Mother-Daughter Murder Night(45)

Beth touched his forearm. “Every family has its rough moments.”

“I know.” His eyes were wet, shining. “I just hate that it was our last one.”

She told Martin what she remembered, how Mr. Rhoads told her about his boy who came home after many years away. Maybe he’d been too proud to say it directly to Martin’s face.

“He called me that? His boy?”

“He did.”

As a geriatric nurse, Beth had often been in the delicate position of watching a man battle with the question of whether to cry in front of a woman he hardly knew. She looked away, took a swallow of beer, and gave him room to compose himself while she figured out how to change the subject. She considered what he’d said about Paul Hanley and his lease, and her ridiculous promise to help with the investigation.

“So you’ve had dealings with Paul Hanley?”

Martin looked at her quizzically. Then he nodded.

“My daughter works at his Kayak Shack,” Beth said. “As a tour guide. She saw one of his kayaks in the barn at your father’s wake.”

“You don’t seem old enough to have a daughter who is employed.”

“She’s fifteen. Mature for her age.” Beth started picking at the empty foil wrapper in front of her, rolling it into a ball. “What’s your impression of Paul?”

“He seems like the kind of guy who always has a hustle going.”

“What’s he doing on the land he leases from you?”

“He says he’s growing strawberries.” It was clear from Martin’s tone that he didn’t entirely believe this.

Neither did Beth. The Paul Hanley she knew definitely wasn’t a berry farmer. “I’m surprised to hear he has another business besides the Kayak Shack. It must be quite the juggling act, especially now, with everything going on.”

“What do you mean?”

“The slough . . . it was shut down by the sheriffs last week. Two tourists on a kayak tour found a dead body. My daughter, Jack, was the one guiding them.”

“What? That’s terrible!” Concern flooded Martin’s eyes. “My sister mentioned someone had died nearby, but I had no idea . . .”

“It was the Sunday before last. Just nine days ago.” Beth suddenly realized Ricardo Cruz had been found the day before Mr. Rhoads passed away. No wonder Martin hadn’t gotten the full story.

“What happened?”

“The body of a young man was found up by the mud flats on one of Jack’s kayak tours. She thought he was a guest who’d fallen in. But when she rolled him over . . .” Beth squeezed the tinfoil ball tight in her hand.

“Heart attack?”

“That’s what I thought too. But no. Worse. They say he was murdered. And Paul Hanley might be a suspect.”

“Whoa.”

Beth looked down. She hadn’t meant to turn the conversation toward gruesome gossip. “I’m sorry,” she said. “We’re here to talk about your father. Not this.”

“It’s okay. Dad would have wanted to know about everything going on around the ranch. I guess I should too.”

It took Beth a minute to understand what he meant. “The ranch is yours now, isn’t it?”

“And my sister’s.”

“Are you planning to keep it?”

“I don’t think so. Di has her life in Carmel, and mine is up in the city. Dad’s memories I want. His land, not so much.” He took a swig of beer. “And it wouldn’t hurt for my start-up to have a fresh source of capital without investor strings attached. I’ve actually already heard from a potential buyer. I just have to get on the same page with Di about it. And Victor Morales.”

“The land trust director?”

“He’s been calling the house, claiming Dad intended to donate the development rights to the land trust.”

“It is a beautiful place,” Beth said.

“True. One I’ve spent my whole life trying to get away from.”

Beth tried to imagine Martin in a cowboy hat and a worn pair of chaps, his smooth skin growing leathery grooves like his father’s. It was a stretch.

“Well,” she said, “if Victor Morales is up to something, my mother will probably sniff it out.”

“Your mother?”

“She met Victor at your father’s wake and strong-armed him into giving her a tour tomorrow.”

“Is she a . . . conservationist?”

“Not exactly.” Beth considered whether there was any sensible way to explain what Lana was doing. But there wasn’t. So she just stuck with the truth.

“When my daughter found the dead man, the sheriffs started pressuring her about it. Treating her like a suspect. That prompted my mother to decide to swoop in and solve the case.”

“So your mother’s a detective.”

“Well . . .” Beth glanced over at the makeshift bar in the corner. “You want another beer?”



Over sweaty Modelos and hot churros, Beth told Martin all about her glamorous mother. Her real estate career. The collapse. The rushed occupation of Beth’s back bedroom. And Lana’s insistence on driving her completely up the wall.

“She can’t accept that she isn’t the center of the universe anymore, sending up skyscrapers with the flick of her pen. She can’t pay a demolition crew to pummel her cancer into submission, so she’s put all that energy into bulldozing my life instead. Roping my daughter into her fantasies. And figuring out who killed the dead man in the slough.”