Diner Impossible (A Rose Strickland Mystery)

by Austin, Terri L.

  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.

  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.