Diner Impossible (A Rose Strickland Mystery)

by Austin, Terri L.

  I dipped my hand into my purse and scrounged around for my phone. He gave me his number and I added it to my contacts.

  “You may not hold any respect for Martin, Miss Strickland, but his family is being affected by this, too.”

  “His family?” Damn. The families always took the hit. “How many kids does he have?”

  “Two. I’m sure this is affecting them. How would you feel if your father was being called a murderer?”

  How could it not affect them? I rubbed my forehead. Finding justice for Delia Cummings was one thing. But sometimes the living deserved justice more than the dead. And innocent kids didn’t need this kind of crap following them around. Officer Hard Ass had just found my Achilles heel. But I wasn’t going to show my hand. I still wanted time to think it through.

  “By the way,” he said, “Randa Atherton likes chocolate. The expensive kind in pretty boxes.”

  “Who doesn’t? I haven’t agreed to any of this, you know. And I shouldn’t have to bribe police clerks with candy. It’s weird.”

  “Don’t think of it as bribery. Think of it as an investment in uncovering the truth. I look forward to hearing from you.” There was a note in his voice I couldn’t quite identify. But it sounded suspiciously like arrogance.

  I nodded, rose, and with my arms stretched out in front of me, staggered through the murky room to the front door.

  Officer Hard Ass asking for my help. Yep, this was definitely a first I’d always remember.

  Chapter 2

  I made it home—home being a second floor studio apartment with a microscopic kitchenette—in twenty minutes. My stomach growled the whole way.

  When I opened the door, I wheezed in surprise at the unexpected visitor sitting comfortably on my futon. Sullivan. Thomas Malcolm Sullivan, to be exact. He was easily the most fascinating, complicated person I’d ever met and he came in such a gorgeous package. Too-long, dark hair gently curled at the ends, brushing against the top of his casual, and undoubtedly pricey, black sweater. Warm, honeyed skin molded over smooth, high cheekbones. His lips. So firm, so kissable—I won’t taunt you with how talented those lips were, but it made my stomach quiver in excitement just thinking about it.

  Was he my boyfriend? Paramour? I wasn’t sure what to call him. Our relationship, if I could even call it that, was undefined. Trying to put a label on it hurt my brain. How about the hot tamale I’d been hanging out with for the last five months? Yeah, let’s go with that.

  We hadn’t seen much of each other lately. For me, classes at Huntingford City College were in full swing. Monday and Wednesday nights I alternated between Criminology and Abnormal Psych—I’d met so many psycho criminals lately, the combination seemed prudent. Tuesday and Thursday nights were devoted to book learnin’. At least until midterms were over.

  For Sullivan, he spent most evenings rebuilding his business after a forced hiatus. And on those too seldom occasions when we did see each other, we didn’t go out. It was as if our time together was a retreat from our real lives. My apartment became a small island with only two inhabitants.

  “Hey,” I said, “some people actually wait to be invited in.” I tossed my keys and purse on the small table in the corner.

  He stood and flashed a wolfish grin. “Some people have better locks than others.” With his long legs, he was by my side in three strides. Lifting me by the waist so my lips were level with his, he kissed me, making me forget my own name.

  When he set me back on the ground, I wobbled a bit. He looked a little smug as he grabbed my elbow to hold me steady.

  “Hey, you didn’t make me stagger like that. I haven’t eaten in hours. I’m suffering from low blood sugar.” I pulled out of his grasp and tossed a strand of blonde hair over my shoulder.

  “I thought you went out to dinner?”

  I walked over to the futon and flopped down. “Officer Andre Thomas wanted a meeting. Bob’s on Junction County Road. It was like walking into a foul smelling mine shaft. I couldn’t even read my menu—not that I would have ordered.”

  “Good choice. The food’s terrible.” Sullivan gracefully folded himself next to me.

  I sighed. “You own that place, don’t you?”

  He grinned.

  Was I surprised that Sullivan owned a dark restaurant perfect for secret meetings and nefarious transactions? Nope. That top criminal in town, the one police chief, Martin Mathers, was ass deep in debt to? The very same hot tamale I’d been hanging with. Last October, my friend Axton’s disappearance threw us into each other’s path. In spite of the fact that Sullivan didn’t concern himself with running a legal operation and I’d picked up a zany, new hobby that involved catching criminals, the attraction between us sizzled. Things started getting even hotter three months ago, right around Christmastime. Muchas gracias, Santa.

  “What did the good officer want with you?” he asked.

  “He wants me to look into the death of Delia Cummings, Martin Mathers’ secretary.”

  Sullivan absentmindedly brushed a stray hair from my forehead. He said nothing, so I waited him out. This was our usual mode of communication. He’d wait for me to talk. I’d wait for him to talk. And I tried really hard not to crack first.

  After approximately two minutes, I caved. “What are you thinking? Just spit it out.”

  “Why’d he ask you to do this? The man’s a police officer. It’s his job, not yours.”

  I tapped his chest with my finger. “You just don’t like him because he’s incorruptible.” Sullivan had a few officers in his pocket besides Mathers. His theory: always good to know what your enemy is up to.

  “Everyone’s corruptible, Rose. You just need to find the proper temptation.”

  “So cynical. Some people take great pride in their tight ass, by-the-book ways.”

  His gold gaze was unflinching. “And do you like that Officer Thomas stays clear of people like me?” He almost sounded jealous and the tiniest bit defensive, which was ridiculous. He was too secure with his own shiz to suffer from such petty emotions.

  “He’s a stickler and you know how I feel about those,” I said.

  “A stickler who asks you to do his job for him. Because he either can’t, or won’t, get his own hands dirty.”

  “Officially, he can’t. He wants to feed me info. And since I can break those pesky rules he has to follow, he thinks I might find the truth.”

  He thrust his fingers through the length of my hair, seemingly fascinated as he watched it fall back into place. “Ah, the truth.”

  I searched his face. Shallow groves framed his sardonic grin. “What? You think the truth is corruptible, too?”

  “The truth is subjective. It’s just a matter of perspective.”

  “Bullshit, Sullivan. The truth is the truth. It’s an absolute.”

  “On that we’ll have to disagree. So, are you going to do it?”

  “Can you think of a reason why I shouldn’t?”

  “Several. Searching for a killer is dangerous. You owe nothing to Andre Thomas. I’d wager that if you get into trouble, he’ll forget he ever knew you. And you’ve risked your neck enough over the last few months. Call me crazy, but I like you breathing.” He reached out and held his palm over my heart. “It’s more fun that way.” He dove in for a swift, hard kiss and squeezed my breast at the same time.

  I breathed out a little sigh, then smacked his hand away. Hard to think straight when he was feeling me up. “You have an awful lot of crap on Mathers and the man owes you money. He’s looking like a possible suspect and if the police start digging deep enough, your name could come into the conversation. That wouldn’t be good for business.”

  His eyes, molten gold after our kiss, cooled down. “I can take care of myself. I don’t need you to protect me.”

  Of course he didn’t need my prot
ection, he was freaking Thomas Sullivan. Still, if by getting involved I could keep his name from surfacing, I’d do it.

  “I’m not worried about being linked to Mathers. I have contingencies in place.”

  “Contingencies are good.” I leaned my head against the back of the futon. “Did you know Delia Cummings?”

  With one tapered finger, he softly skimmed my neck and sneaked beneath the ribbed collar of my pink t-shirt. “Yes. She came with Mathers to card games.”

  I turned my head to glance up at him. “What did you think of her?”

  Long pause. “She was smart. Always watching.”

  “Watching what?” His finger wiggled under my bra strap.

  “Everything. She watched everyone in the room, as if she were studying for an exam later. She watched every player’s face as the hands played out, looking for tells. And she wasn’t subtle about it.”

  “Do you have any information on her? Any files?”

  He raised one brow. His way of saying ‘duh, like, of course I do.’

  “You know, you could always get rid of all the dirt you have on Mathers,” I said. “Forgive the debt. Take away his incentive to drop your name.”

  His finger froze and silence ensued.

  Fine. He’d never get rid of the evidence he had against the police chief and I understood why. If Martin Mathers wasn’t guilty and Sullivan destroyed all his leverage, he’d lose a very important resource.

  But if I could get the inside scoop on the investigation from Andre Thomas and help keep Sullivan in the loop at the same time, that was a win-win in my book. And if Mathers wasn’t guilty, I could cut his kids a break. It had to be hard growing up with a corrupt jerk like our esteemed police chief. If I could give them some measure of relief that their dad wasn’t a killer on top of it, I would.

  Not to mention the curiosity gnawing at me like a dog with a squeaky chew toy. Damn curiosity.

  Yeah, I’d look into Delia Cummings’ murder. Officer Hard Ass would be so pleased.

  My stomach made a God awful gurgling noise, reminding me I hadn’t eaten in hours.

  Sullivan chuckled. “Let’s order some dinner.” He retracted his hand from my shirt and reached for his phone.

  Plucking the phone from him, I climbed to my knees and proceeded to straddle his lap. “How about after?”

  Chapter 3

  The next morning at the diner, I sipped my coffee and stood next to the picture window, staring out into the darkness. The day promised to be a cold one. Blustery wind pounded at my car as I drove to work, but the fragrant smell of coffee was comforting.

  Memories of the previous night with Sullivan filled my head, making my cheeks heat just a little. When my phone alarm started blaring at four forty-five, his side of the futon was cold. I never heard him leave.

  I was completely lost in my own world until Roxy slammed open the swinging door that connected the kitchen and the dining room.

  “What do you think?” she asked. She pranced across the black-and-white checkerboard floor, spinning and posing. Basically looking fab in a pale blue, frilly dress. Swags of wide, satin bows were festooned across the short skirt. Black platform Mary Janes finished it off.

  “You look spiffy today,” I said.

  Stopping in the middle of the room, she planted her hands on her hips. “I look spiffy every day.”

  True. But since her boyfriend, Tariq, abruptly broke up with her a week ago, Roxy had been pretty depressed. The kind of depressed that required late night bitchfests and tubs of Rocky Road ice cream. Today, she was back to a strut.

  “I’m glad you’re feeling better,” I said.

  “Tariq can go jerk off. He’s missing this kind of awesome.” She waved a hand from her forehead to the hem of her skirt. “I’m moving on.” While she slipped an apron around her waist, her jaw worked a wad of nicotine gum. “So what’s the what with Officer Hard Ass? Did he try to get you naked?”

  I sputtered on my coffee. “Not even.” I scrunched my eyes closed and tried to picture him without his uniform. A Ken doll flashed through my mind—lots of muscles, but missing the good parts. “He wants me to look into the death of Martin Mathers’ secretary.”

  “Seriously? He’s coming to you for help?”

  I nodded, walking to a counter stool. “Crazy, right? He said he’d feed me secret police info. We have to keep it on the DL, though.”

  “So when do we start?” She grabbed a white ceramic mug off the stainless steel shelf and splashed some coffee into it.

  “This afternoon.”

  Ma Ferguson stepped through the connecting door, her short white hair shooting off in twenty-seven different directions. “What’s going on this afternoon?” She adjusted her oversized trifocals and glanced between the two of us. Her white sweatshirt featured a shamrock and read Irish You’d Buy Me a Beer.

  Roxy pointed at me. “Rose has to solve a murder, so we start investigating this afternoon.”

  “Whose murder, toots?”

  “Delia Cummings. That secretary who was stabbed.”

  Ma shuddered. “That was awful. Let me know if you need help.” She patted my arm as she sat next to me. “Is that what that cop wanted yesterday, your help on this case? I thought maybe he was trying to get into your britches.”

  I made a grimace. “Good Lord, you two have sex on the brain.”

  “We have to keep our involvement quiet, Ma,” Roxy said. “Hard Ass doesn’t want anyone to know Rose is helping him.”

  Ma acted like she was locking her lips and throwing the key over her shoulder.

  “I’m as quiet as the grave.” A macabre choice of words, considering Delia Cummings was dead.

  Roxy and I got to work and removed mismatched chairs from the tops of pink Formica tables. Ma’s Diner—an institution in Huntingford—was open from six a.m. to one p.m. Breakfast only. Don’t try asking for a burger or chicken tenders. You’ll be sadly disappointed.

  Regulars waited outside in the chilly March morning, starting at a quarter till. We let them in a little early because the wind was so vicious. Rox and I did our thing, dividing up ten tables between us while Ma worked the counter. At our mid-morning lull, Ray, Ma’s son and the diner’s cook, strode out of the kitchen with two plates. An omelet for me and a cinnamon roll for Roxy.

  Fifty-something Ray was ginormous. At almost seven feet tall, his hands were the size of two large roasts and his shoulders barely fit through the door. His shaggy, fading blond mane was tucked neatly into a hair net, and he either wore the same black t-shirt every day or he had a closet full of them.

  “Too much flour in the gravy, Ray,” Ma said.

  “Enh.”

  This was their way. Ma bitched. Ray muttered unintelligibly. All was right in the world.

  Things picked up around eleven, when we were suddenly invaded. My bud, Axton, stormed into the diner with a posse of seven men and two women. All dressed as Klingons in battle gear, they called themselves the KAWs—Klingon Alliance of Warriors.

  “Uh, uh!” they grunted, raising their claw-tipped gloves in the air. Immediately shoving three tables together, they sat and spoke to each other in their guttural native Klingon tongue.

  The few patrons gave them sideways glances, but no one stared full on. Most people kept their eyes glued to their plates and one old guy raised his hand for the check. The Klingons were a bit overwhelming en masse.

  Ax, dressed in full garb—vest, faux fur sleeves, wrinkly forehead and a long, frizzy black wig—swaggered up to the counter. “Hey, Rose. How do I look?”

  “Very warriorish.” I studied the patches of his wiry facial hair from several different angles. “How’d you get your beard black? Did you dye it?”

  “No. Mascara. We have our annual battle with the SPuRTs this afternoon. Need to get fue
led up.”

  “Ghab tun!” shouted one of the Klingons.

  “What are SPuRTs?” I asked.

  Roxy sauntered up with a coffee pot in her hand. “What’s that guy screaming about?”

  “Roughly translated, he wants meat,” Ax said. “That’s Klek, real name, Brian. He speaks only Klingon when in costume. It’s an integrity thing.” He glanced at me. “And the SPuRTs are the Starfleet Planetary Reconnaissance Team. We don’t call them SPuRTs to their faces, though. Pisses them off.”

  Ma scampered out of the kitchen. “What’s with all the yelling?” Her eyes grew as large as her frames when she spotted the group. “Who’re they?” She glanced up and down at Axton. “Who’re you?”

  He grinned. “It’s me, Ax.”

  She smoothed a hand over her sweatshirt. “I didn’t even recognize you. What are you supposed to be?”

  “I’m a Klingon. You know, from Star Trek.”

  She nodded. “I always liked that William Shatner. He’s got a little swagger about him. What do you do, all dressed up like that?”

  “We have a big laser battle with the Starfleet guys.”

  “Ooo, that sounds fun.” She leaned around Ax to get a better look at the table of aliens. “Can I join you for breakfast? I find other cultures fascinating.”

  “Of course.” Ax escorted her to the table and introduced her to his friends.

  Roxy rolled her eyes. “They better not stiff us on a tip or someone’s going to get a phaser shoved up their ass.”

  We worked together, taking orders and serving them. Platters of bacon, stacks of pancakes, and a mountain of sausage. They were all nice, friendly. Except for Klek.

  “Nga’chuq,” he said to Roxy, pointing between the two of them and suggestively raising his bushy eye brows. Then he growled and blew her a kiss. “Nga’chuq!”

  Axton slugged him in the arm. “Give it a rest. Roxy is my jup. Show some respect, dude.”

  When they finally left—leaving a large tip which Roxy and I split—they took Ma with them.