Mother-Daughter Murder Night(2)
Chapter One
Three hundred miles south, Lana Rubicon lay sprawled on the dark slate floor of her kitchen, wondering how she got there.
Her interest was not philosophical. She didn’t want to know how she’d arrived on this planet or which of her Greek ancestors had blessed her with wrinkle-proof olive skin. She wanted to know why she’d collapsed, what was making her feel like a drunk at the carnival on a Wednesday at 7 a.m., and whether she could still make her 8 a.m. investor meeting.
She turned her head in small, careful increments, trying to get her bearings. Her briefcase and snakeskin heels were waiting for her in the front hallway to the left. To the right, the stainless steel door of the fridge was wide open, bottles of mineral water and premade salads lit from within as if they’d come from heaven instead of the Gelson’s delivery boy. A gooey liquid streaked across the floor from the bottom of the refrigerator to the side of Lana’s head. Lana put one hand to the matted hair at her temple and pulled it back for inspection. Her French-tipped fingernails were sticky and pink.
Not blood. Yogurt.
Lana decided it was a sign the day could only get better.
After five failed attempts to lift herself off the floor, Lana slid her phone out of her jacket pocket. She wavered for a moment over who to call. Her daughter was a nurse. Could be useful. But Beth was five hours away, and Lana wasn’t about to beg her own child for help.
She dialed the first number on her Favorites list instead.
Her assistant picked up on the first ring. “I know, I’m sorry, I’ll be in the office at seven fifteen. Some idiot set fire to the hillside by the Getty again and the 405 is—”
“Janie, I need you to . . .” Lana squinted up at the ceiling. Needed her to what? Scrape her off the floor? Stop the world from spinning? “I need you to reschedule my morning meetings.”
“But the Hacienda Lofts investors—”
“Tell them we’re adding sixty more units. Very exciting. Have to rework the plans. Champagne for everyone.”
“But—”
“Handle it. I’ll check in later.”
Lana closed her eyes for a moment, enjoying the feeling of cool tile against her cheek. Then she picked up her phone again and dialed 911.
Lana counted herself lucky that at fifty-seven years old this was her first time being wheeled into a hospital. Even lying on a gurney, Lana knew she looked worth saving. A tailored charcoal suit hugged her lithe frame. She hadn’t yet twisted her hair into a chignon, and plum-brown waves flowed down her back, some of them now tinted in strawberry yogurt. She held eye contact with the nurse as he rolled her into a giant white tube, silently directing him to do his best work.
Once she blocked out the loud clunks from the machine, Lana found the MRI to be oddly relaxing. No emails from architects about why they couldn’t get the drawings done in time. No calls from her friend Gloria about the most recent loser to break her heart. Lana figured this must be what being dead was like. No one asking her for anything.
After she emerged from the MRI scanner, Lana negotiated her way into a hospital room with no roommates, but also no windows. Her assistant messengered over three project files, two draft contracts, a red pen, a pair of black pumps, a smoked salmon salad, and a bottle of Sprite. Lana was about to send the girl a text about the importance of attention to detail—was it really too much to remember Diet Coke was the only soda she drank?—when she opened the offending plastic bottle and sniffed. Janie had filled it with Chardonnay. Lana took a sip. Not half-bad.
That afternoon, when they told her they were still waiting on test results and recommended she stay overnight for observation, Lana humored them. One bed was as good as another. Not exactly true, but she didn’t relish the thought of wasting daytime hours in LA traffic shuttling herself back to the hospital the next morning to get a lecture from a doctor with mismatched socks about taking better care of herself. She figured she’d get the tests back early, pass with flying colors, run home to shower, and make her lunch meeting with the mortgage brokers.
Lana spent the evening in the hospital bed inking up development plans. When the nurses came to check on her, she smiled so she’d get better service, but she didn’t chitchat. They sampled and poked her while Lana worked. She didn’t tell any of her associates where she was. There was no reason for them to know.
The next day broke sour. Lana woke early, impatient, with a fog in her head and a rash on her neck from the cardboard hospital pillows. At 7:30 a.m., she rang the nurse and badgered her into getting someone more important. The doctor who showed up was tall and willowy and entirely unhelpful. The tests weren’t completed yet. No, Lana couldn’t leave and get the results later. No, they didn’t have laptops for patients’ use. Yes, she would just have to wait.
Lana counted the water stains on the ceiling and made lists of everything she’d have to do when she got to the office. She wanted a Diet Coke. She wanted her own bathroom. She wanted to get out of there.
After what felt like hours, a new doctor came in, a middle-aged man with unkempt hair and scuffed white sneakers. There was an angry squeak as he yanked a wobbly plastic cart clear of the hallway and into the room.
“Mrs. Rubicon?”
“Ms.” Lana was perched on a visitor’s chair in her blazer and pumps, tapping furiously on her phone. She didn’t look up.