Mother-Daughter Murder Night(24)

Which was apparently the way he liked it. Paul described the marina as a kind of Wild West, himself and his buddy Scotty O’Dell the heroic duo working together to keep the peace. Lana squinted up at a grainy photo of bristly fishermen in a gilt frame above Paul’s head, trying to imagine Gary Cooper among the crabbers lined up in their rubber waders. It was a stretch.

Lana shuddered and gave Paul her widest eyes.

“It sounds lawless. Do you really think it’s safe for Jacqueline to be out there?”

“Tiny’s my best guide. I’m gonna need her back at work this weekend, now that the slough’s reopened. And she’ll be safe with me.”

“You mean, when you’re there. Which is when, exactly?”

“Look, Lana, I’m not gonna lie. What happened to that guy was terrible. But whoever hit that dude over the head knew him. A crime of passion, they said. Committed by someone who was seriously pissed off. So unless your granddaughter was close with Ricardo Cruz—”

“She wasn’t.”

“Then I can’t imagine anyone wanting to hurt her.”

“He was hit in the head by an acquaintance? How do you know that?”

Paul’s hands went still on the table, as if he was surprised to hear his own words spoken back to him. His eyes darted around the room. “Uh . . . that’s what Fredo told me.” Paul pointed to a shriveled man in dungarees at the bar. “His great-nephew is the harbormaster.”

“With what?”

“What what?”

“With what did he get hit in the head?”

“I’m not sure,” he finally said. “Something heavy. Metal, I heard.”

“That’s even worse.” And interesting. As far as she knew, there weren’t any heavy, metal objects just lying around the slough. Lana looked at the fork in her hand, willing herself to remember to jot down a note about the weapon later. Then she looked up at Paul, who was eyeing her with discomfort, as if his sandals were suddenly too tight for his feet. Which warranted one more push.

She shook her head. “A young man. On one of your tours. Violently attacked.”

“He wasn’t on a tour.”

“Oh, and you’d know. Because you were there. Except, you weren’t.”

Paul’s face flashed fierce for a moment, like an angry rodent flushed from its den.

Lana leaned back. She should have known better than to use sarcasm with a man. She gave him a weak smile and shifted her tone.

“Paul, I’m sorry. I’m just worried. I want to believe you, but until we know more about what happened or even who this Ricardo was . . .”

His face softened from concrete to clay. She kept going.

“So far, all I’ve heard is that he was a young man from Santa Cruz, some kind of naturalist, booked on one of your tours.”

“A naturalist?” Paul looked at her. “What kind of naturalist?”

“The detectives just said he worked for the Central Coast Land Trust.”

“Huh.” Paul shoved the last of the calamari into his mouth and squinted out the window, where a seagull was eviscerating a tray of half-eaten hamburgers. “I don’t like those guys.”

“The detectives?”

“The land trust. I know it’s supposed to be good, land trusts, saving trees and otters and all that, but around here all they do is make rules and stick their pollution monitors where they don’t belong. If it were up to them, no one would ever go out on the slough. Let alone make a living off it.”

Paul motioned to Scotty for the bill. “I’ve kept you out way past lunchtime, Miss Lana,” he said. “Tide’s coming in. Time to head home.”





Chapter Fifteen




Lana and Paul stepped out of the yacht club and stumbled across the parking lot toward his car. Lana held Paul’s arm and counted out slow, careful steps. The martinis and the blazing sun hit her in rapid succession, two sharp jabs warning of a massive headache to come. She just had to make it to his car. Then she could go home and lie down. Possibly forever.

At step fourteen, Paul dropped her arm. Lana wobbled, then looked up to see a Buick double-parked on the gravel. Beyond it, a man and a woman were peering into Paul’s car.

Paul stomped toward them. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Mr. Hanley.” Detective Nicoletti straightened up and adjusted his tie. “It’s nice to see you again. We’re here from the Monterey sheriff’s department . . .”

“I know who you are. When are you going to stop harassing me?”

Detective Ramirez stepped in. She was wearing a jacquard blazer with a pattern so loud it ticked Lana’s headache up a notch.

“Mr. Hanley, this is a murder investigation. When we visited you on Monday, you assured us you would give us your full cooperation. Has something changed?”

Paul looked peevish. “No.”

“Well, unfortunately, nothing has changed on our end either. We can’t figure out how the deceased signed up for one of your kayak tours and then showed up dead in the water two days later. It seems no one saw or heard from him between the time he registered Friday night and the time his body was found on Sunday.”

Lana stepped around the cop car and forced herself to speak. She could deal with her pounding head later. This was an opportunity she had to take.