“Martin!” Diana called out. “Come and say hello to Ms. Rubicon.”
Martin flinched. But he didn’t leave. He pulled back from the window and looked at Beth. “Your mother,” he said. “I hear she’s quite the real estate shark.”
“More of a leopard seal. Cute on the outside, razor-sharp teeth on the inside.”
“Is she going to cause problems for me?”
Beth’s face froze in a half smile. “I think she’s just trying to help—”
“My sister, I know. And Ricardo Cruz. She seems very helpful.”
Beth nodded uncomfortably. Maybe bringing their separate family tensions into the same house wasn’t such a great idea.
Chapter Fifty
Dinner was more than a little awkward. Diana had bought a salad and fancy pizzas, the kind that came with fussy toppings and no sauce on rosemary-scented crackers. She kept trying to bring up her proposal for the future of the ranch, but Martin refused to talk business until after they’d eaten. They crunched their way through the meal, grasping for something to talk about.
“Jack, I was sorry to hear about your boss,” Martin said.
Jack looked at him quizzically.
“What are you talking about?” Beth asked.
“I saw a news alert an hour ago,” Martin said. “Apparently the sheriffs have a warrant out for Paul Hanley’s arrest. For the murder of Ricardo Cruz. And Hanley appears to be missing.”
Lana took a careful sip of her water. “I’m not sure I agree with the sheriffs about who killed Ricardo Cruz.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Diana’s jaw stiffen.
“This is hardly appropriate dinner conversation,” Diana said.
“You’re right, Di,” Martin said easily. He looked almost happy to have contributed to the unsettling of his sister. “So, Lana. I hear you have lung cancer?”
Diana almost choked on her wine.
Lana gazed up at the man neutrally, as if he’d asked her if she had enough salad.
“That’s correct, Martin.” Lana gave him a thin smile. “And if you’ll excuse me, I realize I left my pills in the car.”
Lana sauntered to the front door. Once outside, she strode over to Diana’s Jaguar. It was a sedan, fairly new, in an understated gray-green. Try as she might, she couldn’t recall seeing it before.
But the dusty pickup behind it did look familiar. The more she stared at the rusted old Ford, the more certain she was that it was the truck parked behind her at the land trust the day of the fire. It couldn’t have been further from Diana’s style—which made it perfect if she was trying to hide her tracks.
Finally. Concrete evidence. Lana wanted to shout or jump, but instead she took out her phone and photographed the truck from every angle. Then she headed over to her car to grab an old pill dispenser from the glove compartment and check that the photos were decent. Swiping through them filled her with energy. She was confident there was more to find that linked Diana to Ricardo. Maybe even the murder weapon. She wanted just enough time to get what they could, and then they needed to hand it all over before Diana realized what was happening. She fired off a text to Detective Ramirez.
Meet me at Rhoads ranch. 8 p.m. I promise Paul Hanley will be there.
She got out of the car and put one hand on the trunk to steady herself. She felt a soft flutter, as if the car were pregnant. She looked around. The closest greenhouse was dark, silent, the shadows behind it growing longer. She watched the world slip from twilight to night, hundreds of stars peeking out over the slough.
She was ready. Lana stepped away from the Lexus, considering the presentation ahead. She had to get Diana and Martin talking or arguing or both. She knew how to stretch out the negotiation if she had to. She walked around Beth’s Camry and past Martin’s Maserati to head back to the house.
Or rather, almost past. Her stride was broken by an aberration, a kind of stop sign slamming in her brain. For a moment, Lana was afraid she was going to have another fall. But then she realized it was something in Martin’s car that had caused her to freeze.
The convertible’s top was down, the seats packed with suitcases and boxes. It appeared to be a mix of his own personal items and things from the ranch—likely heirlooms Martin wanted to bring back to San Francisco. There was a weathered cane chair sandwiched in the passenger seat upside down, its stiff back creating a kind of cage for a set of antique farm tools laid out on a towel on the floor. A bag stuffed with file folders held the chair in place, settled on the underneath of the seat like an anchor.