“Look.” Scotty turned to Lana. “It’s not complicated. I knew Hal Rhoads from way back. He was always up for a new idea. I pitched him on this one, and he gave us some land.”
“Were you growing legally, with a permit?”
Now Scotty took a slug from the bottle.
“It was just an experiment,” Paul said. “At first no one ever came down there. It seemed safe enough.”
“What changed?”
“A year ago, the land trust took over the farm to the east of Hal’s,” Scotty said. “They sent that naturalist, Ricardo Cruz, to do an audit of the property. I ran into him when I was out there watering the plants.”
“Were you worried he would tell someone what you were doing?”
“Nah. But that’s when we added the fence.”
“Did you ever see Ricardo again?”
“One time, maybe four months ago, up at the Rhoads house.” Scotty looked up. “I told the sheriffs about it when they interviewed me. I was dropping off fresh clams for Hal, and he was there. Just the kind of kid Hal loved. Another dreamer, big into the outdoors. I think his dad herded cattle on Hal’s land at one point. But then Hal got shipped down to that nursing home and the vultures started circling. Hal’s kids. That big boss from the land trust. We decided to keep our heads down and hope Hal got better. So much for that.”
Paul shook his head. “After Ricardo Cruz died, the cops came sniffing around the land trust property. I was out there checking on the plants and saw a bunch of investigators and dogs picking their way along the mud flats. It freaked me out. And then Hal died, and suddenly everyone and his sister was tromping all over the ranch. Our hidden little enterprise didn’t feel so hidden anymore, and we didn’t want to lose everything we’d built. So, over the past couple weeks, I’ve been transferring it all here.”
“Transferring via kayak? Sometimes at night?”
Paul nodded. “It took a lot of trips.”
“Did you use a wheelbarrow?” she asked.
“Nah. Just a shovel, a cooler, and these right here.” Paul held up his hands, laced with calluses.
Lana wondered again about the man she’d seen with the wheelbarrow. Could Diana have roped her brother into coming down late Friday night from San Francisco to dump Ricardo’s body in the creek? Or did she have another impressionable man to do her bidding?
“Can we ask you some questions now?” Scotty asked.
Lana nodded.
“Who do you think killed Ricardo Cruz?”
“Diana Whitacre, Hal Rhoads’s daughter. I’m almost sure of it. She was having an affair with Ricardo Cruz, at the same time as he was secretly working with Hal on a project for the future of the ranch. A project Diana had no idea about. I think Ricardo sprang it on her, maybe even tried to blackmail her into supporting it. Diana’s not a woman who takes well to pressure. She whacked him with something heavy, a ranch tool maybe, and dumped him in the creek by your little farm. It wasn’t her first time. Look at this.”
She held up her phone, showing them the photo of the old newspaper Jack had found.
“She killed two guys she was sleeping with?” Paul said. “That’s cold.” Lana watched as Paul appeared to run through his list of past dalliances, wondering which of them might come back to attack him. He looked preoccupied. It must have been a long list.
“Lana?” Scotty said. “You got a voicemail. From your daughter.”
He handed over the phone, and she turned away from them. Beth’s voice leaked out into the empty dining room.
“Hey, Ma, listen, I got a call from Martin. He wants me to come to that dinner at the ranch. He’s concerned about you and Lady Di. I don’t entirely get what’s up, but it sounded like maybe you’re onto something, and Jack and I want to help. See you there, I guess.”
“Your daughter’s still seeing that douchebag?” Scotty said.
Lana squeezed her eyes shut. She could feel her throat constricting, the veins on her neck pressing inward. She’d miscalculated the import of this dinner. This must be Diana’s plan. To use Beth and Jack . . . She grabbed her phone off the table and started dialing as fast as she could.
Scotty didn’t notice. “Man, that guy with his Maserati and his ‘Well, if you don’t stock Macallan 25 I suppose I can live with Johnnie Walker Black’ and then he leaves this big honking tip like he’s doing me a favor—”
“She isn’t answering.” Lana stood up. “Paul.” Her voice was steel now, with a hairline crack breaking across it. “We have to go. Now.”