Mother-Daughter Murder Night(49)
“He has a signed letter of intent from my father indicating his plans to donate the ranch to the land trust.”
This must be the document Beth had mentioned. “You have a copy of it?”
Diana shook her head. “The lawyers do. The original’s at the land trust. Martin thinks it’s meaningless, but . . .”
“What do you think?”
“I think more than anything, Daddy wanted us to hold on to the ranch. He was old-fashioned. He would have loved for Martin to keep running cattle and leasing out strawberry fields. But clearly Martin has other interests.” Diana’s hand started stroking the leather again. “I could never be his son. But I understood what mattered most to Daddy. Family. Legacy. Progress. I like to believe he’d have supported the equine spa if he’d fully had the chance to hear about it.”
“And the letter at the land trust?”
“Maybe it was Daddy’s backup plan. Or he felt pressured. Victor Morales has been after our ranch for years, like a rat terrier. He’d do anything to get the land.”
“Does Victor have some kind of leverage over your family?”
Diana stared at her for a long moment. It seemed as if she was about to say something. Then, instead, she shook her head.
“I don’t know what he’s capable of.” Diana looked up toward a wall of heavy metal stamps and carving tools, as if she were deciding which she’d like to use to fend off the director of the land trust.
“Diana, I want to be honest with you.” Lana kept her voice calm. “My meeting in Santa Cruz this afternoon is at the land trust, with Victor. I don’t intend to talk about any of this. Our conversation—everything you’ve told me here—I’ll keep confidential.”
Diana’s hand wrapped tightly around a metal stirrup. “If you find something, will you let me know?”
It was an impossible question. If Lana said yes, it would shift the balance of power in Diana’s direction. But saying no would close the door to any further information from her.
“I will.”
Diana gave her a brief nod. When she spoke again, her voice was low and hot. “This isn’t just about my family or what Daddy wanted. If Victor gets control of our ranch, the entire slough will become a national sanctuary. It would regulate every farm in the region out of business. Everything our neighbors and tenants worked for, handed over to the hawks and swamp grass.”
She broke off her tirade to reach down and pull a buzzing cell phone from the side pocket of her tight breeches. Her angry countenance fell away, her face softening to reveal a calm, almost warm smile.
“My daughter. A freshman in college, which means she’s far too busy to text me back most days. But she still sends me a picture every time the plane takes off.”
Diana raised the phone to show Lana. “It’s awful when they move away, isn’t it?”
Lana pretended to look at the phone. But she didn’t see the preppy, well-kept girl on the screen. Instead, she saw Beth at seventeen, her frizzy hair and oversize sweats, standing in the hall of her old house. Pregnant.
Lana remembered her makeup bag crashing to the floor, the panic rising inside her like a steam engine cranking itself to life, firing out accusations and threats before she fully knew what she was saying. And Beth had just stood there, solid as a concrete wall, not responding. Maybe not even listening. Lana remembered speaking faster, louder, trying to get through to her, to help her see reason, to do anything she could to get her daughter back, and failing.
Lana could still feel the white-hot pain of Beth’s departure, could still see her toss her duffel bag with the broken zipper onto the back seat of her car and slam the door. Beth drove away from the house without saying goodbye. Not that Lana had said it either.
“Sorry.” Diana pulled back the now-ringing phone. “My daughter, she’s calling. That never happens. Excuse me.”
Diana pushed open the door, and daylight flooded the workshop. Lana sat alone on the terrible bench, seeing and not seeing, letting the sunshine blast away her memories of the past.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Thirty minutes later, Lana pulled up in front of the Central Coast Land Trust offices. She had been to Santa Cruz only once, in December, for an ill-advised consultation with a nutritionist who extolled the healing powers of bee pollen and raw turmeric. The town struck her as defiantly dirty, with women who didn’t shave and grown men strolling around in sandals and tie-dyed socks. But at least it had ample free street parking.
Lana sandwiched her Lexus between a late-model BMW and a dusty pickup truck. Her mind wasn’t done sifting through what Diana had told her. But she had to focus. Her left arm still felt limp, so she used her right to straighten her wig and take a swig of water. After a coughing fit followed by thirty seconds of slow breathing into her tote bag, she was ready to go.
The woman at the front desk was Lana’s least favorite kind: young and beautiful. In Lana’s experience, women like this receptionist—perky breasts, French-tipped fingernails—were hostile toward older women, using wanton cruelty to mask the fear that they too might someday become undesirable. But this one was all smiles. Her name was Gabriella-call-me-Gaby, and her voice was even breathier in person than it had been on the phone. She beamed at Lana, then cranked it up another notch when Lana told her she was there to see the director. Gaby placed a quick call to the back, then offered Lana an armchair, a water, a coffee, a tissue, and a magazine. Lana suspected the girl might offer her a pony if Victor Morales didn’t get to the front soon.