Diner Impossible (A Rose Strickland Mystery) (7 page)

Chapter 10

My mother didn’t say a word on the way to the car. But once we got inside, she was all fury and wrath. “Where did you disappear to? I was utterly humiliated. You were gone for over twenty minutes. Poor Annabelle probably thought you were pilfering your way through the house. I told her you had irritable bowel syndrome.”

“Nice save.” I snapped my seatbelt and gave it a yank. “I talked to Molly and Mason. Molly’s a cutter and Mason is still using. He hides it in the barn. And he is one viciously angry kid.”

Some of the irritation seeped out of her. “Well, of course he is. His father was being indiscreet with his secretary. Annabelle has been distraught.” She started the car and drove away from the property. “And what is a cutter?”

“Molly uses a razor and makes little cuts into her skin.”

She gasped. “That’s awful. Does it leave scars? Annabelle needs to know.”

“I’m pretty sure Annabelle already knows. She has Molly in therapy. Dr. Handley.”

That seemed to calm her. “He’s very good. Almost everyone I know goes to him. He’ll fix her.”

My mother had a very strange perspective on mental health.

She merged with traffic onto the highway. “What’s our next step?” she asked.

“Our?”

Her lips tightened. “Yes, Rosalyn. We’re in this together.”

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea. I need my space.” Having her dog my every step, judging me with nasty looks and huffy sighs wasn’t a recipe for success. Spending this much time with her reminded me of parents’ weekend at summer camp when I was eight. To escape her, I finally hid in a patch of poison oak. I had hives for a week.

“Too bad,” she said. “I can either follow you around town or work
with
you. Either way, I’m coming along. You might as well get used to it. So again, what’s our next step?”

With a groan, I banged my head against the back of the seat. I wasn’t going to be able to shake her, so I might as well give in. But I didn’t have to like it.

“David Ashby.”

She took her eyes off the road to stare at me. “

Excuse me?”

“David. Ashby. I need to question him. He’s my next lead.”

She tapped her gloved hands on the steering wheel as she drove fifty in the middle lane. Cars flew past us like they were on a NASCAR track. “You can’t question these people directly, you know. Annabelle was very forthcoming, but most people won’t be. You have to ease your way into it. There’s a dance tonight at the club. You’ll come with us. We’ll all act as if we’ve welcomed you back into the fold.”

“Forget it. No one will buy it.”

“Of course they will. Act sincere and people will believe it. We’ll stop by Jacqueline’s.” Her gaze skimmed over me. “We have an emergency on our hands.”

Four hours later, I stood in my parents’ foyer, dressed in a navy Zac Posen strapless gown that cost more than I made in three months. I’d been plucked, waxed, and buffed until I barely recognized myself. It was hard to believe this used to be my life. Seemed like a waste of time and money now. The shoes alone were worth hundreds of dollars.

My sister, Jacks, had been along for the ride. In the dressing room, she and my mother studied me like I was a lab experiment gone wrong.

“We need some chicken cutlets to round out her figure.” Jacks reached out and patted my boob. “They have bras that do amazing things for small chests, Rose.”

I slapped at her hand. “I’m perfectly happy with the way my breasticles look. They’re perky.” Well, I wouldn’t mind an inch or three, but Sullivan never complained. And if he did, he’d never see them again. Maybe their small size did bother him and he was simply too smart to comment.

Jacks gazed at me through narrowed eyes. “We need a long dress with a classic silhouette.”

“Of course,” my mother said, tapping her chin with her index finger, “but something somber. Navy will show she’s earnest. Nothing beaded. People won’t take her seriously in beads.”

I didn’t even try to understand her logic. “Why can’t I just wear one of Jacks’ dresses?” My sister and I were the same size. Although she was six years older than me and light years more chic, we could almost pass as twins.

“Rosalyn,” my mother said through clenched teeth, as if she were desperately trying to hold onto every scrap of patience she had, “Strickland women do not wear castoffs.”

She should tell that to my thrift store wardrobe. All I owned were castoffs.

And thus began the nightmare of trying on clothes. They thrust dresses at me. So many I lost count. And Spanx, which I flatly refused to wear.

“Cellulite catches up to all of us, Rosalyn,” Barbara said. “And it will smooth the line of the dress.”

I tossed it to Jacks and crossed my arms over my size A chest. “Forget it.”

Then they dragged me off to the salon. While getting my toenails polished, Officer Hard Ass called.

“I spoke with Gabe and Sally,” he said instead of hello.

“Good for you. Who the hell are Gabe and Sally?”

I swear I heard his teeth grind. “The couple who got fired for inappropriate texting.”

“Right. The dispatcher and the cop. And it’s called sexting. Just so you know.”

His sigh lasted so long, I marveled at his lung capacity. “Miss Strickland. Meet us at Bob’s Italian at eight.”

“No can do.” I spied my mother talking to the hair stylist and pointing in my direction. “I’ll meet you at nine-thirty. Gotta go.” Hopefully, that would give me enough time to quiz David Ashby and flee the dance before I turned back into Cinderella. But right then, I needed to save my hair from Barbara. I was putting my foot down at anything more than a trim.

When we got back to my parents’ house, I used a spare bedroom to get ready and Jacks went home to do the same. She’d meet up with us later. Frankly, I’d be relieved to see a friendly face. I hated to admit it, but I was a little nervous, jumping back into the water with all the country club sharks.

Now, standing in the foyer, a new, black cashmere coat tossed over my arm, my stomach felt a little wonky. I hadn’t been to one of these dances in a long time—not nearly long enough.

My father descended the stairs and when he caught sight of me, stopped midway. “Rosalyn, look at you. I haven’t seen you this dressed up in ages.” He jogged down the remaining steps and stood before me. “You look beautiful. I can’t wait to show off my gorgeous girls.” He leaned forward and kissed my cheek.

“Thanks, Dad.”

I felt as if I had leaped into a time warp. Was this all it took to earn my parents’ approval? A new dress and polished nails? Was my mother right when she said, ‘act the part and people would buy it’—that I had suddenly reverted back to the girl I used to be? The one who never looked at a price tag or gave a thought to whipping out her dad’s credit card to pay for what she wanted. As if the last five years had been a lark and not a conscious decision to work my ass off and make my own way in the world.

Barbara glided into the foyer wearing a heavy, beaded dress that matched her hair. “Let’s go or we’ll be late for cocktails.”

My dad helped us into our coats before donning his own and held the door for us. My mother swanned out of the house and I followed. He’d remotely started the car so that it was toasty warm when we climbed into the Mercedes.

Although I’d demanded to drive my own car, since I had a date with Hard Ass and company later, I was outvoted. So now I stared out the window as we drove and watched bare branches shiver in the cold, stiff wind.

I needed to find a way to smoothly approach David Ashby. Make my questions seem casual. I was usually fairly blunt with people, but my mom was right for once. Rich people required finessing.

Huntingford Golf and Country Club used to be an antebellum mansion. The columns were original as were the fireplaces and staircase leading to the second floor, however there had been so many additions to it over the years, it now resembled a Frankenmansion—a mashup of wings and multiple stories. Painted a blinding white, it was at least ten times larger than the original and surrounded by indoor/outdoor tennis courts, two swimming pools and an eighteen hole golf course.

A doorman ushered us inside. “Good evening, Dr. and Mrs. Strickland.”

My mother nodded, but my father greeted him by name. “How are you tonight, Hank?”

“Good, sir.”

The club was warm and bright. Light spilled from a Strass chandelier the size of a spaceship, casting prisms across the marble floor.

As soon as we checked our coats, my father wandered off to talk golf or shop or whatever. My mother stuck to me like Velcro, smiling at people we passed, offering the occasional wave.

“Just act normal,” she whispered out of the side of her mouth.

As opposed to what? Did she think I was going to start speaking Esperanto or scratch my ass in the middle of the room? She had very little faith in my social skills.

I received quite a few inquisitive glances and I actually recognized two or three faces as we strolled through a windowed hallway and then down four steps into the lounge area. A well-stocked, U-shaped bar took center stage. Looked like a fancy pub, but with better seating.

Wait staff unobtrusively offered us trays of champagne and canapés. I grabbed a flute, but forewent the tempura shrimp.

My mother leaned toward me, a smile firmly stuck to her mouth, like a beauty queen who forgot to put Vaseline on her teeth. Everyone probably thought she was saying something charming and witty.

“For God’s sake, you look like you’re standing before a firing squad. Remember to act the part.”

I forced a smile as if she’d just told the funniest joke. “Oh, Mom, you’re a card,” I said, a little too loudly. Then I guzzled half a glass of champagne.

A couple close to my parents’ age approached us. “Letitia, Edmund, do you know my daughter, Rosalyn?”

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” Letitia said. She was gaunt, but sinewy. Edmund was so florid, either he started drinking at breakfast or he was in the middle of a heart attack.

I said something banal and pleasant, but they didn’t hold my attention. The only people I was interested in were the Mathers and David Ashby.

While I checked out the room, the couple moved on. Another pair slid in their place. After the greetings and a little chitchat, they floated away, too. I glanced around once more, searching for my sister. Why had I gone this route instead of using my normal method—waylay people and harangue them into answering my questions. It had worked for me in the past.

“Let’s go to the powder room, dear.”

Barbara snatched away my glass of liquid happiness and shoved it at a waiter, then grasping my wrist, tugged me past the bar to the ladies’.

Hmm, this bathroom must be new. I didn’t remember it from days of yore. Lots of granite with flattering lights.

My mother searched under the stalls to make sure they were empty. Then she rounded on me. “
What
are you doing?”

“Is this a trick question?” I glanced around and my eyes got stuck on a gold faucet. Real gold? Surely not. If so, I was never bringing Roxy here. I wasn’t sure how you went about stealing faucets, but she’d figure out a way.

“Rosalyn,” Barbara growled. “You are supposed to be charming these people. Instead, you look like a halfwit, wearing that insipid smile. Tell people you’re going back to school, that you’re putting your resume together, that you’re thrilled to be here. We’re bringing you back into the fold, remember?”

“I’m being perfectly polite. And I’m not here to impress your friends, I’m here to question David Ashby.”

My mother’s posture became stiffer than a priest’s collar on Sunday morning. “Now you listen to me,” she pointed her finger in my face, her polished nail almost grazing my nose, “we’re going to do this my way. I’ll not have you steamroll in here, cause a commotion, and then leave your father and me to pick up the pieces. Not again.”

Oh boy. We weren’t talking about clearing Martin Mathers’ name, we were talking about me. When I dropped out of the all-girls college five years ago, my mother thought that if she kicked me out of the house and cut up the credit cards, I’d come running home. Well, I hadn’t. And she was still pissed off about it. But now wasn’t the time to cover old ground.

“Fine. I’ll put on a show, all right?”

She took a deep breath and pulled herself together. “Good.”

Together we exited the bathroom and walked back toward the lounge. The blasts of ice coming off her made me shiver in my expensive shoes.

At the end of the hallway, she grabbed my hand, bringing me to a halt. “There, in the silver dress that shows far too much cleavage. That’s Julia Baxter.”

Standing near the French doors that led to the pool, her head thrown back in laughter, was a stunning blonde. Chin-length waves of flaxen hair framed her oval face. Her lips were full and glossy, her boobs were perfection—not too big, not too small. The V-neck bodice of her dress plunged deep and gave everyone a fairly accurate idea of just how perfect they were.

With a glass of champagne in one hand, she stroked the arm of the man next to her like he was a pet poodle, her red-tipped nails bright against his black dinner jacket. He was way older, and stared at her with an expression of ‘
Oh my God, I can’t believe this woman lets me bang her
.’

“That’s her husband?” I asked.

“No, her live-in boyfriend, Mills Keeler.
Judge
Mills Keeler.” And we had a winner. I needed to get a handle on him. He was the Keeler corner of the Mathers/Ashby/Keeler triangle, after all. The triumvirate, Officer Hard Ass had called them.

“They’ve been shacking up for the last year,” my mother whispered. “He’s asked her to marry him numerous times, but she always says no. Boasts about it.”

With a thick mane of silver hair, he stood about five-foot-seven-inches tall. In her heels, Julia Baxter towered over him. Maybe he felt compensated by the fact that his eyeballs were level with her boobtastic cleavage?

“She’s good friends with David Ashby’s wife, Charlotte. And Judge Keeler is very close to Martin Mathers. She might be a good source of information. Now, I’m going to introduce you. Be charming, but don’t be obvious.”

My mother marched forward, her shoulders thrown back. I toddled after her and tried very hard not to look like a halfwit. She swept toward them, all smiles and double-cheeked smooches. “Mills, Julia, I’d like you to meet my youngest daughter, Rosalyn. Rosalyn, this is Judge Mills Keeler and his fiancé, Julia Baxter.”

Julia tapped my mother’s arm. “Barbara, you’re so bad. You know Mills and I aren’t engaged.”

“It’s not from a lack of trying,” he said, taking a drink from his crystal tumbler.

“How do you do?” I said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I have to be honest, I’ve never met a judge before. I’m in awe.” I simpered. Help me Lord, I simpered. And there may have been a little lash-batting involved. I hoped I hadn’t laid the bullshit on too thick.

But Mills chuckled and puffed his chest out, I guessed not. “Well, my dear, it’s not as exciting as it sounds.”

“No?” I opened my eyes so wide I probably resembled one of Roxy’s favorite anime characters. “Because I’m taking a criminal justice class right now. I find the judicial system fascinating.”

“Do you live out of town?” Julia cut in. She looped her arm through Mills’ and took a sip of champagne. Rawr. Very territorial. If he didn’t watch it, she might squat and whiz all over his shoes. “Because I didn’t know Barbara had two daughters. I know Jacqueline, of course, but I don’t remember hearing about you. Ever.”

Naturally, I wasn’t surprised my mom didn’t take out her brag book and show pictures of her loser daughter pouring coffee and serving up short stacks. So I played along. “I just moved back into town. Mom’s thrilled, aren’t you?” I gave her sideways glance, but kept hold of my friendly smile.

My mother gazed at me in pseudo-fondness. “Yes. Just thrilled, dear.”

Then, with a dramatic gasp, as if I’d just put two and two together, I stared at the old man. “Judge Keeler—”

“Call me Mills, my dear.”

“Mills. I heard about that woman who was murdered. The one who was stabbed,” I mouthed the last word, as if it were too rude to utter it in polite company. “Are you in charge of that case?”

Julia stiffened almost imperceptibly. “Wasn’t that horrible?” She took a sip from her flute and gazed around the room. She didn’t seem terribly shaken up by it.

“There’ve been no arrests,” Mills said.

I drew my brows together in mock concern. “I always thought Huntingford was a safe town, but now that I’m back and after hearing that story, I’m terrified.” I gave an affected shudder.

Julia turned her attention back to me. “Have you found a house yet?”

I stared at her for a moment.

“You said you just moved into town. Have you found a place? I’m a realtor. Huntingford Towers is a very secure building. There’s a doorman. I could show you an apartment, if you like.”

“I would
love
that.”

“Yes,” my mother said, “that’s a wonderful idea, Julia.”

There. Maybe there would be no call for haranguing. Maybe using charm with a large spoonful of bullshit worked just as well.