Diner Impossible (A Rose Strickland Mystery) (5 page)

“Possible. And that Randa Atherton skank didn’t have any love for Delia. Maybe we need to make an enemies list.”

I faced her, wiping my hands on a red plaid dishtowel. “Have they had the funeral yet?”

“Let me look.” She took my chair and tapped away on the computer while I dried the mugs. “Visitation’s Sunday afternoon.”

“We should go.”

With a yawn, she stood and retrieved her coat. “Sounds good. Maybe Sullivan can help you out with this. Since he’s one of Mathers’ main enemies.”

I followed her to the door. “The police chief is Sullivan’s guy on the inside. They’re not enemies.”

“They’re not exactly friends though, are they?” She waved and trotted down the stairs.

I closed the door and pulled back the curtain, watching from the window until she started her car and drove away.

I got ready for bed and while I was drifting off to sleep, Sullivan called.

“Sorry it’s so late. My night’s been crazy.” His voice was warm and deep and sexy.

“S’okay. Hey,” I said, stifling a yawn, “do you know David Ashby or Judge Keeler?”

He paused so long, I nodded off.

“They always gamble with Mathers,” he finally said. “I believe Delia and Ashby were fucking each other behind Martin’s back.”

That made my eyes pop open. “Why didn’t you tell me this last night?”

“I was hoping you’d come to your senses. I should have known better.”

“About this affair,” I said, “how sure are you?”

“Fairly certain. She looked at him like she knew him intimately.”

“Is that the way I look at you?” I didn’t have much of a filter at the best of times. But after midnight, it all came tumbling out. “Forget I said that.”

“No, I don’t think I will. Goodnight, Rose.”

Chapter 7

Saturdays were always busy at the diner, but not this one. We would have been slammed if not for the torrential storm. And on top of the bad weather, Ma was MIA. By six-thirty, she still hadn’t shown up and only two regulars wandered in.

Roxy sat at the counter, shaking her foot in agitation. “Guess what I saw this morning? Tariq posted pics of himself with not one, but two hoes hanging all over him. At a club. At three a.m.”

I patted her shoulder as I walked by. “No more cyber stalking Tariq. You’re moving on, remember?”

Nodding, she crossed her arms. “Right. I’m over it. He’s lucky I ever looked his way. Do you know he likes to watch himself in the mirror during sex? And don’t even get me started about oral.”

I cringed. “Wasn’t going to. Ever. And you’re better than this, Rox. You’re going to find someone amazing.” I wished I had a magic wand to mend her broken heart. But this was something she was going to have to go through. Didn’t mean I had to like it. If I ever got within striking distance of Tariq, his nuts were in danger of some serious rackage.

I wandered around the near empty diner, peering out at the sheets of rain lashing against the picture window. “Where’s Ma? I’m starting to get worried.”

“Maybe we should have gone with her to the KAWs versus SPERMs thing yesterday.”

“SPuRTs,” I said.

Roxy tried calling Ma’s phone. “No answer.”

I dug out my own phone. “I’ll call Ax.”

When he didn’t answer either, I tried his home. Stoner Joe, Axton’s roommate, answered on the tenth ring.

“Dude. It’s, like, nighttime.”

I didn’t bother to argue with him. Futility, thy name is Joe. “Hey, can I talk to Ax?”

“Rose? Hey, Chiquita. How’s it hanging, dude?”

“Low and to the left. Is Ax there?”

“He’s with his Klingon homies, man. He never showed up last night. I’m hoping he got lucky. With a lady of a different species. You know what I’m talking about, Rosarama. Like uh, uh, uh,” he grunted.

I sighed and hung up. “Apparently, Axton didn’t make it home last night.”

Roxy glanced at me, her blue eyes troubled. “Where could they be?”

“Don’t worry, Ax will take good care of her. And if anything had happened, we’d have heard by now.”

I shoved my phone in my pocket and walked into the kitchen. The room smelled of smoky bacon and yeasty goodness. Jorge, the assistant cook/dishwasher stood at the counter rolling out biscuits and Ray lifted a tray of rolls from of the oven.

“Did Ma make it in?” Jorge asked. Short, husky, arms sleeved in colorful tattoos, he always had a ready smile and a calming presence. I’d never seen him flustered.

I smiled back, taking in the dark circles ringing his eyes. “Not yet. You look tired, Jorge. Little Maria keeping you up?”

“She’s teething. Won’t last forever, right?”

“Probably not.” I glanced at Ray. “Have you heard from Ma since yesterday?”

“Uhn.”

“Come on, Ray, full sentences. I know you can do it.”

Jorge chuckled.

“No,” Ray said.

“Do you know where she could be?” I asked.

Ray shrugged.

Blowing out a breath, I walked back to the dining room. Despite the downpour and freezing wind, seven more regulars tramped in throughout the morning, dripping wet, in desperate need of hot coffee.

Roxy and I worked in tandem and shared the counter. Ma didn’t come in everyday, but she always gave us a heads up. And she never missed a weekend. Her absence made me nervous.

Finally around nine, she, Axton, and Klek-Brian staggered into the diner, shaking the water from their coats and hanging them by the door. Axton and Klek, still in Klingon garb, shuffled to the counter. But Ma had a pep in her step and a crinkled silicone prosthetic stuck to her forehead.

Roxy stood, hands on her hips, working her gum like it was a second job. “Where the hell have you guys been? Rose and I have been worried sick. There’s a little thing called a phone. Next time, use it.” She slammed her hand onto the connecting door and stomped into the kitchen.

“What bit her butt?” Ma asked.

I grabbed cups and poured coffee for all three of them.

“When you didn’t show up this morning and didn’t answer your phones, we started to get worried. How was the Trekkie thing?”

“We like to refer to ourselves as Trekkers,” Ax said.

Roxy reappeared with plates of biscuits and gravy. She slapped them down on the counter. “So what’s the story?”

“Oh, it was real exciting.” Ma stirred two packets of sugar into her cup. “Sorry I didn’t call, hon,” she said to Roxy. “But we’ve got a mystery on our hands.”

“It was a freaking nightmare,” Ax said. “Not only did we epically fail in our battle for laser tag dominance, when we went to hand over the prize, it was missing. Now the SPuRTs think we’re holding out on them. They called us thieves and insulted our honor.”

“Things got pretty heated. I thought there might be a fight,” Ma said.

“
Pahtk
,” Klek spat out, holding his mug in both hands.

Ax nodded. “For sure, dude.”

“What’d he say, Axman?” Ma asked.

“He called them a foul name. They’re jerks for blaming us. Someone stole that prize, but it wasn’t a KAW.”

“
Balth
.”

“We have honor,” Ax translated.

A table of four bundled into their coats and as they left, a gust of frigid air and rain blew through the diner. Only three dawdlers remained. Since they were nursing their coffee, we had a couple of minutes to spare.

“
BaghneQ
?”

“Crap on a cracker, would you just speak English?” Roxy asked.

“He wants a spoon,” Ax said.

She grabbed one from the container beneath the counter and slid it to him.

Klek grunted and eyed her, his gaze resting on the row of black velvet bows marching down the front of her red dress. The skirt of which was so short, every time she spun around she flashed her frilly bloomers.

“
Seloh
.” Lowering his voice, he drew out the word. No mistaking what he wanted this time.

“Cut it out,” she said. “You’re being gross.”

“Okay, kids, break it down for me.” I rested my elbows on the counter. “What happened and start from the beginning.”

“Well, the laser tag was a kick, toots,” Ma said. “It’s on the second floor of the movie theater. Never knew what was up there before.” Part of her Klingon crinkles started to come unglued around the edges and flapped away from her forehead.

“It was a close game,” Ax said. “We were neck in neck, each of us with only two guys left, but first Aktuh Godar went down. That’s Jason. He works at the Snack-N-Shack by the Huntingford Mall.”

“
Qu’vatlh
!” Klek thumped his fist on the counter, making his
baghneQ
leap in the air.

Ax tilted his head toward his friend. “He’s still a little bitter. Anyway, then Sid Rivers shot Divak Khard and it was all over.” Ax shook his head, causing his frizzy black wig to wiggle back and forth. “Sid and Divak got into a fight. Punches were thrown. It was a real bummer, man.”

Roxy propped her hip against the counter. “So you lost. What next?”

“We had dinner at that Chinese Buffet off Maple,” Ma said. “It wasn’t that good, but at five-ninety-five, it wasn’t that bad either.”

“Their egg rolls are tasty,” Ax said.

I snapped my fingers. “Let’s focus, people. You ate dinner, what next?”

Ax narrowed his eyes in thought. “We stopped by The Carp for a few drinks.” The Carp featured live music on the weekends. But they were known for their cheap beer and bad décor. “Then we went back to Divak Khard’s house for the award ceremony.”

“
Tach
,” Brian nodded. “
HIq
.”

“Yeah, we drank some beer. Divak, that’s Dale Marsh, went out to his car to get the victory prize. But it was, like, gone.”

Ma slowly peeled back the latex forehead. “I got a glimpse of it before we played laser tag. It was something. A costume—”

“Uniform,” Ax corrected.

“Right, a uniform just like the one Captain Kirk used to wear.” She pulled the prosthetic from her skin, wincing as she tugged, causing her own natural wrinkles to deepen. “An exact replica.”

“William…Shatner…signed it…himself.” Ax thrust his hands forward with each word and did his best James T. Kirk impersonation to demonstrate the awesomeness of such an item. “We keep it in a glass frame.”

“How big is it?” Roxy asked.

“About twenty-four by thirty-six inches,” Ax said. “The Fleeties think we’re holding out on them. They’ve accused us of being sore losers and questioned our manhood.”

“They accused the boys of having tiny pee pees,” Ma said.

“Why were you out all night?” Roxy asked.

“There was a trial of sorts,” Ax said. “Not binding for the KAWs of course, but the SPuRTs insisted.”

“How can a frame that big just disappear?” I asked. “It’s not like you can stick it in your pocket and walk off with it.”

“That’s the question. And the mystery.” Ma tossed her ridged forehead onto the counter. It looked disgusting, a floppy piece of skin next to the ketchup bottle. Plus, her own forehead was bright red and the front of her hair lay flat while the rest stood on end. “You’re going to help us, right, Rose?”

“Um.”

“We can’t make any promises.” Roxy grabbed a rag to wipe down her tables. “We have a murder to solve and that takes precedence.”

Way to be discreet, Rox
. “I’ll try to find out what happened, Ax.” How could I say no? He was always there for me. Besides, we had a habit of exchanging favors. I saved him from kidnappers, he plied me with pizza and leant me his car for a week. And this KAW stuff was important to him.

He raised his fake black brows. “What murder?” he whispered.

I shot Klek a glance. “I’ll call you later.”

Ax tapped the side of his nose with a finger. “Got it.”

Chapter 8

While the rain had slacked off, heavy, gray clouds clung together and threatened more bad weather. Unlocking the driver’s side door, the icy wind slithered through my coat, making me shiver.

I let my car heat up, then pointed it toward the exclusive gated community, The Greens, where my parents lived.

Pulling up to the guardhouse, I smiled at Ben. Retired from the police force, he had to be pushing mid-seventies. Today, he covered his gray hair with a knit cap to ward off the chill.

“How are you doing, Miss Strickland?”

“Can’t complain. How about you, Ben?”

“Knee’s giving me a fit.” He gazed up at the rain-swollen clouds. “Be glad when summer gets here.” He pressed a button and the wrought iron gates slowly opened. “Have a great day.”

I waved, zoomed through the wide streets, and pulled into my parents’ drive. The Strickland home was stunning. A sprawling three-story with floor-to-ceiling windows. It sat in the middle of a yard filled with maples and oaks, their naked branches rattling in the wind.

I hustled up the path, slick from rain, to the front door where my mother stood, arms folded, foot tapping.

“I’m not late,” I said. “I told you I’d be by after work.”

“Let’s go. Annabelle’s waiting.”

She wore a tan overcoat and a silk scarf patterned in swirls of brown and bronze.

“I could have just met you there, Mom. We didn’t need to carpool.”

She ignored me, and with a spin worthy of a diva, swirled, making her coat flare around her knees, then marched through the house to the garage door.

I could have insisted on driving, but number one, I would have lost that fight and number two, she had heated seats.

The drive to the Mathers’ house took about twenty minutes but it felt much longer. Barbara drove the highway to the county line, where she turned down a water-logged country lane.

During the ride, she lectured me on how to behave like a human being while Barry Manilow sang an upbeat tune in the background.

I finally interrupted her. “Mom, we made a deal. I ask the questions. I know how to comport myself, thank you. And can we please turn off Barry? I’m getting a toothache.”

She sucked a breath through her nose and pinched her lips shut. But at least she piped down for a few minutes. And Barry remained.

I stared out the window as we rolled past acre after acre of wet, green grass. When we rounded a corner, an enormous red barn came into view. It stood about five hundred feet from the road and was hemmed in by a line of trees along either side. It looked like it had been freshly painted and the roof was new.

“That’s Annabelle’s barn,” Barbara said. “She’s sentimental about it. Her family owned all this land. Her grandparents were farmers, but her father developed most of the larger subdivisions in north Huntingford. Including The Greens.”

So Martin Mathers got his money the old fashioned way. He married into it.

Barbara pulled onto a long paved drive, through the arched stone portico, and stopped in front of the Mathers’ home. As I stared at it, my mouth hung open.

My parents had some nice digs, but Annabelle Mathers lived in a freaking mansion. Made of thick limestone walls, the damn thing had multiple wings. And the fountain at the center of the circular courtyard rivaled the Trevi, in Rome. It was ridiculously huge.

We exited the car and walked to the front door. A Latina maid in a black uniform answered. She took our coats and led us through a broad, winding hall painted in a warm terracotta color. Interesting abstracts hung along the walls and I lingered over a few before hurrying to catch up. I didn’t know anything about art, so none of the artists’ names were familiar and some were illegible. Most looked like a child could have painted them, so I knew they were expensive.

The maid stopped at a room with polished, closed double doors. “Please go in. Mrs. Mathers is expecting you.” Then she retraced her steps.

Barbara cast her usual withering glare over my wrinkled, long-sleeved blue t-shirt. I tried smoothing it out with my hands which earned me a weary sigh.

“Honestly, Rosalyn.” she muttered. Then she opened both doors and led the way into a cavernous living room.

Annabelle Mathers was in her early forties. Diminutive and pretty in a vague way, she sat perched on the edge of a lemon yellow upholstered chair. Her shoulder-length brown hair was combed away from her face, the thin tresses teased in an unflattering ‘do. Made her look much older. Puffy, purple half-moons underlined her medium blue eyes. Her casual blue sweater and black slacks were designer expensive, as were her snakeskin black pumps.

“Annabelle, this is my daughter, Rosalyn. Please forgive her appearance, she just came from the gym.”

I refrained from giving her the evil eye and clamped my mouth shut. I could get into an argument with my mother anytime. Right now, I needed to focus on Annabelle and what information she could provide about Delia Cummings.

She remained seated, so I walked over to her and reaching out, offered my hand. “How do you do, Mrs. Mathers?”

“Well, thank you. Please, have a seat.” Her voice was soft, airy, and would easily be drowned out in a crowd. She was one of those women who didn’t make much of an impact. As soon as she’d leave the room, you’d forget she ever existed.

I sat on the sofa and the maid returned with a tea tray. She poured and handed us each a cup without asking if we wanted sugar or milk. I took it and placed it carefully on the antique table in front of me.

Once she left, I looked at Annabelle. “I’m sorry for your troubles.”

“Thank you. Barbara says you can help me. I’m still not sure how.”

“She’s going to clear Martin’s name, Annabelle.” My mother’s tone rang with certainty.

Me, I wasn’t so sure. “Well, I don’t know about—”

Barbara spoke over me and subtly kicked my shin with her heel.

“And Rosalyn is discretion itself. Anything you tell her will remain in this room. Isn’t that right, dear?”

“Absolutely.” I reached into my purse and pulled out my little notepad. “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

Annabelle shrugged. “Of course.”

“How well did you know Delia Cummings?” I asked.

“Just casually. She was my husband’s secretary for two years. I spoke to her when I couldn’t reach Martin. I bought her Christmas presents, birthday presents and signed his name to the card. I chatted with her at the Christmas party.”

I could feel my mother’s eyes shooting through me like blue lasers. She was giving me a bad case of performance anxiety. Since I wasn’t exactly sure how to broach the next question, I figured I might as well dive in head first.

“Did you know Martin was having an affair with her?”

Tension radiated from my mother’s body. Her fingers clamped down so hard on the china saucer, I was afraid she might pinch a chunk out of it.

Annabelle delicately sighed. “Yes. That’s why he hired her. It certainly wasn’t for her typing skills.”

Wow, a person offering up truthful information. I didn’t have to pull teeth for a change. This was kind of awesome. “Do you know where she was working before becoming his secretary?”

“I believe she was a waitress at some club or other. I don’t know where. But Martin’s taste in women tends to the trashy.” She said it so pleasantly, we could have been talking about her garden instead of her cheating husband. “And no, I don’t know if Delia was really pregnant. But I wouldn’t be surprised. That would have cemented their relationship.”

Barbara shifted uncomfortably and set her cup down next to mine.

As for me, I sat immobile, stunned. How could this woman know her husband was such a dickweed and not divorce him?

She took a deep breath. “I can see that you’re wondering why I stay with him.”

And she was a mind reader
. Or I had a really pathetic poker face.

“It’s simple. I have two children and I want them to benefit from an intact family. Also, I don’t believe in divorce. Marriage is for life.” She cast her eyes to her teacup and gazed into it.

“Of course it is,” my mother said. “And marriage is difficult. You have to work at it. Isn’t that right, Rosalyn?”

How the hell would I know? “Your marriage is none of my business, Mrs. Mathers.”

She looked up and smiled. “You may call me Annabelle.” She acted as if she were bestowing some great boon on a lowly peasant. I could see why she and my mother got along so well.

“I understand your son has been in some trouble.” I felt crappy, dredging up all this ugliness. But I had to if I wanted to help Hard Ass find the truth. I needed as much information about Mathers and his life as possible.

She placed her middle finger between her eyes. “Yes, Mason. He’s such a sweet, sensitive boy. He has an artistic temperament. If he can channel all of his energy into his work, he’ll be great one day.”

“He’s an artist?” I asked.

“He could be, with the proper encouragement. Martin is very tough on him.” She let her hand drop gracefully to the chair’s armrest. “But Mason is an addict. Martin doesn’t understand that a person can’t will their way out of addiction.”

“He’s been to rehab?” I asked.

“Three times so far. Each time, I pray for his sobriety.” Annabelle pressed her lips together and widened her eyes to keep the tears that gathered there from falling.

God, she was a fragile mess. No wonder her doctor had her on three different meds.

“And your daughter?” I asked.

She blinked rapidly. “Molly is so gifted. She’s a pianist. She’s been admitted into the Missouri College of Music. She had other options, of course, but they have an extremely competitive program. And it’s near home. She and Mason are very close.”

“Congratulations, Annabelle,” Barbara said. “That must be so satisfying, having a daughter who exceeds your expectations.”

Oh brother. “I understand she’s been to some mental health facilities?” I asked.

If looks could kill, bury the body, and walk away from a job well done, my mother’s glare qualified.

Annabelle nodded. “Yes. Molly’s a perfectionist. She had an eating disorder. But she received treatment from a clinic in New York. They take a more holistic approach. She’s thriving now.”

“That’s wonderful.” Barbara picked up her tea and took a sip.

I needed to get out of here. The pretty, spindly furniture, the cloying scent of flowers filling every corner, my mother’s disapproving presence. It was all too much. “Do you mind if I use your restroom?”

Annabelle raised her brows. “Not at all. Down the hall, to the left, third door on the right. Shall I call Juanita to show you?”

“No.” I held up a hand and stood. “I’ll find it.”

I left my mother and Annabelle chatting and scampered from the room.

If I wanted to sneak a peek through the house, now was as good a time as any. With a furtive glance around, I followed the path I’d originally taken to the front hall and as silently as possible, trotted up the stairs. One wing wound to the left, another to the right. I chose left and began opening doors. More sitting rooms, a library that smelled a little musty, a guest room that looked unused, and a music room with a grand piano. On lucky number five, I heard angry whiplash rock hammering against the door.

I decided not to knock and instead, just walked right in. The room had a bed with an ornately carved headboard, a marble fireplace, and faded antique rug. It was every bit as fusty as the rest of the house. The only evidence that a teenager stayed here was the thrash metal music and the teenager herself, propped on the bed, cutting her forearm with a razor blade.