Mother-Daughter Murder Night(88)

“We’ve come a long way from there, Jack. We just have to piece it together, and it will all make sense.”

It had to.

*

At 7 p.m., Beth was on her way out the back door of Bayshore Oaks for a protein bar break when she was accosted by Miss Gigi.

“Beth! Your mother. She is enchanting. And so young-looking!” Miss Gigi was still in the turquoise evening gown, which she had now accessorized with a flimsy kimono adorned with Disney characters.

“Thank you?” Beth looked uncomfortably at Miss Gigi’s press-on nails, which were carving tiny moons into the sleeve of Beth’s bomber jacket.

“Beth, there is something I must tell you. I was listening to your conversation with your mother.”

“About the sandwiches?”

“About the visitors.”

“I see.”

The two women stared at each other. Beth squeezed the protein bar, feeling it deform under her sweaty hand. Even under a pound of silver eye shadow, Beth knew Miss Gigi was a force to be reckoned with.

“I can explain—”

The smaller woman waved away Beth’s excuses. “You are helping your mother. It is the right thing to do. But what I have done, I am not so sure.”

Now it was Miss Gigi who looked nervous.

“What is it?” Beth asked.

“The team in the mail room, we take our jobs very seriously. We are the connection with people on the outside,” Miss Gigi said.

“Uh-huh . . .”

“And sometimes, on Mondays, there is someone who needs to connect with someone.”

“Like a letter that has to go out?”

Miss Gigi shook her head. “More like someone who wants to come in.”

Beth blinked. “Miss Gigi, did someone come into Bayshore Oaks the day Hal Rhoads died? It would have been”—she counted backward in her head—“three Mondays ago.”

She had never seen Miss Gigi look so contrite. “I am not sure. I can ask my associates. I was not on duty that Monday, but—”

“On duty? You have shifts for this?”

“At the side door. Just from lunch until dinner.” Miss Gigi pulled the kimono tight around her and looked up at Beth anxiously. “Do you think someone came in here to connect with Mr. Rhoads? And murdered him?”

“I . . . don’t know.” After Lana had left earlier, Beth had looked up Mr. Rhoads’s cause of death. All it said was SCD—sudden cardiac death. Without an autopsy or detailed bloodwork, there was no way to get more specific.

“Will we be charged as accessory? Sued for negligée?”

Beth’s mind was still reeling, but she found a smile for the tiny woman. “If anyone is going to get sued around here for their nightwear, it would be you.”

Miss Gigi puffed out her chest. On the front panels of the kimono, Goofy and Minnie Mouse were posing in yellow bikinis and heels, a sequined tropical beach sprawled out behind them. “These are one hundred percent original. My granddaughter designs, her boyfriend prints them, she sews on sparkles. Cesar sells them at our store in Seaside, big sales last summer, completely sold out. This one is a collector’s item.”

“You are a lucky woman.”

“Maybe not so lucky if I am helping murderers.”

“We don’t know that. You ask your mail room associates what they remember. I’ll look into it as well. And as for any future connections, let’s stick to the letters and packages that come in the front door.”

Beth waited until Miss Gigi had closed the door to her room before she walked outside. She took a breath, unwrapped the mangled protein bar, and grimaced. The conversation had made her lose her appetite. She felt an urgent desire to go back inside and pull Mr. Rhoads’s charts again, to contact the medical director about this. Maybe the EMTs who attended the death as well. But there was someone she had to call first.





Chapter Forty-Five




Lana hung up the phone and looked triumphantly at Jack.

“I was right about Hal Rhoads,” she said. “He was murdered.”

“Whoa,” Jack said. “Who were you talking to? Was that Mom?”

Lana nodded. Before she could say more, there was a knock at the door. It was Detectives Nicoletti and Ramirez, looking like sweaty, disheveled versions of the investigators who’d been on television an hour earlier.

“Here to sign autographs?” Lana said.

Nicoletti pulled his shoulders back. “No, ma’am. We need to talk to you.”

Lana looked at Ramirez. “Did you get my message?”

The female detective gave her a brief nod.

“Anything I need to know?” Nicoletti asked his partner.

For a moment, Lana had a wild hope that her voicemail had somehow delivered critical evidence.

“It’s nothing,” Ramirez said. Lana let out a puff of breath, disappointed.

Jack migrated over to the table. “What’s going on?”

“The bike we found at the Kayak Shack,” Nicoletti said. “We’ve confirmed—”

“It belonged to Ricardo Cruz,” Lana said.

“How did you—”

“Moving on.” Ramirez’s tone was smooth and authoritative. “We got a warrant to check out the land Paul Hanley was leasing from that Rhoads family. I went out there. No Paul. Nothing except a bunch of dirt all churned up.”