Diner Impossible (A Rose Strickland Mystery) (8 page)

Chapter 11

In the dining room, a buffet table loaded with chafing dishes waited along the eastern wall opposite a bank of windows. Round tables had been set with bone china, white table cloths, and real silver. The wait staff, dressed in black slacks and bowties, lined up in a row, ready to serve.

I finally spotted Jacks and her husband, Allen, holding a spot for us near the windows overlooking the lighted golf course. Allen, with his sandy hair and non-descript, pleasant features, bore a remarkable resemblance to my dad—if my dad were thirty years younger, four inches shorter, and had slightly less personality.

Jacks grinned as she drew me into a hug. “You look gorgeous.” When she pulled away, her smile wavered just a bit. “I’ve missed you so much.”

“Jacks, not only did I see you this afternoon for a round of shopping hell—which by the way, if I ever go to the mall with Mom again,” I cranked my neck to make sure she wasn’t eavesdropping, “I am not doing it sober. But last week, I met you and Scotty at the park.”

“I know. I’ve just missed seeing you at these events. It’s been a long time, but it’s good to have you back.”

I’d missed her, too. My life had been pretty hectic lately, fitting school and work in between dodging criminals and dating Sullivan on the sly. And while I missed hanging with my sis, I didn’t miss this life. The phony friendships, the gossip, the constant judgment. I felt much more at home with my diner peeps than the denizens of Huntingford’s upper tier.

Even as the words floated around in my head, Annabelle and Martin Mathers walked through the door. An uncomfortable silence took hold of the room as every eye locked and loaded onto the police chief and his frail wife.

Martin met people’s gazes head on, nodding at a few of them. In his early fifties, his short, dark hair had started turning gray at the edges. He was handsome, toned, and had the calculating eyes of a politician. Annabelle’s gaze wavered, sinking lower with each moment, until she stared at the variegated carpeting. Her hair looked better tonight. She’d eased up on the teasing and it appeared thicker. But her skin was waxy, and as Martin defiantly stared down his peers, she seemed to pull in on herself, like a turtle.

The sound of a metal chafing lid scraping against a dish broke the stillness. Talk resumed, but it was subdued. Didn’t take a genius to figure out all the murmurs were focused on Martin Mathers and the death of Delia Cummings.

My mother’s eyes found mine before sliding in Annabelle’s direction. They were filled with something I rarely saw in Barbara Strickland. Compassion. 

While I felt a measure of disdain for Annabelle and the stand-by-her-man attitude, I felt kind of sorry for her, too. All of her supposed friends had turned their backs. My mother was the only person left in her corner.

After about fifteen minutes, people settled and conversation in the room resumed to a normal level. While we stood in line for the buffet, I sidled next to Barbara.

“Where’s David Ashby?” I whispered.

Her casual glance swept the room. “In the corner. Blond hair, thirties, extremely attractive.”

When I turned my head to glance his way, Barbara grasped my chin and held me still. “Don’t look.”

“Is he a solar eclipse? I can’t look directly at him or I might go blind?” I wrenched my chin from her hand.

“Rosalyn. You may gaze at him in a moment. But for God’s sake, don’t be obvious.”

“So, I can’t take a picture of him and post it on my Facebook page? What about an
I Heart David Ashby
website? That’s not obvious, right?”

She ignored my smartass remarks. “Stand up straight. You’re slouching. Four years of dance class, and you hunch your shoulders like a crone.”

“I haven’t had a dance class since I was ten.”

“What is your point, Rosalyn?”

I glanced over to where my mother had been staring at the eye candy that was David Ashby. He was cute, in a Ralph Lauren ad kind of way. Wheat blond hair, killer smile, athletic build.

I nudged my mom’s arm. “Which one’s his wife?”

“I don’t see her. I’ll try to find her for you. Don’t talk to anyone without me. I don’t trust your interrogation techniques.” My mother’s form of interrogation involved a lot of ass-kissing.

Moving through the line, I filled my plate with something in white sauce and took it back to the table. Before I could sit down, my evening bag vibrated.

Barbara placed her napkin in her lap and gave me the hairy eyeball.

“Don’t. You. Dare.”

Pretending I didn’t hear her, I snatched the bag. “I’ll be right back.” I walked out of the dining room and down a distant hallway. Near the restrooms, I found an alcove and leaned next to a potted plant. “Hello.”

“Rose, it’s the Axman. The SPuRTs have taken the most drastic action. They’ve started a flame war on a Trekker site. It’s getting ugly.”

“Ax, I can’t really do this right now. I’m at the country club.”

“What? Dude. I thought you vowed never to go back there. Even if you were dying of thirst and the only place in the city to get water was the country club sprinkler system. Those were your exact words. Like, verbatim.”

Oh yeah. I had said that. I may have been sipping a margarita at the time, because that sounded a bit extreme. “I have to be here. I’m looking into that thing we talked about at the diner.”

“The murder?”

“Yeah. Delia Cummings was stabbed,” I kept my voice low.

“Anything you need from me?” That was my Ax. Always ready to use his hacking skills for the greater good.

“I need info on David Ashby, Judge Keeler, and anything you can find on Delia herself.”

“I’m on it. But about this situation with the missing uniform, are you going to have time to check it out?”

No way would I let Axton down. He was the sweetest person I knew and had been my rock through the last five years. “You bet. Get your crew together tomorrow evening. I have a funeral in the afternoon, but after that, we’ll sit down and figure this out.”

“Will do.”

“And Ax? Can we do it without the uniforms?”

“Possibly. But you’re going to experience some harsh backlash. Just so you know.”

My eyes drifted toward the ceiling and I hung up. I didn’t want to go back in the dining room. It was peaceful here in the corner. Without my mother. And the lack of poison oak was a bonus.

But I needed to suck it up. I moved from behind the plant and smoothed a hand over my hair. As I started moseying down the hall, Annabelle Mathers suddenly flew past me.

I spun around and ran after her to the ladies’, through the empty outer lounge and into the bathroom. Retching sounds echoed off the tiled walls.

I ran my fingers along the closed stall door. “Annabelle? Are you all right?”

She groaned. “I think I’m dying.”

“Oh my God, I’m calling 911.” I reached inside the little bag to pull out my phone when the door opened.

“No, please,” Annabelle said. She held a long piece of toilet paper and used it to wipe away a trickle of blood seeping from the corner of her mouth. “I’m not really dying. Just feel like it. I think it’s the new medication the doctor gave me. It makes me sick.” She’d been pale in the dining room, but now she was flushed and broken capillaries dotted her cheeks like red freckles. “Probably just stress.”

I hustled over to the sink and held a thick paper towel under the water. Annabelle staggered out of the stall and using the walls for support, walked toward me.

I grabbed her hand. “Sit down for a minute.” The lounge boasted a large sitting area with squishy chairs and two floral sofas. I led her to one of them and planted myself next to her. “Here.” I dabbed at her sweaty face with the damp towel. “Do you want me to get your husband? You should probably go home and rest.”

With her eyes closed, she shook her head. “No, Martin would be ashamed if I showed weakness in front of these people. He thinks I should be stronger, have more backbone, force them to say to my face what they’ve all been saying behind my back.”

Martin was a prick.

“Would you like me to get my mom?” I stopped dabbing her and sat, helpless.

She looked terrible. The flush from hurling had waned, leaving her skin pastier than before.

“No. I’ll be fine, just give me a minute. Maybe you could fix the back of my hair? I have clip-in hair extensions and I don’t want to walk in there looking disheveled.”

“Sure, of course.”

Taking a deep breath, she stood and walked to one of the three vanity tables. She slipped onto a padded bench and from her evening bag retrieved a comb, holding it out to me. “Have any mints?”  “No, sorry.” I crossed the room and stood behind her. Since the back of her hair was a bit of a tangle, I had to remove two of the extensions. Her real hair was dry and brittle and as I dragged the comb through it, several strands got caught in the teeth, pulling free of her scalp. In some places, the patches of hair were so sparse, she was almost bald.

Her eyes met mine in the mirror. “It’s been like that for the last month. The doctor thinks it’s from stress. I’m not keeping much food down and I don’t sleep well.”

I readjusted the extensions, fixing her hair as best I could. “I don’t understand why you’re putting yourself through all this. Your health is more important than showing up for these stupid club events. And you’re vomiting blood. That’s not normal.” Surely if her husband gave a crap about her, he’d insist she stay home, at least until she felt better.

Annabelle stood and faced me. “I just bit my tongue, hence the blood. Please don’t worry. Once the police find that girl’s real killer, things will calm down.”

I couldn’t keep the frown off my face. Every instinct I had wanted to protect this woman.

She patted my shoulder. “Dear Rosalyn, you’ve been so kind. I don’t expect you to understand. This has been my life for the last nineteen years. Martin is counting on me. My family is counting on me.” She turned toward the mirror and after one final glance at herself, grabbed the comb and walked out of the room.

I watched her leave, not knowing where this need to protect her was coming from. She wasn’t a victim in her life, she was an active participant. Nevertheless, she had my sympathy. Her life was a crapfest right now and she was so stressed out, she was losing her hair.

I stared at my fingers. Just thinking about touching that hair had me skeeved. As three women entered the lounge, settling themselves in front of the mirrors, I zipped through to the other room and washed my hands. Twice.

Then I checked my own reflection before strolling back to the dining room and navigated my way to our table. I smiled at Jacks and pulled out my chair to sit, but looking down there was nothing but empty space where my plate used to be. “Did my food run off?”

Barbara would have raised a brow at me, but her facial muscles had been botoxed into oblivion. “Since we didn’t know if or when you’d be coming back, we had the waiter remove your plate.” She pushed back from the table and stood. My father and Allen quickly followed suit. Aiming a glare in my direction, she tossed her napkin down and like a queen, strode to the doorway.

My dad grimaced. “Sorry, Rosalyn. You know how your mother feels...phone calls during dinner…” He shoved his hands in his pockets and loped off after her.

Jacks pressed her lips together. “This is how it always ends. Mom storming off with dad following behind.”

She’d just now figured that out? And she wondered why I stayed clear of these lovely family gatherings.

“We’d better join your parents.” Allen offered his arms to Jacks and me. “May I have the pleasure of escorting you two ladies to the ballroom?”

The only thing worse than a middle school mixer was a country club dance. Well, not worse. More boring. And less crying in the locker room. Still, not the way I wanted to spend a Saturday night.

When I felt a tap on my shoulder, I twisted around to find Dane Harker standing behind me. Dimpled and adorable, Dane, my grade school classmate, had reentered my life a few months ago. We’d shared a couple of dates and a handful of kisses. I suspected he wanted more, but while he was charming and handsome and everything my parents could wish for in a son-in-law, he was firmly stuck in my friend zone.

“Would you care to dance?” he asked.

“Love to.”

The band played a jazzy instrumental. He led me to the dance floor and with his hand on the small of my back, Dane guided me in a wide circle.

Leaning down, he whispered in my ear, “What in the world are you doing here?”

I jerked my head back, frowning up at him. “What is that supposed to mean?” It sounded a lot more defensive than I meant for it to. I was feeling a little discombobulated tonight, being here with my family, rubbing elbows with the city’s elite. Tonight, in this dress, with these people, I was Bizarro Rose, playing a part. A part I used to live.

“Sorry, Dane. Didn’t mean to snap at you.”

He grinned and twirled me away from him, before pulling me back. “Don’t be a goof, Rose. I just meant that you hate things like this. So, either your mother has threatened you with bodily harm or you came voluntarily. Which begs the question, why?”

I tucked my head down a notch and slid my eyes over the crowd. “What do you know about Delia Cummings?” I asked softly.