Diner Knock Out (A Rose Strickland Mystery Book 4)

by Terri L. Austin

  A ghost of a smile touched his mouth. “Come on, let’s go light a fire under Madison. I’ll even allow you to do the talking.”

  Allow me? I let it slide. Gotta know when to pick your battles.

  Andre walked toward the ring where two men circled each other, but I slowed to watch. They moved with grace and aggressive energy which should be incompatible, but somehow melded together in a violent dance.

  Buster stepped away from the ring, his movements a little rusty today. All those years of boxing had probably taken their toll on his joints. He planted himself in front of us, crossing his arms over his barrel chest. “Looks like you brought a friend this time, doll.”

  “This is my colleague, Andre Thomas. We’d like to speak with you.”

  “Forget it. Get out of my gym. I don’t want to tell you again.” He leaned down and his coffee breath washed over me. “This time, I will throw you out. And I won’t be gentle.”

  He turned to walk away, but I raced ahead and jumped in front of him, until we stood toe to toe. In a low voice I said, “Rob Huggins is dead.”

  As Andre instructed, I looked for signs of guilt, but it was obvious the news blindsided him. Buster turned ashen and swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down repeatedly.

  “What? How do you know?”

  “Let’s talk about this in private.”

  He nodded and led the way to his office, where he paced to the file cabinet. Andre followed us and shut the door with a soft click.

  “I’m really sorry to drop it on you like that,” I said.

  “I didn’t see anything on the news. Are you sure about this?”

  I shot a glance at Andre. He nodded for me to continue. “Yeah, we’re sure. Rob’s body was found near Oka Lake early this morning. He’s been dead for several days.”

  Buster ran a trembling hand over his cheek. “Shit, they killed him. They really did it.”

  My blood turned cold at his words. “Who killed him? Tell me, Buster. Please. Was it Carlucci? Wyatt Sanders?”

  Jerking his head back, his eyes darted around the room. “You need to go. I can’t be seen talking to you. You have to leave. Right now.”

  “No, listen. Rob has a daughter. She deserves to know what happened to her dad. You owe her that. If you know who killed him, you have to tell the police.”

  Buster’s shoulders sagged and he stared out the office window, refusing to look me in the eye. I waited, hoping he’d give me something, anything, but he remained mute.

  Andre gently grasped my elbow. “Come along, Miss Strickland. He’s not going to tell us anything.”

  I jerked away. “Why did you argue with Rob after his last fight? Why were you so angry with him?”

  Tears welled in Buster’s eyes. His grief shocked me. “Robbie—he was a good kid. A great fighter. You? You can still let this go. Forget everything you’ve heard. These assholes are playing for keeps, and if they find out you’ve been snooping around, they won’t like it.”

  This time I didn’t pull away when Andre propelled me out of the office and through the gym. Outside, the afternoon sun beat down on my bare arms. For once the heat felt good. I was chilled to the bone, not only from Buster’s assertion that Rob had been killed, but from his warning. Still, dropping out wasn’t an option. I had an obligation to Sofia, to Olivia, to Kai. I’d made a promise, and I planned on honoring it.

  As soon as we crossed the street, Andre dropped my elbow. “Are you all right, Miss Strickland?”

  “Buster doesn’t think Rob committed suicide either.”

  “He doesn’t have any more evidence than you do.” He opened the passenger door for me. “What’s your next move?” he asked, after sliding behind the wheel.

  “I’d like to go back to the car dealership and talk to Al Bosworth. I told him I was friends with Rob, but maybe I should ask him about the fight club.”

  “Do you think that’s the best approach? You heard what Buster said. The men who run this club are dangerous. Might be more prudent to feel him out, let him know that Rob’s dead. Gauge his reaction.”

  “He may not even be there. It is Sunday.”

  “Nothing ventured,” Andre said, and started the engine.

  We drove in silence, but I welcomed it. I was too lost in my own thoughts. If Rob had been killed, and I believed he had been, someone had gone to great pains to make it look like a suicide. That took some serious planning, and suggested that Rob knew his killer. Why would a stranger go to such lengths?

  When Andre pulled into the auto complex, red, white, and blue balloons had been placed in intervals throughout the parking lot. It was much busier today than it had been on Friday. Mostly couples and a few families strolled through the lot, peering into cars.

  Andre parked a distance from the showroom. Before we reached the door, John the Car Salesman walked forward to meet us. He’d ditched the suit today and wore a short-sleeved plaid shirt. Mirrored sunglasses shielded his eyes, but large beads of sweat dotted his forehead and upper lip. He smiled and wagged his finger at me. “You’re back. I knew you would be. Remind me again which car you were interested in buying.”

  He had me confused with a real customer. “I’d like to speak to Al Bosworth.”

  The toothy grin melted off his face. “Right. That was you. He’s not here today. And before you ask, Mr. Carlucci isn’t here, either.”

  “What about Rob Huggins?” I asked. “Is he in today?”

  “Who?”

  “Rob. Huggins. He does odd jobs around here.”

  He peered at me over his sunglasses. “Odd jobs? Never heard of him.” He glanced behind me and must have spotted a real customer, because the shit-eating grin was back on his face. He darted around me and trotted off.

  “I guess that nails it,” I said. “Rob didn’t work here. Al Bosworth must be privy to the fight club, because he played along.”

  “That would be a logical deduction.” Andre whipped his head around and watched John descend on his next victim. “I despise salesmen.”

  I gazed up at him. All these revelations in one day. Blackjack. Boxing. Salespeople. If he kept this up, I’d know more about my taciturn boss than I did about Sullivan. That was an unsettling thought.

  Andre drove back to the office. “You’re still not going to tell me what else you’ve got up your sleeve?”

  “No. Maybe later, but not right now.”

  He shook his head. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re making a mistake. Please be careful.”

  “How’s it going with Ted Benson?”

  He gazed out the driver’s side window and muttered something under his breath.

  “Sorry, I didn’t catch that.”

  “I said I put a tracker on his car.”

  “Oh.” Took everything I had, but I refrained from gloating. “I’ll see you tomorrow?” I hopped out of the car and stuck my head back inside. “Assuming I’m still on the payroll?”

  “For now, Miss Strickland.”

  Andre and I were back on an even keel. I’d apologized and so had he. But he and I didn’t see eye to eye on much of anything, so I didn’t know how long this truce of ours would last.

  I zoomed home, grabbed a snack, and made another attempt to reach Sullivan. When I heard his recorded voice, I punched the end button in frustration. Double damn.

  Tossing my phone on the futon, I huffed to the bathroom and took a long, cool shower. After straightening my hair, I used drugstore-brand makeup to try to achieve the same natural look that Sofia had given me. I didn’t do too badly, especially when I added the expensive new lip gloss. Then I slipped into my nicest black dress and one decent pair of heels. I couldn’t keep up with Roxy and Sugar’s colorful sensibilities, but I cleaned up all right.

  An hour later, I sat parked in fron
t of my parents’ three-story house. They lived on the edge of a golf course where all the homes shared a cookie cutter sameness that never failed to depress me. But the scent of freshly clipped grass permeating the air cheered me up. Mmm, the smell of summer.

  After smoothing a hand over my tresses, I knew I couldn’t put it off any longer. Time to face my mother. She didn’t approve of me or my lifestyle in any way, which made it hard to ask for a favor. But I needed to talk to Will Carlucci. Since Sullivan wasn’t returning my calls, I was out of options.

  During the summer, I normally stopped by my sister’s house every Sunday after work. Her husband, Allen, would cook steaks on the grill, and I’d visit with my nephew, Scotty. But tonight we were celebrating Allen’s birthday, hence the dinner at my folks’ place. Not knowing what else he liked, I’d bought him a set of golf balls and threw them in a gift bag.

  I rubbed my glossy lips together as I walked the path to the beige front door. The flowers flanking it ranged from coral to fuchsia. Not a weed dared sprout. My mother didn’t tend to them herself, of course. She employed a part-time gardener. Her yard, much like her life, announced to the world that Barbara Strickland didn’t get her hands dirty, bitches, and you’d best not forget it.

  When my mother opened the front door, her gaze immediately clamped onto my better-than-natural face. Then she scanned my outfit, all the way down to my shoes.

  “Rosalyn. You’re nearly presentable. For once.”

  Chapter 9

  Coming from Barbara Strickland, that was high praise.

  “Thanks, Mom. You look nice too.” The lightweight wrap dress matched the color of her front door, accentuating her tiny waist and nonexistent ta-tas.

  She’d switched up her champagne blond hairdo. Wispy strands now framed her face. I was guessing she’d also paid a recent visit to her plastic surgeon, because her cheeks seemed slightly fuller than normal. My mother would never do anything obvious like lip injections or a boob job. At least not until her friends did it first.

  “Thank you. You’re on time for a change. So nice to see you putting forth an effort.” She spun on her heel. With her spine as straight as a plumb line, she walked to the informal living room. Though really, there was nothing informal about it. The stiff, neutral furniture and highly polished wood tables were expensive, but not inviting.

  When Scotty saw me, he jumped up and raced toward me. “Aunt Rose.” He’d shot up in height these last few months, so when he threw his arms around me, he reached my waist.

  “Hey, Sport. What’s going on?” I bent down to kiss the top of his white-blond hair. He smelled of sunshine and shampoo.

  He gazed up at me with those huge baby blues. “I got in trouble at French class on Friday,” he loudly whispered. Since he was missing his top two front teeth, class sounded like clath. School came out as thcool. As for French class, my sister had enrolled him in an immersion course this summer so that his little brain wouldn’t atrophy before he hit first grade. I didn’t think there was much chance of that. The kid was too smart for his own good.

  I rubbed a hand over his back. “Uh-oh. What did you do?”

  “I told Madame Crosby (Crothby) she had fat knees. She gave me a red card, and I didn’t get recess. She called me enfant difficile. Mom says that’s French for ornery.”

  Jacks stood and walked toward us with a glass of white wine in her hand. “And what did we talk about, Scotty?”

  He dropped his arms from my waist. “Don’t ever call a lady fat. Especially if it’s true.”

  She patted his shoulder. “Close enough. Go show Grandma your new tablet.” Jacks leaned over and kissed my cheek. “How’ve you been?”

  “Good. Busy. You?”

  “Same. Listen, I know you hate setups, but there’s—”

  “No.”

  She pressed her lips together. “Just hear me out. There’s a recently single internist that Allen knows. He’s in his early thirties. Tall, dark, and muscular. I met him at a cocktail party. And”—she lowered her voice—“he has a butt you can bounce a quarter off of. He told me I was lovely, so I told him I had a sister who looked just like me.” Jacks and I did look alike, despite the fact that she had six years on me. Also, she was more polished, poised, and put together than I’d ever be.

  “You’re ogling another man’s ass? Whatever would Allen say?” I glanced to where Jacks’ husband stood in the corner, wearing his golf shirt and khakis—identical to my father’s. His features were pleasant and his personality reminded me of rice pudding—nothing you’d choose off the dessert cart, but palatable when you had the flu. Still, he loved Jacks and Scotty. That was all that mattered.

  “I only look,” Jacks said. “I never touch. Believe me, all the wives were ogling that night. Come on, Rose, you haven’t had a date in ages.”

  In the last several months, there were a lot of things I’d kept from Jacks. But Sullivan topped the list for many reasons—one being that she and my mother would interrogate him like a pair of CIA operatives. While Sullivan could handle himself, I wasn’t ready to throw him to the Strickland she-wolves just yet.

  Also, they’d harass me for details. Frankly, it was embarrassing to admit how little I knew about him. Though I’d fallen ass over teakettle in love with Sullivan, I didn’t know much more about him now than I did six months ago when we first started dating. If I asked him pointed questions, he’d go radio silent. I’d learned to pipe down and sometimes, when he was relaxed, he’d reveal little snippets of himself. He lived near a river as a boy, and he missed the smell of the water. He liked slow jazz songs and cold winter days. When he had time to relax, he watched Quentin Tarantino movies. From studying him carefully, I’d learned that Thomas Sullivan was brilliant and watchful and guarded. The wheels in his head never stopped turning. Even when it looked like he wasn’t paying attention, he saw everything. He could sum up a person in a heartbeat. But as for how he got that little scar on his chin or whether his parents were still alive—nope. Not a clue.

  What Sullivan and I had wasn’t a conventional relationship, which was why I planned on keeping him to myself a while longer. “I don’t have time to date anyone, Jacks. I’m working two jobs.”

  “Just think about it.”

  My dad walked toward us, holding his scotch in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. “Here you are, Rosalyn.” He leaned down and kissed my cheek.

  “Thanks, Dad. How’s work?”

  “Same old.” My father was a podiatrist, and since foot talk was discouraged by my mother—“no one wants to hear about hammer toes, John”—he was a man of few words. Good thing she hadn’t married a chatty proctologist.

  Barbara stood at the French doors leading to the dining room and clapped her hands. “Time for dinner, everyone.” She glared at me. “Rosalyn, don’t dawdle.”

  I held back a sigh. “Yes, Mom.”

  We all settled around the table. My mother had prepared Allen’s favorite dinner—chicken Kiev. Throughout our meal, I successfully deflected most of Barb’s barbs and tried to talk to Allen about his practice. It occurred to me that as a pediatrician, he might have the inside track on the Children’s Hospital. And since Will Carlucci sat on the board, maybe Allen could provide an introduction. Thus, I could bypass my mother and keep my sanity.

  “You have such a successful practice, Allen. It must be really satisfying treating kids.”

  “For the most part.” He didn’t elaborate.

  This was going to be more challenging than I’d thought. “Do you do much work at Children’s?”

  “No. I have privileges at Memorial,” he said.

  Jacks stopped eating and looked at me a little funny. I kept going. “I hear Children’s is doing some cutting-edge research.”

  Allen speared a green bean with his fork and popped it in his mouth. “I’ve never been all that in
terested in research. Of course, they’re a teaching hospital, so they have the funding for it.”

  I nodded, as though I understood the correlation. “Does the foundation have anything to do with that? The fundraising, I mean.”

  Allen opened his mouth to answer, but my mother beat him to the punch.

  “What is all this about, Rosalyn?”

  I shrugged and tried to appear nonchalant. “Nothing. I overheard someone at the diner talking about a fundraising thing.”

  Her gaze sharpened. “And you’ve suddenly become interested in charitable endeavors, have you? How unusual.”

  To keep from responding with a sarcastic reply, I grabbed my glass and downed half the wine.

  My mother wasn’t through with me. “Tell us, dear, what are you doing at that little investigation company of yours?”

  “It’s not mine.” I set the glass down. “And filing, mostly.”

  Her expression remained stony. Could have been suspicion, could have been the Botox. I’d never know for sure.

  Shifting in my seat, I glanced down the table. “Played any golf lately, Dad?” I was desperate to get the spotlight off of myself. “How’s your handicap these days?”

  I could feel Barbara’s eyes staring through the back of my skull. Made me itch. But I ignored her while my dad droned on about birdies.

  We lingered over dinner. Eventually, Jacks slipped off to the kitchen to retrieve Allen’s birthday cake. A carrot cake in the shape of a golf ball. That summed up my brother-in-law perfectly.

  Allen opened his presents, oohing over the golf balls I’d bought. Afterward, he and my father wandered off to watch a baseball game. Scotty ran to the living room to play Candy Crush on his tablet, leaving the three Strickland women to clean up. My mother may not touch the garden, but she insisted on a tidy kitchen.

  When Jacks stood to help clear the table, my mother stuck her nose in the air. “I’ve heard that too many video games can rewire a child’s brain, Jacqueline. Perhaps you could help him practice French.” A calculated move to get me alone. That didn’t bode well.