“I don’t know. That’s the problem. I don’t know your mother at all.”
Beth bit her lip. She knew how formidable a negotiator her mother was. She’d once met a banker at one of her mother’s work parties who’d confessed that just hearing the sound of Lana’s heels clicking toward his office was enough to lower the interest rate he’d offer her.
“You know her,” Martin continued. “And I trust you. Maybe you could come? To balance the scales a bit?”
“I’m sorry. I wish I could help, but I’ve got plans tonight with my daughter.”
“What if you bring her along? There’ll be plenty of food. And there’s cool stuff for a kid her age to mess around with on the ranch. Please, I—”
Beth scrunched up her forehead. She had no interest in participating in a sparring match over the future of the ranch. But maybe this wasn’t about real estate. Maybe it was about murder. And if Jack heard that Lana was gathering evidence at the ranch, she’d probably want to go too.
“What can we bring?”
Chapter Forty-Eight
Lana got to the marina just after four. The Kayak Shack looked deserted, strung up with police tape and guarded by a single black-and-white parked head-in to the entrance. Inside the vehicle, Lana could see a young deputy with thick black hair and a clipboard on his lap. He appeared to be logging every vehicle that entered and exited the marina.
Lana waggled her fingers at the officer and continued into the gravel lot, breathing steady. She parked on the far end, by the yacht club, alongside two squat, mustachioed fishermen who were spraying down their boat. Lana touched up her lipstick and added one more bobby pin to her wig. She was just about to go knock on the door of the club when she saw Scotty O’Dell get out of a truck nearby with an awkward bundle in his arms. It was all the confirmation she needed.
“Mr. O’Dell!” Lana clicked her heels a little faster across the gravel.
The man turned around. Dark stubble covered his jaw, and his arms were tangled in a mess of wires and purple-tinted light bulbs. He gave her a short nod and took a step back toward the side of the building. Lana closed the gap between them before he reached the service door.
“Mrs. Rubicon,” he said.
“Ms.”
“We’re closed.”
“I’m aware of that.”
Lana dropped into silence, watching him juggle the awkward assembly of light bulbs.
“How can I . . . uh . . . help you?” His voice broke over the back half of his sentence, as if the words came out against his own volition.
“Scotty—can I call you Scotty?—I need to talk to your business partner.”
A mix of confusion and pride streaked his face. “I own this place myself. Well, me and the bank.”
“Not this business,” Lana said, gesturing at the building. “That one.” She pointed at the heat lamps he was trying not to drop.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Scotty said.
“Scotty.” Lana smiled. “Have I ever told you about my friend Gloria?”
He stared back at her. Before this moment, Lana had never told him about anything except a crusty table knife she wanted replaced.
“One day, Gloria was opening her mail,” Lana continued, “and she noticed her electrical bill had skyrocketed. It was four times what she expected. So she went on a little hunt for the culprit. Had she been using the jacuzzi too much? Leaving the blow dryer on? Had her boyfriend gone overboard with his beard trimmer? She couldn’t figure it out.”
Scotty shifted his weight and shot a longing glance at the side door to the yacht club.
“Then one day, she felt warmth coming from the attic. Gloria never went up there, but she wondered if maybe the heating system was out of whack. She pulled down the ladder, which was surprisingly clear of spiders and dust bunnies. And when she got up there, do you know what she found?”
“Ms. Rubicon, I really need to—”
“Plants. Hundreds of them. Her no-good boyfriend was running a clandestine grow operation, right under her own roof. He’d wired up a bunch of fans and a whole string of those”—she nodded at the tinted light bulbs—“and it was chewing through her electrical bill.”
Finally, one of the bulbs slid out of Scotty’s grasp and hit the ground at his feet, breaking with a sharp snap. When he looked up, stress streaked across his face.
“What do you want?”
“I want to talk to your business partner. Now. Or else I’ll do what Gloria didn’t have the sense to do. Call the police.”