“Can I give you a piece of advice?”
She twisted her lips to the side and remained mum.
“Just get out of here and do what makes you happy. Stop cutting and trying to be perfect for them. Go to school where you want and don’t come back.”
“I can’t do that,” she said. “I have to think of Mason. I can’t leave him alone with them.” She scraped her nails up and down the bedspread. “Is that what you did? Just stopped trying to be perfect?”
“Yeah. Except I stayed in Huntingford.”
“Why? Why stay in this shit town when you could break free, live wherever you want?”
“My nephew, Scotty, is here. I’m in love with that little guy. And my friends are here. I can’t imagine life without them.” It sounded a little sappy to my own ears, even though it was all true. Life without Scotty, Ma, Roxy, Ax? Unthinkable. And then there was Sullivan.
“Sorry I have to ask this, Molly, but what were you doing last Sunday night?”
A smile broke across her face. “You think I killed the bitch? Hate to disappoint, but I was having my therapy session. You can call him and ask. Dr. Handley. He’s teaching me how to ‘work through my issues.’” Her tone was so disparaging, I almost cringed. “And then I came home and my mom watched me eat dinner. She hovered over me while I ate, watching every bite and mentally counting every calorie I put in my mouth. Then I played the piano for three hours and went to bed.”
“Was your dad home?”
“No, thank God. And before you ask, I don’t know where he was. Nor do I give a fuck.”
“What about Mason?”
“He’d just gotten home from rehab that afternoon, totally exhausted. He went straight to his room and stayed there all night.”
“Thanks.” As I looked at her sitting there, the towel now discarded and dropped to the floor, I wanted to bundle her up and carry her home with me. Away from this place, from the pressures of her life. I grabbed her phone off the nightstand and thrust it at her. “Put my number in your contacts. And give me yours.”
She sighed, ever so dramatically, but did as I asked. I tapped her cell number into my own.
“Please take care of yourself, Molly. Call me if you need anything.”
She made a gun with her thumb and finger, pointing it at me. “Will do, Rose Strickland.”
I hopped up off the bed and was about to leave the room when from the corner of my eye, I saw a figure sprinting through the side yard. I crossed to the window and glanced down.
“Why’s your brother running into the woods?” I assumed it was her brother. A dark-haired kid glanced back at the house before darting into the trees.
“He likes to hang out in the barn, smoke pot.”
I glanced back at her. “Mind if I go talk to him?”
“You’d better not. Annabelle might catch you. She gets her tits in a knot over that barn.”
“Why?”
“You’d have to ask her. My dad keeps threatening to tear it down. He’s allergic to hay, despite the fact that he never goes out there and there hasn’t been a horse inside of it for a million years. But that’s the only thing Annabelle stands up for. That stupid, freaking barn.”
I walked to the door and before I could leave, her voice halted my steps. “Hey. Thanks.”
I looked back. “You bet.”
I managed to sneak down the stairs without getting caught and after a few minutes of harried searching, found a back door. Like Mason, I ran through the yard, past the hibernating rose bushes and the koi pond to the woods beyond. Water dripped from the bare branches and landed on my head and shoulders in cold plinks. The trees were tall and dense, gray-green lichen glowing against their rain-darkened bark, but soon I was through them and in the field where the barn lived.
I jogged toward it, glancing over my shoulder at the house. It was almost completely obscured from sight. No wonder the kid loved to sneak off. Although with a house that large, he could probably find a good hiding place closer to home.
The barn doors were closed, so with both hands I tugged one open wide enough to let me slip inside. Dust floated through the murky room and it took a second for my eyes to adjust. I fought against a sneeze, but in the end, I gave in. Twice.
Sitting on an old sawhorse, a boy wearing baggy jeans, a dark hoody, and a sneer watched me. His face was pale and although tall, he was scrawny.
“Who the hell are you?” He flipped open a steel, serrated jackknife, then snapped it closed. I tried not to show any fear at the sight of that knife, but as he kept playing with it, I became edgier, my senses on high alert.
The musky, sweet smell of pot was strong. And as I moved toward him, my wet shoes picked up a thick coat of sawdust covering the wood floor. “Rose Strickland.”
“Nobody gave you permission to come in here.” He jutted his chin in the air, all adolescent posturing and arrogance. “I could call the police right now. My dad’s the chief.”
The one window emitting light was grimy and high up in the loft. But I could still make out the defiance on his young face. He hadn’t even sprouted much facial hair, yet he’d already been to rehab multiple times.
“Yeah, I know who your dad is. But your mom invited me, so put a cork in it, kid.” Fists clenched, I turned my back on him and wandered around. Old farming implements hung on the wall. The metal had rusted with age and wear, while the handles on the hoes looked like a palmful of splinters waiting to happen. Metal barrels lined the back wall, raised off the floor by wooden platforms. An ancient, dented utility locker stood next to them.
“She didn’t say you could come into the barn,” he said. Snap. Click. The sound of that knife was getting on my nerves.
“Well, if you don’t tell her I was here, I won’t tattle that you’ve been toking up.”
He jumped from the sawhorse and took a couple of steps toward me. With the knife open and clutched in his hand, he tapped it against his thigh. “Go to hell.”
“Back atcha.” My body tensed, ready to spring if he decided to use it on me. But I didn’t think he would. He was a scared kid, trying to act like a badass. I hoped.
“Get out of here,” he said. “I mean it.”
“Did you know Delia Cummings?”
His brows shot up at the sudden switch in topic. “My dad’s secretary? Yeah.”
“You know she was killed last Sunday?”
He shoved his empty hand in his pocket. “So?”
“She was stabbed.”
Glancing at the knife, the corded tendons on his neck bulged. “Yeah, I know. She was a total bitch. She acted all nice to my face, but I overheard her at the station once, telling some red-haired chick I was nothing but a screwup, just an expensive mistake.” When he glanced back up at me, his eyes flashed with emotion. “I’m glad she’s dead. Now maybe my mom won’t cry every night.”
I paused a beat, pulling a Sullivan-like move for maximum impact. “Did you kill her?” I studied him carefully. He could have. Could have snuck out of his room, used his Dad’s key to get into Delia’s house, stabbed her, then crept back home with no one the wiser.
Stalking toward me, he bumped his chest into mine. I took three steps back.
“Oh, you’d just love to pin this on me. But I was at home. Ask my mom, my sister. I’d only been back in town for a few hours.” He stepped toward me again, tapping that damn knife against his leg. “Piss off, lady.”
I stood my ground this time, even though he was so close, his spittle dotted my face. Talk about invading my sacred space. With one hand, I wiped it away and stared him down. “What are you addicted to, Mason?”
“It doesn’t matter. I didn’t kill Delia.”
I nodded, moved around him, forcing myself to walk out of the barn at a normal pace. That kid was a blooming psycho. I tried
to cut him some slack. Being sired by hell’s spawn, Martin Mathers, hounded about his sexuality—that couldn’t be easy, but Mason was headed one of two places: the grave or prison.
I sped back to the house and eased the door shut behind me. I ran into the maid on my way through the terracotta hallway.
“They’ve been asking for you.” She looked me up and down, took in the sawdust still lingering on the damp toes of my shoes. “You get lost on your way to the restroom?”
“Yeah. I got detoured.”
Her brown eyes settled on mine. “Don’t let Mrs. M. know a detour took you to the barn. She doesn’t like people going out there.”
“Maybe she should tell that to Mason.”
“Leave it alone,” she said. “I’ll take care of Mason.”
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.
Diner Impossible (A Rose Strickland Mystery) Page 7
