. Mother-daughter murder night, we used to call it. It was our little ritual.”
Lana remembered the stress of that time, barely covering the rent on their tiny apartment, pushing herself day and night to build a career out of nothing. Trying to be strong, willing herself strong, for Beth. For both of them.
“Columbo’s kind of a dope,” Jack said.
“That was his genius,” Beth said. “Everyone underestimated him. They didn’t see what he knew, what he was capable of, until it was too late.”
Lana looked over at her daughter. Beth’s nails were bare and half-bitten, her hair sticking out from under a hand-crocheted beanie. She had one hand in the popcorn bowl, the other arm around Jack.
“No more talking,” Lana said. “We’re just about to get to the good part.”
Chapter Twenty-Two