Mother-Daughter Murder Night(82)

Beth turned red. “You don’t have to fix me up.”

“Then who will? Your mother?” Miss Gigi turned to look at Lana. “You tell her. She should not be alone.”

Both older women looked at her now. Beth found herself half-worried, half-curious what her mother might say.

“Beth . . . can make her own decisions about men,” Lana finally said.

“Like she makes her own decision not to brush her hair?”

“That’s a lost cause.”

Beth had had enough. “I think I’m fully qualified to manage my dating life. And my hair. I’m sorry to disappoint you, Miss Gigi, but I don’t think marriage is in the cards for me.”

“Marriage? I don’t care about you getting married.”

Beth looked at the older woman in disbelief. “Miss Gigi,” she said, “every time I see you, you are telling me about another man. And how I should put on eye shadow before I meet him.”

“Eye shadow is God’s highlighter,” Miss Gigi said. “But God doesn’t want you to get married.”

“God doesn’t want me to get married?”

Miss Gigi nodded. “God wants you to be happy. How’s a husband going to help with that?”



Lana watched the mermaid disappear around the corner, her Hello Kitty slippers shuffling along the linoleum floor.

“I like her.”

“Uh-huh. Imagine being trapped in a room with her for a forty-five-minute infusion every other day.” Beth opened the brown paper bag. Lana had brought a small feast—two sandwiches, two salads, a cup of soup, a kaiser roll, three cookies, and a smoothie that smelled of coconut and kale. Beth laid all the items out on the counter, covering the surface with food.

“I didn’t know what you’d like,” Lana said.

Beth pulled a Reuben sandwich and a coleslaw toward her, stacking the rest of the food neatly back in the bag. The other nurses would be thrilled. Except whoever ended up with the kale smoothie.

Beth thanked her mother for the unexpected delivery. Then they stood there looking at each other over the paper bag.

“Did you want to watch me eat it?” Beth asked.

“No, I . . . I had a few more questions I wanted to ask you. About Hal Rhoads,” Lana said.

“I see.”

“What exactly can you tell me about how Hal Rhoads died?” Lana asked.

Beth gave the bag on the counter a small shove. “Ma, I can’t talk about that here.”

“Really?”

“This is the most sensitive part of my job. How would you feel if I came up to your fancy Century City office asking personal questions about your clients?”

Lana considered the question. She’d drawn a firm line between work and family while Beth was growing up, putting 90 percent of her attention on the work side of the line. She’d never hung up any of Beth’s drawings in her office or left work early to see a class play. Not that she had a choice. She’d seen what happened to the careers of women who were foolish enough to show those kinds of weaknesses.

Now Lana looked at her daughter and wondered, not for the first time, if she’d made the right decision.

“I don’t want you to jeopardize your work, Beth. I just wanted to bring you a nice lunch. To thank you for your efforts. I’m sorry I asked.”

Beth’s face softened.

Lana realized it was the second time she’d issued an apology this week, even if this one was halfway disingenuous. She made a mental note not to make a habit of it. Then again, she saw it was a helpful tactic when used sparingly.

Beth threw her a bone. “Is there anything else I can help you with, Ma? Anything that doesn’t violate federal health and privacy laws?”

Lana looked up and down the hallway. No one. She leaned in. “Can you tell me about his visitors?”

“Um . . .”

“Just for the week before he died.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Ricardo Cruz was supposed to visit Mr. Rhoads on February third. I’m wondering if he made it here before he was murdered.”

“Friday, February third? One sec.” Beth swiveled the computer monitor in front of her. “Nope. Diana was here that morning, but not Ricardo. The only people who signed in to see Mr. Rhoads the week before he died were Martin, Diana, and Victor.”

“Victor Morales?”

Beth nodded. She clicked a few more keys and spoke again. “Interesting. It looks like over the two months Mr. Rhoads was here, there was a consistent pattern. Martin came Friday afternoons and Sunday mornings. Lady Di came Tuesday and Thursday mornings.”

“But that final week was different. You said—”

“Right. That last week, Diana came Tuesday and Friday instead. And Martin came on Saturday. He told me that, remember? He was stuck in San Francisco the night before.”

“And Victor?”

“It looks like he was less consistent. He came once in December, twice in January. The last time was that Tuesday afternoon, January thirty-first.”

“What about Ricardo Cruz? In those two months, did he ever visit?”

Beth squinted back at the screen. “Only once. Seven weeks ago, on January fourth. A Wednesday.”

A doctor day.

“Can you write the dates down for me? For that final week?” Lana asked. “Wait. Hal Rhoads died on a Monday. Did anyone visit him that day?”