Mother-Daughter Murder Night(30)
“That’s the daughter,” Beth whispered. “They call her Lady Di.”
Lana cast an assessing eye on the graceful blonde ahead of her. Diana Whitacre stood ramrod straight, like a grieving general, in a high-waisted pantsuit and a small pillbox hat with a veil. She was flanked by a balding husband and two pale college-aged children, a matched set in tailored black wool. Diana clutched her husband’s hand firmly. Lana had the sense that she was holding him on a tight leash rather than relying on him for support.
“Ah, Daddy’s nurse,” Diana pronounced, as Beth approached. “And I see you’ve brought guests.” The woman gave her son a pointed look, and he thrust three programs toward them.
“Mrs. Whitacre, I want to offer you my sincere condolences,” Beth said. “Your father was very special to me. I know you meant so much to him.”
Diana gave Beth a slow nod, scanning her from top to bottom. “Thank you, dear. You must be coming straight from work. You are welcome to use the powder room at the house to change before the ceremony if you like.”
Beth’s face flushed red. She gave Diana a fumbly thank-you and backed away.
“What did I tell you about wearing jeans to a funeral?” Lana hissed as they headed for their seats.
The program consisted of a series of speeches from Hal Rhoads’s family and closest associates. His son, Martin, played master of ceremonies, introducing speakers and gently removing the ones who broke down crying on the dais. Diana offered a host of generic platitudes in an affected English accent. A gruff-looking cousin from Houston proved too torn up to speak. A dreadlocked niece who lived on an ashram in Jackson Hole said a prayer that suggested her great-uncle was now a red-shouldered hawk, or a sycamore, or possibly a hawk nested in a sycamore.
It got more interesting when friends came up to the microphone. Scotty O’Dell, the manager of the yacht club, told a story about how Hal had taken a chance and staked him as a professional windsurfer, the only guy on the racing circuit with a cattle rancher for a sponsor. Beth’s boss at Bayshore Oaks, Cecelia, talked about the meticulous notes Mr. Rhoads had given her regarding how she might improve the productivity of the small herb garden that lined the exercise yard. Victor Morales, a distinguished-looking man with salt-and-pepper hair, spoke at length about Se?or Rhoads’s generosity to the Central Coast Land Trust, his support for small farmers, and his vision that old ranches might find new ways to exist in harmony with nature.
Victor gestured to Martin and Diana and beamed. “The whole Rhoads family, we are lucky to have them in our community. I look forward to working together to protect this precious land for many generations to come.”
There was a smattering of applause, which Martin cut short by stepping to the microphone. Martin was a tall, slender man, the kind who retained a boyish awkwardness into adulthood. The local men seated behind Lana whispered about how he’d made a killing in tech but couldn’t shoe a horse to save his life.
“Thank you all for coming,” Martin said. “My father was not a religious man, but he was a dreamer, and we have all been touched by his dreams.” He looked over his right shoulder and gestured to an ancient oak tree on a hill beyond the cow pasture. “After today’s remembrance, my father will be laid to rest in the family plot. So he can keep dreaming on this land that he loved.”
Once the speeches were over, the Rubicon women stood up from their uncomfortable chairs, intent on different directions: Beth to pay her respects, Lana to look for clues, Jack to explore.
“Try not to get into trouble,” Beth said.
Lana flicked her wig behind her beret and headed toward the refreshments.
*
At the wine table, Lana found a local sauvignon blanc and Victor Morales.
“It was lovely, what you said about Mr. Rhoads.”
Victor smiled and tipped a bottle of wine in her direction. She nodded and he poured. Lana had never had reason or desire to learn the finer points of land trusts and the do-gooder side of real estate. But Victor Morales was worth studying. He was about sixty, one of those men who aged into their attractiveness, with broad shoulders and warm, crinkling eyes. Lana bet he was aware of the effect the combination might have on women.
With a flourish, Victor presented her with a glass of wine and winked. Well aware.
“Se?or Rhoads was a prince among men.”
Lana caught a sliver of accent in his speech. “Are you from Oaxaca?”
“How did you know?”
“I developed a resort there. A long time ago.”
Victor regarded Lana with increased interest, his eyes holding hers as they migrated together away from the wine table.
“And how did you know Se?or Rhoads?”
“I didn’t. My daughter, Beth, is a nurse at the facility where he died. They were close. Talked about the slough. She lives across the water from here.” Lana offered her hand. “I’m Lana. Lana Rubicon.”
“Lana Rubicon.” He turned the name over in his mouth, savoring it.
From where they stood at the edge of the ranch’s driveway, Lana could see 270 degrees around, with the slough and Beth’s little house to the south, the ocean glinting to the west, and farmland stretching east. The marsh below them was a no-man’s-land of pickleweed and sludge cut through with tiny creeks, spiraling and crisscrossing from the grassy hills of the ranch to the slow-moving slough. Lana spotted a few patches of solid ground, but mostly, the bottom of the hill was a mess of muck and stagnant water, a perfect feeding ground for the birds that punctuated the marsh in little crowds.