“Did you know about Ricardo’s . . . dealings with Diana Whitacre?”
“You are full of surprises.”
Lana waited, holding her ground.
“Before he died, my father told me it takes a man forty years to learn how to listen to women. To take seriously their power, how ruthless they can be. I’m afraid Ricardo didn’t grow up with a father to teach him these lessons.”
Victor pulled back out of her personal space, as if he had never been there. “You may want to ask Se?ora Whitacre where she was that Friday. And where she was thirty years ago, when her precious duke fell asleep.”
Lana stared at him, hoping he might elaborate. He watched her steadily, his mouth shut, his dark eyes giving away nothing. Then he tipped his hat and strolled away, disappearing into the leafy, outstretched arms of an apple tree.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Lana woke up the next morning to her phone buzzing. She rolled over and looked at the clock. Nine fifteen. Too early, especially on a Sunday. But at least somebody wanted to talk to her.
Her phone showed two text messages: one from Diana Whitacre, one from Jack.
The one from Diana was simple: Need your help. Please call me.
The message from Jack was not. It was a series of blurry black-and-white images, surrounded by grainy text.
Lana put on her reading glasses and dialed. “Jack?”
“Prima.” The girl was whispering. “I’m at the library.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Yeah. I only have a minute. I’m doing a research project, going through newspaper databases for primary sources, and I had an idea about that thing you told me last night. About Lady Di. I pulled up the archives for the Daily Mail.”
“In England?” Lana was either still half-asleep or just not following.
“Yeah,” Jack said. “I looked her up. Under her old name, Diana Rhoads. And I found it. When she was young, she had a fiancé in England, a duke of somewhere. He died in his sleep, and she was there.”
“Are you serious?”
“I just sent you screenshots. Gotta go.”
Lana pulled herself to a seated position and zoomed in on the photograph on her phone. Jack was right. It was a lurid story about a young duke who died mysteriously in the night on his family’s estate. There, in the caption of the picture, was Diana Rhoads, age twenty-four, grieving fiancée of the deceased. She was wearing a black veil and everything. The other images were from tabloids that picked up the story, casting it in increasingly scandalous terms.
Adrenaline flooded Lana’s body, better than any drug. They’d figured it out. It was Diana. She’d killed a man before. She had access to the victims, the creek, and a life jacket from her daddy’s barn. She’d killed Ricardo. Set up Paul. And then she’d used her old playbook to smother her father into silence and secure control of the ranch.
It sounded good. But it was still circumstantial. Lana had to get concrete evidence of the affair, something more than initials on a day planner that had probably burned up in the fire.
Which was why she picked up the phone and dialed Diana.
The call was brief. Diana thanked her for the notes on her financial models, and then issued another request for help, which was something between a demand and an invitation. One Lana was more than happy to accept.
“I’d be delighted to assist you with your presentation to Martin tonight,” Lana said. “Anything to help a woman entrepreneur.”
She had eight hours to get ready. Lana forced herself to eat a full breakfast, choking down an entire container of cottage cheese with a sorry imposter of a bagel. She planned her outfit carefully, pulling out her best Chanel suit, her Gianvito Rossi black pumps, and the wig that itched, the bob she’d worn to lunch with Diana earlier in the week. She didn’t want any reason for the woman to suspect she was sick, to see her as anything less than formidable.
As she lined up her pills for the day, Lana pondered Diana’s invitation to dinner. Was it sincere, or was it a trap?
Diana claimed she wanted help negotiating a phased buyout with Martin, and that she hoped Lana could help her play hardball on the numbers. Which could be true. Even if Diana had killed Ricardo and Hal, she might still need Lana’s help to get what she wanted.
But the more Lana thought about that, the more it bugged her.
If Diana had willingly killed two men—including her own father—to gain control of the ranch, why hadn’t she killed Martin when he stood in her way? What would happen if she couldn’t convince him to accept the buyout now?