Mother-Daughter Murder Night(29)
It also kept her awake. The steroids she took didn’t help, stirring her agitation into a lather. By 1 a.m. Lana had fallen into the itchy, overheated half sleep of the uncomfortably medicated. By two she was up again to open the window, deciding she’d rather get bitten by a river bat than sweat through another set of sheets. But when she pulled up the blinds, she saw movement on the water. It was a kayak, moving east, away from the marina and into the slough.
Lana grabbed her binoculars and strained her eyes. She could see the thin glow of a flashlight illuminating a wavering halo ahead of the kayak, a blot of silver in the blue-black water.
There was one person in the kayak, bundled in a jacket and a knit cap pulled down to their eyes. A duffel bag rose toward the bow from between their legs, as if the kayaker were riding an enormous cigar through the water. It was impossible to tell if it was the person she’d seen with the wheelbarrow the week before.
Whoever it was, they weren’t out for a casual cruise. This person clearly knew where they were going. She could just barely make out the slow, deliberate strokes, the water breaking and re-forming each time the paddle entered it. The kayaker was moving steadily upriver, melting into the shadows.
Once the boat was no longer visible, Lana dropped the blinds, switched on the bedside light, found her cell phone, and groped for the detectives’ business cards. Then she remembered Nicoletti’s reaction to her last tip. She wasn’t ready to be another 2 a.m. voicemail on the sheriff’s phone tree for the overnight cops to laugh at. She put down her phone and got out her legal pad. She printed the date and time carefully across the top and wrote down what she’d seen. And then tried, impossibly, to get some rest.
Chapter Seventeen
Beth avoided her mother all day Friday, knowing better than to hope for an apology and not yet ready to offer one of her own. But when she stumbled out of her bedroom Saturday morning in search of coffee, Lana surprised her. Her mother was standing next to the table in a burgundy dress, a silk scarf with horses galloping across it, and a dark pageboy wig with an attached beret. She wore an assured smile on her face.
“Going to Paris?” Beth asked.
“I’m coming with you to the rancher’s wake.”
“You should be in bed.”
“Tell that to my steroids,” Lana replied, taking a sip of coffee. “I’m stuck all day in this stupid house. You don’t want me to disappear on you or redecorate. Fine. Take me with you. I want to meet the neighbors.”
“This isn’t exactly a plus-one situation, Ma.”
“Nonsense. It’s a wake. The Rhoadses aren’t counting chicken dinners. And Ricardo Cruz might have died near there. Maybe I’ll find some critical information about the case.”
“There is no case, Ma. Not as far as we’re concerned.” Beth turned to the counter, channeling her annoyance into the electric coffee grinder Lana had insisted on buying. Beth let the noise of tiny coffee chain saws fill the room, holding her finger on the button longer than was factory-recommended.
Lana waited.
Beth poured fresh black dust into the filter. “Jack, honey? What are your plans for today?” Beth looked over at Jack, who was sitting on the couch inhaling a bowl of cereal.
“Uh . . . nothing this morning. Kayla and I are maybe hanging out at her place tonight, but—”
“Okay, then. Get dressed. Everyone can pay their respects to the Rhoads family.” Beth pulled out a mug and started pouring. “We’re leaving in twenty minutes.”
The drive to the Rhoads ranch was bumpy, dusty, and quiet. Beth and Lana barely spoke, with the exception of a mutual expression of disapproval for each other’s footwear.
After the bridge and the marina, Beth swung the wheel toward the unmarked road that flanked the north bank of the slough. They chugged up the hill past No Trespassing signs and electric cattle fencing that lined both sides of the private road. The car slowed as the potholes proliferated, crunching up the gravel past gnarled Monterey cypress trees and fallow strawberry fields waiting to be planted in the spring.
A mile up the road, they passed through two massive redwood pillars that held an open gate and a cracked, wooden sign with an upside-down R burned into it. Beth pulled off into a churned-up pasture alongside a line of fancy sedans and old pickups. The guests resembled their vehicles, some wearing suits, others in worn flannel and coveralls. Lana opened her door and pursed her lips at the dirt clods between her velvet high heels and the paved driveway.
“Still sure you wore the right shoes, Ma?” Beth asked.
“I’ve run across four lanes of traffic on Santa Monica Boulevard in these heels. I can get through a patch of dirt.” Lana squared her shoulders, plucked a tissue from her handbag, and marched to the driveway. Her pumps were wiped clean and standing pretty before anyone at the wake even said hello.
The event was set up outside, in a wide span of asphalt that linked the ranch house, a barn, and two old greenhouses. Workers in starched white shirts rushed in and out of a large, stately house of flagstone and redwood, carrying plastic-wrapped trays of sandwiches and fruit salad to a line of tables alongside the barn. Folding chairs were set out in rows, facing a dark-haired man in a suit who was wrestling a microphone onto its stand.
A somber family stood in a line at the edge of the asphalt receiving guests.