Mother-Daughter Murder Night(31)
“You should see it at king tide.” Victor was standing at her left shoulder. “Twice a year, the whole marsh floods. The cows have to swim back to the ranch. When the water recedes, there are new streams, new ponds, new valleys. It reshapes everything.” He looked at her. “Do you live nearby?”
Lana paused, unsure which version of her saga she wanted to share. “I’ve spent my whole life in Los Angeles. Working in real estate. But for now I’m here, with my daughter and granddaughter.”
“Real estate? Then we are in the same business!” A mischievous smile lit up his face.
“To be honest, I’m not precisely clear on how a land trust operates.” Lana had yet to meet a man who could resist the opportunity to explain himself.
“It is our ambition to ensure that all of this”—Victor swept his arms out wide—“persists. We work with property owners who share this vision.”
“Preserving all land for nature? What about people? What about progress?”
Victor locked eyes with her. “We are not so simpleminded as that. Just like the marsh, the land will keep evolving. We are here to balance it in harmony with the changing of the world.”
He told her about some of their current projects. The heiress of a timber empire had donated a ten-thousand-acre forest to the land trust, and they were now converting it from a clear-cut operation to one that could be logged sustainably. Two property owners on either side of a forest highway had formed an easement to build a wildlife tunnel, so animals could cross the busy road without becoming roadkill. And near the slough, just beyond the Rhoads ranch, the land trust managed nearly a thousand acres on the north bank, converting the land from bedraggled vegetable farms into a world-class refuge for coastal wildlife.
“And what were you cooking up with Mr. Rhoads?”
Victor glanced back to the main house. “It is so sad,” he sighed. “This is a terrible week. First, to lose Ricardo, and now Se?or Rhoads . . .” He remembered himself. “My colleague Ricardo Cruz, he was working with Se?or Rhoads on a big dream. This ranch, this one property, will enable us to make the entire northern bank of the slough a wildlife protective zone. Se?or Rhoads and I agreed to form a partnership years ago, and Ricardo was working with him to finalize the details. It will be the largest conserved wetland in the western US, saved forever from development and extractive practices.”
“Sounds like quite the undertaking.” Lana’s mind raced. She wanted to ask more about Ricardo Cruz, but it felt awkward to do so at someone else’s funeral.
“It is what dreams are made of. This project will mean international recognition, federal funds . . .”
“And a home for the animals.”
Victor looked at her, his eyes shining. “Of course, it is all for the animals.”
Then he blinked, and his thick eyelashes erased the glorious vision he’d been erecting. “But now, with Se?or Rhoads and Ricardo gone, it is hard to imagine the project without them.”
“I’m so sorry. How did Ricardo die, may I ask?”
She decided to play dumb, hoping he’d have additional information to add to what she’d already learned. But Victor’s face clouded over, and he shook his head. “They do not yet know what happened.”
He turned toward the house, his voice hardening. “This is our one chance to protect the bank, all the way from the ocean to the hills. This is generations of possibilities. Thousands of species. This was Se?or Rhoads’s vision. The project must go on.”
“Do you have a relationship with Mr. Rhoads’s children?”
“We are still getting to know each other. They came to my office together two months ago, after Se?or Rhoads moved to Bayshore Oaks, to learn about the nature of his commitments. I am hopeful they will honor their father’s intentions for the ranch.” He looked over Lana’s shoulder and smiled. “And its glorious potential.”
Lana turned and saw Mr. Rhoads’s daughter gliding toward them with a determined look on her face. Diana Whitacre was in her early fifties, with porcelain skin that splintered into faint lines at the corners of her chilly slate-blue eyes. Her mouth held a smile that was equally cold.
“Se?or Morales,” she murmured, leaning away as he moved to kiss her cheek, “you aren’t signing up new donors at my father’s wake, are you?”
“Se?ora Di. I would never—”
“I’m very glad to hear it. If you might excuse us?”
Victor raised an eyebrow at Lana. Then he turned to Diana and tipped his hat. “I hope you will allow me to take you and your brother to lunch soon, Se?ora Di. We have much to discuss.”
“We’re quite occupied at the moment,” Diana said.
“I only want to honor your father—”
“Another time. Please.” She waved him off with a tiny flick of her hand.
“Charming man,” Lana said, watching him walk away.
“I suppose that depends on your definition of charm.” Diana’s voice was low, clipped. “Are you a patient of that nurse?”
Lana felt a prickle of heat under her silk scarf. Had something given away her condition? Was it the new wig?
“No, I . . . she’s my daughter.”
“I see,” Diana said. “Visiting?”
“From Los Angeles. I’m here temporarily. Lana Rubicon. My condolences.”