Diner Impossible (A Rose Strickland Mystery) (20 page)

God, I hated her condescending tone. I had a strong suspicion the woman could see through my bullshit. If I wanted to know her story, I was going to have to come right out and ask about her past. So much for subtle.

I shifted in my chair to get a better look at her. “I’ll admit, the part where you get to go into other people’s homes, see how they live, how they decorate…” Mainly, I’d just like to snoop.

She sipped her tea, then replaced her cup on its saucer. “Most people like the thrill of the sale. Going in for the kill and reeling in the client.”

Go in for the kill? “Is that what drew you?” I asked. “The thrill?”

“Why don’t we try again tomorrow? I have some houses on the lower end of a gated neighborhood I’d like to show you.”

“Sounds great.” I grabbed two cookies from a tray, ignoring the glare from my mother. “So if you’re not from Illinois, where are you from?”

She smiled. All white teeth, like a piranha ready to snap. “You seem terribly interested in my life. One wouldn’t think a diner waitress would be so curious.” She paused and studied my reaction.

If she thought I gave a damn that people knew I worked at Ma’s, she’d totally misread me. I kept the pleasant smile fixed to my face.

“I know you haven’t just moved back into town, Rosalyn. It wasn’t that hard to figure out. People pity your parents because you’re such a loser.”

Well, the gloves were off. The gauntlet had been thrown. Okay, sister. Sledgehammer time. “Yes, it’s true.” I leaned in and kept my voice quiet. “My mother is trying to reform me, but I don’t think she’ll have much success, do you?”

Her bravado collapsed like a house of cards.

“And if I were you, Julia, I’d be more concerned about myself. Because I know your secret.”

I straightened and waited to see if my arrow found a target.

She froze like an ice sculpture. “What are you talking about?”

“Perhaps you should be less worried about my boring job as a waitress and more concerned about your past as Shawna Platte.” Taking a page from Sullivan’s book, I held my tongue and continued to stare at her as she literally wiggled in her chair.

She looked away from me, but the pulse at the side of her throat jumped like crazy. Her face lost all trace of color. She swayed slightly. “Who told you?”

“It doesn’t matter. I’d like to know what you’re going to do to keep me quiet. Whatever arrangement you had with Delia should work.”

Her eyes, now wide with fear, scanned the room. She pushed back from her chair and stumbled against it. “I’m not feeling well. Please excuse me.”

Charlotte hopped up. “Let me come with you, Julia.”

Julia waved her off, grabbed her bag, and ran into a waiter on her way out of the room.

My mother sighed when she looked at me. “What did you do?”

“Nothing. I’ve been drinking my tea.”

Barbara’s shrewd eyes searched me for some sign of guilt, but I set my sights on Charlotte. “Is your husband involved in the
murder
,” I whispered, “of that secretary? The case I mean. Not the act itself, of course.”

Charlotte sat in between my mother and Jacks. They both turned to stare at her.

“Yes, that was tragic,” Barbara said. “Give us the inside scoop, Charlotte.”

Charlotte Ashby’s hands fluttered like little birds trapped in a cage. “I don’t really know anything.”

Barbara tsked. “Well, you must have heard something. After all, David is best friends with Martin. They must have talked about it, dear.”

Charlotte’s eyes darted left and right, then finally she leaned forward and when she did, her blue dress brushed against her plate where strawberry preserves clung to the edge.

Jacks almost said something, but I kicked out, the toe of my shoe barely making contact with Jacks’ knee.

She frowned at me, but I leaned forward, my gaze on Charlotte. “We won’t breathe a word, I promise.”

Rubbing her lips together, she cast one more glance around to make sure no one was eavesdropping. “All right, but this goes no further.”

We all huddled in, like a football team discussing a play change. “The police think that Delia Cummings was pregnant before she died.”

No shit. Everyone in this town knew that.

“Do they think the child was Martin’s?” my mother asked.

“They don’t know. But there was no forced entry into her condo. Whoever did it had to have had a key.”

Then she leaned back and looked smug, like she’d given us the juiciest bit of gossip. Maybe if I could manage a little one on one time with her, I might find out something more useful. Which is why I pointed out the strawberry stain on her boob.

She glanced down at the red splotch. “Oh no.”

Before Jacks or my mom could say anything, I stood. “Come with me, Charlotte. I know how to get it out.”

But before we could step away from the table, Annabelle Mathers wandered into the room. She wore a navy sweater set and a blue wool skirt. Large, visible bald patches dotted her scalp and her sunken eyes were dull against her sallow skin. I’d never seen anyone, outside a cancer patient, look so ill.

Everyone froze for an instant, then the whispers started.

Swallowing convulsively, she tried to lift her head, but instead crumbled to the floor and a gut-wrenching sob escaped her. That brought a few gasps from the other ladies.

My mother flew to her side, helping her stand.

“I’m fine.” She feebly tried to push at my mother’s hands. “I have to be strong for my children.”

Barbara glanced back at us. “Jacqueline, take my car home.” Then she bustled Annabelle from the room. My sister followed, carrying my mother’s purse.

As soon as they cleared the door, the chatter swelled. I couldn’t help but worry about Annabelle. Her skin wasn’t just pale now, it had a yellowish undertone. The dark circles that ringed her eyes looked like bruises.

Charlotte stood, her mouth agape.

“Come with me, Charlotte,” I said. “Let’s try and get rid of that stain.”

I walked over to her and grabbed her wrist, as if she were a child. Dumbly, she allowed me to lead her to the restroom. Instead of using the closest one, I went down the hallway
to the restroom where Annabelle had gotten sick on the night of the dance.
Fortunately, it was empty.

“That poor woman,” Charlotte said, once we moved through the lounge and stood at the marble-countered sinks.

I grabbed one of the thick paper towels and doused it with cool water. As I dabbed at Charlotte’s dress, I glanced over her face. “She has to be in turmoil,” I said, “everyone thinking her husband murdered his pregnant mistress. What would you do in a situation like that?”

Her startled eyes found mine. “What do you mean?”

I shrugged and kept blotting at the red stain. “If you found out David had cheated. Not that he has, of course.”

She grabbed my hand. “Have you heard something?” Her little girl voice rose an octave. “Tell me.”

I looked into her frightened brown eyes and I just couldn’t bring myself to ask her. David had said she’d be devastated by his infidelity and I believed it. David Ashby had hardcore reasons to kill Delia. Delia was pregnant and she might spill the beans about their affair. She could ruin his budding political career and his marriage in one fell swoop.

Since I couldn’t tell Charlotte about David’s affair, I had to come up with something. “I heard the two of you are having fertility issues,” I blurted out.

Her shoulders released their stiffness. “Yes. We want kids desperately. I’ve been trying for four years.” Tears clouded her eyes and she blinked them away. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted, to be a mom.”

“Then Delia Cummings’ death must be extremely sad for you?”

She batted her lashes. “How so?”

“If she was pregnant at the time of her death…” She wasn’t, but Charlotte wouldn’t know that.

She lifted her head. “That baby didn’t belong to her.” Her childish voice sounded off.

“What do you mean?”

“Delia Cummings was a whore who got herself knocked up by a married man. That baby rightfully belonged to Annabelle. Martin’s sperm belongs to Annabelle.”

Every warning bell started clanging in my head. I was dealing with a certified nut. Sperm? Annabelle’s baby? I needed to tread very carefully here and I was glad I hadn’t told her about David’s extracurriculars.

“That’s an interesting perspective.” I continued to pat her boob with the damp paper towel.

“It’s true. Don’t you think the wife should raise her husband’s child?”

“You don’t think the mother has a say?” I asked.

“No. She was a homewrecker. She had no rights as far as I’m concerned. I know the law looks at things differently, but what’s right is right. And Annabelle tried so hard to give Martin more children. She miscarried five times over the years.”

That was news to me. From the way I heard it, Martin didn’t really give a damn about the kids he had. Why would he want more? Why would Annabelle?

I took a deep breath. “So if David got another woman pregnant, hypothetically of course, what would you do?”

She tossed her short hair away from her face and swatted at my hand. “I’d offer her money in exchange for the baby.”

“And if she didn’t accept?”

“I’d do whatever I had to do. That baby would belong to me. Me and David. No one else.” She glanced down at the strawberry stain. “I hope my dry cleaner can get this out. Thanks for trying.” She lifted her head, a beaming smile on her face.

I tried to return it, but I was pretty sure I flashed a grimace mixed with a little horror.

She turned and trotted out of the bathroom.
Head case, party of one
.

What if Charlotte did know about David’s affair and Delia refused to give Charlotte the baby? She was clearly nuttier than a pecan grove. Maybe David had a key to Delia’s house, Charlotte stole it, slipped into the condo and killed Delia in her sleep? I could definitely envision that scenario.

And she was friends with Julia Baxter. If David didn’t have a key, she could have stolen Julia’s purse at the country club fashion show, taken her e-key, and used it to make a copy of the key to Delia’s condo. Charlotte was suddenly looking like a very good suspect. Of course Julia could have used the e-key herself. Killed Delia to keep her from revealing Julia’s secret identity. True, she didn’t seem to have the nerve to carry it off, but it was a possibility.

Alone in the lounge, I called Ax.

“Hey, Rose.”

“Ax, Annabelle Mathers is taking three different meds. Her skin’s yellow, her hair’s falling out in clumps, and I think she was puking blood. Could you do a little research for me? I know you’re busy, but I’ve got a million things to do this afternoon and can’t get to it until later tonight.”

“I’m never too busy to research bad medical side effects.”

“She looks horrible, Ax.”

“I’m on it.”

Then I called Andre Thomas. Yes, I knew it was before the magical hour of eight o’clock, but this was important.

“Thomas,” he answered.

“Andre, it’s Rose. Just listen. Julia Baxter’s purse was stolen about the same time Delia Cummings moved. Can you get a list of who used the e-key on Delia’s condo? If Julia’s name turns up, I have two new suspects for you: Julia and Charlotte Ashby.”

“Aw, hell,” he muttered. Then his voice softened. “Can you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“Martin’s being questioned right now. It’s not looking good.”

That would explain Annabelle’s breakdown. Not only was she physically ill, she was worried her husband might be arrested.

“Call me if you find anything? And I still plan on meeting you at Captain Bentley’s house at six,” I said before hitting the end button.

I walked over to the vanity where I’d fixed Annabelle’s hair a few days ago. Something about her appearance today was niggling at me. She didn’t just look sick, she looked like she’d taken a number at death’s deli counter. And that worried me.

I dialed Molly.

“What?” she yelled over depressing emo music in the background.

“Molly, your mom was just here at the club. She sort of had a meltdown.”

The music stopped. “What? She went to the club and made a fool of herself? God, she’s so freaking lame.”

I rubbed my temple. “She seemed on the edge of losing her shit, Molly. My mom is bringing her home. You might want to go easy on her.”

“My dad’s being detained by the police and Annabelle has to have her dramatic moment in front of as many witnesses as possible.”

“She’s an emotional wreck and she looks very sick. Cut her some slack, huh?”

She breathed out a laugh. “I thought you were smarter than that, Rose. She’s got you fooled, too.” Then she hung up.

I had no right to tell Molly how to deal with her mother. Look at how well I dealt with mine. I wasn’t in a position to be doling out advice. But I pitied both of them.

I hadn’t taken two steps when my phone rang again. Jeez, I was never getting out of this lounge.