“Where was this tiny pitch conference?”
“Next time I’ll tap his phone, Ma.” Beth shook her head. “Seriously. He’s a good guy. Smart. No ax-murderer vibes. We had more in common than I expected.”
“Anything I should know before I see his sister tomorrow?”
“There was one thing.” Beth paused for a moment, relishing the naked interest on her mother’s face. “Apparently Victor Morales is harassing them about donating the ranch to the land trust.”
“From what Victor said at the wake, it was what Hal Rhoads wanted.”
Beth shrugged. “Not according to Martin. He says whatever his father signed was just for show.”
“Are you going to see him again?” Jack asked.
Something was hiding in Jack’s question, and Beth couldn’t tell if it was hope or concern. Her voice softened. “It wasn’t a date, honey.”
“But could it be?” Lana said.
“Excuse me?”
“Could you turn it into a date?”
Beth wasn’t sure what her mother meant. She wasn’t ready to get into a discussion about how rich tech guys weren’t her idea of boyfriend material.
“I know he’s not a lumberjack,” Lana continued. “But if we needed more information from Martin, could you put on a skirt and . . . ?”
“Ma!”
“You’re right. A tank top and jeans are probably better. You have good shoulders.”
“Ma, you’re not pimping me out for your investigation.”
“You just said yourself he’s not a murderer.”
“You know what?” Beth leaned across the table, swallowing up the light in her bomber jacket. “If you want to manipulate people, that’s your business. You’ve got a big day tomorrow, right? Seeing Martin’s sister and Victor Morales?”
Lana nodded.
“If anyone’s going on a date with a murderer, Ma, it might be you.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
The third day after chemo was always Lana’s worst. She felt a century older than she had a week ago, when she’d first ventured out for her investigation to meet up with Paul. She was exhausted. Her scalp itched all over. And she had mysterious aches. This morning she woke up with a dead left arm, as if a raccoon had slept on it. She couldn’t raise her hand above the shoulder without piercing pain. But she had meetings to attend, and a job is a job. Even if you aren’t getting paid.
Lana downed two aspirin and got dressed one-handed. The pale blue skirt suit hung loose on her frame, and she was starting to look more stick than figure. For the first time in her life, she was trying to gain weight. It wasn’t easy. Anything she forced down stuck in her throat like a mouse trying to burrow through a drinking straw. Today, she’d managed half a protein shake, a banana, and coffee before the mouse came sniffing. Her doctor had warned her off caffeine, but there were only so many concessions a woman could make. She slid into her slingback stilettos, the ones with the metal heels, stuffed her legal pad in her leather tote, and opened the garage.
Her gold Lexus rested quietly on the concrete. Lana hadn’t driven since the collapse. It took two months to convince Beth to clean out the garage so she could have it shipped north, then another two for Lana to get over her fear of having another fainting spell behind the wheel. It didn’t help that getting to Stanford Hospital required driving over a twisty mountain highway behind clattering trucks packed with boxes of lettuce and strawberries. Easier to rely on her daughter than risk ending up splattered jam salad.
But today was the day. She wasn’t going to overthink it. Lana strode up to the driver’s side door and felt the satisfying clunk of the latch disengaging, the door opening smoothly against her thumb. She felt the engine purr to life beneath her foot on the brake. After a flash of pain when her left arm gave out and she had to twist and pull the door closed with her right, she got moving. It was only after she crossed the bridge over the slough that she realized she’d been holding her breath.
The turnoff for the equestrian center where Lady Di trained was marked by a small, tasteful sign set into a wall of sculpted hedges. A security guard buzzed Lana through the gate and onto a private road lined with blocks of polished granite and gnarled Monterey cypress trees. The effect was something between a secure CIA facility and an ancient coastal forest. Lana parked and gave her name to a severe-looking woman with an earpiece by the front door of a stately, hulking building. Less than a minute later, a clean-shaven young man dressed entirely in white emerged from behind the heavy oak door.
“Mrs. Whitacre is still in session,” he said. His tone was half-apologetic, half-proud, as if Lady Di was to be admired for her dedication. “She called ahead and asked for you to come meet her at the arena. If you’ll follow me?”
The young man waved her into an electric golf cart and chauffeured her along a curving cobblestone pathway. There were women and horses everywhere. Young women in skintight pants leaping over fences. Older women in crisp jackets, turning dizzying circles around a ring. A group of eight-and nine-year-olds, their hair pouring like wheat from under their helmets, learning the proper way to mount. It was everything Lana had always imagined the Christian girls doing while she was stuck at Hebrew school.
The golf cart pulled up alongside a rectangular ring, in which a black horse with a plaited mane was prancing. It hopped sideways, then trotted in place, like a small child with a desperate need for the bathroom. Diana Whitacre sat astride the horse, wearing spotless ivory breeches, a black blazer, and tall black boots. As far as Lana could tell, the silvery whip Diana held in her white-gloved hand was just for show. The woman was controlling the horse with some kind of witchcraft.
After an impressive and confusing display of goose steps and pirouettes, Diana walked the horse in a slow promenade around the ring. When she reached the gate, she swung herself off the saddle and handed her helmet to a groom without looking at him.
“Lana!” she called out. Diana’s perfectly white skin was flushed, her blond hair pressed sweatily to her head. Lana gave her a smile and a curt wave, keeping a respectful distance from the heaving horse.
“I appreciate you coming to our little stable,” Diana said. She clipped a lead rope on her horse and started walking toward a large tent. The golf cart had disappeared, so Lana had no choice but to follow her. The tent was noisy and moist, with overhead fans drowning out all other sound. Lana realized the droplets hitting her jacket were coming from giant misters placed above each stall.
“A car wash for horses,” Lana mused.
“A cooldown station,” Diana corrected her. “Dressage training can be strenuous.”
“How often do you come here?”
“It used to be almost every day.” She sighed. “Since Daddy got sick, I’ve been in Elkhorn all the time. But I sneak up here when I can.”
“I see.” Lana stepped back to make way for a well-built groom leading a brown, foaming horse into the tent.
“Daddy and I both loved horses,” Diana said. She was watching the horse’s muscular backside, or perhaps the groom’s. “I do believe they are the best cure for heartache in the world.”
“From what I’ve heard, your father was quite a gentleman.”
“Daddy insisted Western riding was superior to English. Other than that, he was perfect.” Diana pulled her eyes away from the mist-filled tent, removed a glove, and patted her hair back into place. “Come,” she said. “We can talk in the saddlery.”
Lana followed Lady Di into a small, immaculate workshop, which thankfully smelled of leather instead of horse. Diana closed the door, trapping them inside. Lana sat on an uncomfortable bench, hoping this would not be a long conversation.
“Thank you for coming.” Diana was standing, stroking a saddle laid on top of a mahogany sawhorse. “I appreciate your time, truly.”
Lana nodded, then shifted on the bench. “Of course. I have to admit, I’m curious. What do you want to discuss?”