“Ma, Jack’s fine. She texted me when she got to school three hours ago. What’s up?”
“I was just calling to check. That everything was all right.”
The words felt strange coming out of Lana’s mouth. But it was true. She didn’t have an agenda for calling. It felt . . . embarrassing.
“Well, thank you.” Beth sounded as surprised as Lana felt. “How were your scans?”
“Laugh a minute. I’ll have the results early next week.”
The sound crackled. Lana was about to end the call when Beth’s voice came through loud and clear. “Ma, I found something. An architectural firm mailed a package to Mr. Rhoads here.”
“That’s fantastic! I can swing by on my way back from lunch—”
“Ma, I don’t think I can give it to you.”
“Why not?”
“Mail fraud.”
“Oh, honestly.” Lana put Beth on mute to blast her horn at a red Mustang full of tourists that had stopped in the middle of the road to gawk at a pod of dolphins leaping out of the ocean.
“Ma, I can tell you’re disappointed—”
Actually, Lana was feeling quite pleased with herself. The heads had popped back down into the now-moving convertible, and she could see the sign for the Peninsula Pines Club coming up on the left. She decided to take one more risk.
“Do whatever you think is right, Beth.”
She hung up without issuing any suggestion of what that might be.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
A tinkling bell by the waterfall at the entrance to the Peninsula Pines dining room announced Lana’s arrival. The ma?tre d’ ran his eyes down from her dark bob to her tasteful skirt suit, his obsequious smile transforming into a genuine grin when he saw the Alexander McQueen boots on her feet. He guided Lana to a table that looked out over the rose garden, where Diana Whitacre was sipping an iced tea.
“I’m sorry it took me a few days to return your call,” Diana said. “I’ve been getting my plans ready to present to my brother.” Diana’s makeup was understated, her hair combed back under a navy headband that matched her wool suit. Despite being zipped shut, the large leather satchel on the floor beside her bore the unmistakable smell of horse.
Lana stretched out one foot to nudge the bag farther away from her. “I’ve been busy myself.”
“Have I heard correctly? You were in a fire?”
Lana nodded. “At the land trust. The same day I met you at the stables.”
“Do they know how it started?”
This struck Lana as an odd question to ask.
“They haven’t determined that yet,” Lana said slowly. “But they’re investigating it as arson. And I’m continuing to learn more about Ricardo Cruz.”
Lana watched Diana’s face for any reaction. It was as smooth as money and a discreet plastic surgeon could buy.
Finally, the blond woman spoke. “I am sure his loved ones will be grateful when his memory can be put peacefully to rest.”
“Have you been in touch with them?”
Diana looked confused.
“Ricardo Cruz’s family?” Lana prompted.
“Oh.” Diana shook her head. “It wouldn’t be appropriate. I barely knew them. And with everything that’s been going on, my focus is on the ranch.”
“Have your plans progressed?”
Diana reached down for the leather satchel. “Yes. As have my brother’s. He’s got an all-cash offer from a developer who wants to turn the ranch into a McMansionville. Daddy would have hated it. I’ve been moving quickly to present my case for an alternative. I was able to get some drawings made, and I’ve refined the business model. I made a set for you. I was hoping you might be able to offer some feedback.”
Lana flipped through the stack of drawings and spreadsheets. Diana had been busy indeed. She paused on a rendering of the main building, a white pine palace with a Hal Rhoads memorial grove planted around it.
“I see you’ve incorporated your father into the design.”
“Yes. Well.” Diana blinked, her pale eyelashes catching the sunlight from outside. “I didn’t expect him to die so soon.”
“You were surprised by his death?”
Diana tilted her head, considering the question. “After his first stroke, I started staying over at the ranch midweek to help. I still do, to maintain the home. When Daddy and I were together those Tuesday and Wednesday nights, I’d see little things, a slip here, a misplaced tool there. But even when he was struggling, he was private about personal matters. And proud. I would have hoped he could confide in me about the extent of his condition, but . . . yes. His death was a shock.”