“They took all my others,” he said. “I needed this one to get my plants.”
There was no time to critique Paul’s shortsightedness. It might even help her. Lana gave him brief bullet points on his role, telling him where he’d wait and how she’d signal when she needed him. By the time she handed him her backup key fob, it was 6:05.
“We have to go,” she said.
“How are we going to get past the cop at the gate?”
“I’ve got a plan for that.”
It took only a little cajoling to get Paul to agree to it.
*
Diana stayed out front to wait for Lana while Beth, Jack, and Martin carried the food inside. The ranch house was cavernous and dark, cluttered with farm implements from the ranch’s past. They passed a set of massive elk horns in the foyer, a line of spurs mounted above the coat rack, and over every doorway, cattle brands, upside-down Rs wrought in heavy iron. On the way to the kitchen, Beth peeked left, into a sunken den that was dominated by a leather couch and a fireplace lined with wide, heavy river stones.
After Jack set the pie on the counter, she wandered into the den. Beth and Martin stayed in the kitchen. It was brighter than the rest of the house, all pale wood and windows with frilly curtains. The decor was avian, with wood-framed watercolors and sketches of pheasants, hawks, even a bald eagle.
“It’s lovely in here,” Beth said.
“This was my mom’s domain.” Martin poured wine into two glasses, handing one to Beth. “She had a light touch.”
Beth leaned in to take a closer look at a framed photograph hanging by the kitchen sink. It was a large group of people, thirty or so, standing in front of the barn. Most of them were holding hand tools, smiling. But not the Rhoadses. Younger versions of Martin and Diana stood on one edge of the doorway, faces solemn, clutching flowers. Hal stood between the open doors, beside a Mexican woman with a toddler. Beth had the feeling she’d seen them before.
“When was this?” she asked.
“Twenty-five years ago, give or take. When the new barn was raised.”
Beth looked again. She squinted into the dark mouth of the barn, letting the rest of the crowd go blurry. Then she remembered. Hal, the tired woman, and the baby boy, clipped out and hidden in the back of the picture frame in his room at Bayshore Oaks.
“Who’s that?” Beth asked, pointing at the Mexican woman.
Martin leaned closer. “Sofia.” His voice was stilted. “She worked here. Her husband, he died in the fire with my mother, in the barn that was here before.”
“How awful.” Beth looked at the woman with the little boy, imagining how devastated she must have been, knowing the hard path that lay ahead of her.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the low purr of a car approaching outside. A set of headlights swung across the kitchen windows, and Lana’s Lexus rolled into view.
Through the kitchen window, Beth watched as Lady Di and her mother greeted each other. Lana was decked out in a sharp black suit and heels. It even looked like she’d had her wig styled. Lady Di was more subdued in her long, camel peacoat, clutching a large folio of papers.
“Martin!” Diana called out. “Come and say hello to Ms. Rubicon.”
Martin flinched. But he didn’t leave. He pulled back from the window and looked at Beth. “Your mother,” he said. “I hear she’s quite the real estate shark.”
“More of a leopard seal. Cute on the outside, razor-sharp teeth on the inside.”
“Is she going to cause problems for me?”
Beth’s face froze in a half smile. “I think she’s just trying to help—”
“My sister, I know. And Ricardo Cruz. She seems very helpful.”
Beth nodded uncomfortably. Maybe bringing their separate family tensions into the same house wasn’t such a great idea.
Chapter Fifty
Dinner was more than a little awkward. Diana had bought a salad and fancy pizzas, the kind that came with fussy toppings and no sauce on rosemary-scented crackers. She kept trying to bring up her proposal for the future of the ranch, but Martin refused to talk business until after they’d eaten. They crunched their way through the meal, grasping for something to talk about.
“Jack, I was sorry to hear about your boss,” Martin said.
Jack looked at him quizzically.
“What are you talking about?” Beth asked.
“I saw a news alert an hour ago,” Martin said. “Apparently the sheriffs have a warrant out for Paul Hanley’s arrest. For the murder of Ricardo Cruz. And Hanley appears to be missing.”
Lana took a careful sip of her water. “I’m not sure I agree with the sheriffs about who killed Ricardo Cruz.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Diana’s jaw stiffen.
“This is hardly appropriate dinner conversation,” Diana said.
“You’re right, Di,” Martin said easily. He looked almost happy to have contributed to the unsettling of his sister. “So, Lana. I hear you have lung cancer?”
Diana almost choked on her wine.
Lana gazed up at the man neutrally, as if he’d asked her if she had enough salad.
“That’s correct, Martin.” Lana gave him a thin smile. “And if you’ll excuse me, I realize I left my pills in the car.”
Lana sauntered to the front door. Once outside, she strode over to Diana’s Jaguar. It was a sedan, fairly new, in an understated gray-green. Try as she might, she couldn’t recall seeing it before.
But the dusty pickup behind it did look familiar. The more she stared at the rusted old Ford, the more certain she was that it was the truck parked behind her at the land trust the day of the fire. It couldn’t have been further from Diana’s style—which made it perfect if she was trying to hide her tracks.
Finally. Concrete evidence. Lana wanted to shout or jump, but instead she took out her phone and photographed the truck from every angle. Then she headed over to her car to grab an old pill dispenser from the glove compartment and check that the photos were decent. Swiping through them filled her with energy. She was confident there was more to find that linked Diana to Ricardo. Maybe even the murder weapon. She wanted just enough time to get what they could, and then they needed to hand it all over before Diana realized what was happening. She fired off a text to Detective Ramirez.
Meet me at Rhoads ranch. 8 p.m. I promise Paul Hanley will be there.
She got out of the car and put one hand on the trunk to steady herself. She felt a soft flutter, as if the car were pregnant. She looked around. The closest greenhouse was dark, silent, the shadows behind it growing longer. She watched the world slip from twilight to night, hundreds of stars peeking out over the slough.
She was ready. Lana stepped away from the Lexus, considering the presentation ahead. She had to get Diana and Martin talking or arguing or both. She knew how to stretch out the negotiation if she had to. She walked around Beth’s Camry and past Martin’s Maserati to head back to the house.
Or rather, almost past. Her stride was broken by an aberration, a kind of stop sign slamming in her brain. For a moment, Lana was afraid she was going to have another fall. But then she realized it was something in Martin’s car that had caused her to freeze.
The convertible’s top was down, the seats packed with suitcases and boxes. It appeared to be a mix of his own personal items and things from the ranch—likely heirlooms Martin wanted to bring back to San Francisco. There was a weathered cane chair sandwiched in the passenger seat upside down, its stiff back creating a kind of cage for a set of antique farm tools laid out on a towel on the floor. A bag stuffed with file folders held the chair in place, settled on the underneath of the seat like an anchor.
It was the bag that stopped her. Glossy and heavy-looking, all black, with two thin plastic grooves running down one side.
She glanced back at the closed door to the house. She’d have to get back in there soon. She pushed aside the images in her mind of Diana Whitacre and Ricardo Cruz and tried to listen with another part of her brain, where a tiny bell was ringing about the bag.