Diner Impossible (A Rose Strickland Mystery) (3 page)

Chapter 4

The town of Huntingford was pretty evenly divided. In northern Huntingford, you had your wealthy people with oodles of expendable income. The paycheck-to-paycheck crowd populated southern Huntingford. The police department had taken sides and their boxy brick building lived in the rarified air on the north side of town.

Inside wasn’t a bustling precinct like you see in the movies. No angry drunk people. No sassy hookers. Just people queuing up at the front desk to pay their parking tickets.

With Roxy by my side, I patiently waited my turn while I clutched an expensive box of chocolates in one hand. I glanced around at men and women roaming the halls, some sporting uniforms, some in suits with badges hanging from lanyards. How many of them were on Sullivan’s payroll? And how much did it cost to buy a cop’s loyalty? I’d ask him, but of course he wouldn’t tell me. He was aggravating like that.

As I stood behind a woman with a yappy dog stuck in her Louis Vuitton, Officer Andre Thomas stalked toward us. “Miss Strickland.” His glance washed over Roxy’s blue hair and flouncy dress. “And friend. Back in trouble, are we?” Those hazel eyes didn’t betray our new relationship as Mystery Club Mates. They were as cold and emotionless as his demeanor. Officer Hard Ass indeed.

“Not yet, but the day is young. Actually, I need to talk to Randa Atherton,” I said.

His gaze dipped down to the chocolates I held. “Why?”

Oh, he was good. If I hadn’t heard him ask for help with my own ears, even I would buy his act.

“Are you in charge of visitors or something?” Roxy asked, giving her gum an extra chomp.

I swear I saw a glimmer of humor in his eyes. But as quickly as I’d seen it, it disappeared. Could have been a trick of the light. The man didn’t own a funny bone.

“Follow me.” He turned on his heel and strode down the hall, leaving us to scramble behind him.

We followed him into an elevator and down to the basement of the building. Shiny, white tile covered the floor, making his shoes squeak even louder. In all this time, not a word had been spoken between us. Then, Roxy poked my shoulder. I turned around to find her cupping her hands and making a squeezy motion at his butt.

I glanced at Hard Ass’s hard ass objectively. It was a pretty tight little package.

When he suddenly stopped and spun, he caught me with my eyes fastened to his posterior.

His normally drawn brows arched. “Is there a problem, Miss Strickland?”

“Nope. Not at all.”

He hiked a thumb over his shoulder. “There is Randa’s office. Good day, ladies.” Then he strode off.

We watched him walk away and after he turned the corner, Roxy grinned. “Now that is some fine prime meat.”

I rubbed my forehead, embarrassed Andre caught me staring at his dunk. “Ugh.”

We stood in front of a gray metal door adorned with Randa Atherton’s name plaque. I knocked once and took her muffled reply for an invitation. Opening the door, Roxy and I craned our necks to get a better view of a red-haired woman lying buck ass naked on the desk with her toes pointed toward the ceiling. The naked man standing in the juncture of her legs was tall and fit. Every square inch of him. With the pants of his uniform pooled around his ankles, he and Red were in the middle of a sweaty game of hide the salami. So engrossed in their sexcapades, they didn’t stop until I coughed into my fist.

They simultaneously swiveled their heads toward us and gasped, then immediately broke apart. I turned my back and shoved Roxy out the door, giving them a minute of privacy.

Roxy tried to contain her laughter, but it bubbled to the surface, erupting in a fit of giggles.

First Andre’s ass, now a stranger’s love wand. Where was the brain bleach when you needed it?

With his shirt flapping open, the man came barreling out of the office as he zipped his fly—difficult to do, given his condition. He pushed past us, knocking my shoulder into the wall.  And I noticed he wore a wedding ring.

Through the open door, Red gave us her back as she slipped on a black bra. She fumbled with the clasp before tugging a navy blouse over her shoulders and hastily rebuttoning. Then she turned and confronted us, her cheeks flushed pink. Smoothing down her slightly frizzy tresses with both hands, she cleared her throat and took a deep breath which drew attention to her blouse. She’d threaded the buttons through the wrong holes.

Randa Atherton was pretty in a vintage pin-up way. Her full lips were crimson, albeit a little smudged from her recent love tussle. Her milky skin was so pale, the blue veins crisscrossing their way along her chest were visible.

“Who are you? What are you doing in here?”

“I apologize for interrupting.” I walked further into the room with Roxy right behind me. “My name is Rose Strickland.” I placed the box of chocolates on top of her desk along with the scattered papers, their crinkled appearance a sad casualty of illicit office sex.

Randa’s brows rose halfway up her forehead. “Interrupting? I have no idea what you’re talking about. I was having a business meeting with a colleague.”Her bright blue eyes met mine in a head on collision.

She grabbed the box of chocolates and tucked them in a drawer. When she gestured to the one guest chair, Roxy leaned her shoulder against the wall. So I sat, while Randa laced her fingers on top of the desk.

“How may I help you, Miss Strickland?” She was struggling to regain some professional demeanor, but the bright red streak smeared around her mouth and the skewed blouse made it hard to forget that her calves had been propped on Officer Long Dong’s shoulders not five minutes before.

“I’m looking into the death of Delia Cummings,” I said.

Her expression didn’t change, but her eyes became wary. “Why?”

“I’m working on behalf of her family.” The lie tumbled from my lips. “I understand the two of you were good friends.” I didn’t drag out my notebook. I waited to see if she would even talk to me. She had no reason to, so in an effort to play the sympathy card, I lowered my eyes and shook my head. “So tragic. They want to know what happened to their daughter. They’re desperate to find the killer, Miss Atherton.”

I felt a twinge of guilt using Delia’s parents for my own purposes. But if I could find her murderer, they might have some peace. At least that’s what I told myself.

“Yes, tragic,” Randa echoed. “And Delia was such a sweet girl. She’ll be missed.”

I studied her, saw the lines radiating from her eyes relax. She thought she could pacify me with bullshit. This was not Randa’s lucky day.

I shook my head. “Delia Cummings was anything but a sweet girl.”

Her gaze fluttered to mine. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Aw,” Roxy said. “Sure you do.”

Randa’s lips puckered like she’d just sucked on a Sour Patch Kid. “No. I don’t.”

I tried for a disarming smile. “May I be frank, Miss Atherton?”

“I’d rather you just leave.”

I carried on. “I know Delia was having an affair with a certain high ranking official.” I let that rest for a second. “And I know she was pregnant before she died. She was the police chief’s spy and if Delia didn’t like someone, they didn’t last long around here.”

“How do you know all that?” With an audible swallow, her gaze flashed from Roxy to me. “If I give you information, I could lose my job. Please, go.”

“Sure. But if I leave now, I’m going to have to report what I saw here today. You, hitting it during office hours. With a married cop. That would absolutely get you fired.”

Her chest began rising and falling at a rapid rate. “He’s separated. Besides no one would believe you.” Not very convincing since her voice lilted, making it sound more like a question than a statement.

Roxy held up her phone and snapped a picture of Randa. “They might after they see your jacked up lipstick and misbuttoned shirt.”

She sucked in a breath and glanced down. When she raised her head, anger tightened the muscles in her face, causing a small vertical wrinkle to appear between her eyes. “Fine. But I want to see you delete that picture before you leave.”

“Tell us what we want to know and it won’t be a problem,” I said.

“You want to know the truth about Delia Cummings?” she asked. “She was an evil bitch. And I’m not sorry she’s dead. She used my relationship with Sam against me. Told me she would get both of us fired if I didn’t give her intel on other people. I hated her.” She reached into her desk and pulled out a half empty box of chocolates. She shoved a nougat in her mouth and scowled as she chewed.

“Sam’s the cop who just left?” I went ahead and dug out my notebook. My jotting down a few facts was the least of her worries.

“Yeah. He and his wife still live in the same house, but they’re not having sex. They’re just roommates. It’s a financial arrangement.”

Sure it was. I mentally crossed my eyes.

“I’m not like some people who just sleep with their boss and get pregnant and go around getting people fired.” She plucked another chocolate and crumpled the wrapper, tossing it at the trash can. It wound up on the floor. “Everyone knew what was going on between Delia and Martin. She didn’t care. In fact,” she practically snarled, “she liked that everyone knew. Got off on the power.” She crammed another piece of candy in her mouth.

“What did she plan to do about the baby?” Roxy asked.

Randa laughed bitterly. “She lost it. Or so she claimed. She probably had an abortion. God knows Martin didn’t want any more kids. According to Delia, the two he already has are a pain in the ass.”

Oh, that Martin. He may not have been a devoted husband or father, but he was ranking right up there as the world’s biggest asshole.

“Do you think he killed her?” I asked.

She used her pinky nail to pick at her front teeth. “Probably. The way I hear it, she threatened to tell his wife all about their affair.”

“But according to you, Delia enjoyed her position of power. Why would she go blabbing to Mrs. Martin?” It didn’t make sense. Either Randa wasn’t privy to all the information regarding Delia and Martin’s affair or she was wrong. So far, all she’d done was spew venom, but hadn’t given me any useful information.

“Who knows?” she said with a shrug. “Maybe they had a fight. Maybe he was as sick of her as the rest of us were.”

“Did she have any friends around here?” I asked.

Randa laughed, showing me her candy-coated front tooth. “She didn’t have friends. She had informants. Everyone was scared to death of her, of what she could do if she decided to destroy your life. A one woman wrecking crew.” She poked inside the box, picked up a chocolate, and broke it in half. “Damn it, vanilla crème.” She tossed it at the trashcan as well. This time, two points.

Roxy shifted against the wall. “Who was Delia’s next victim?”

Randa leaned back in her chair. “I couldn’t begin to guess. But you know who she was always going on about? David Ashby. I think she must have had a crush on him because she was always talking about him, telling me about his latest cases. Like I gave two shits. And when he’d come into the cafeteria, she never took her eyes off him.” She looked from the nearly empty box to the wrapper littering the floor. “God, now I’m going to have to spend an extra three hours in the gym this week.”

“Who’s David Ashby?” I asked.

“Assistant Prosecuting Attorney? Hello?”

“Never heard of him,” Roxy said.

Randa slammed the lid on the box and tossed it back in the drawer. Then she started straightening the papers on her desk. They crackled as she gathered them and tapped the bottoms against the desk blotter. She adjusted the stapler, her pencil holder, the computer monitor. Sliding her tongue over her teeth, she shooed me with one hand. “I shouldn’t even be talking about this. It’s time for you two to go. Get rid of that photo.”

She watched as Roxy fiddled with her phone screen and nixed the picture. “Happy?” Roxy smacked her gum and breezed out the door.

I stood to do the same, but turned back to Randa. “One piece of advice. Next time, before hitting it with Sam and his snake? Lock the door.”

Roxy and I had the elevator to ourselves and as we made our way upward, she shot me a wide-eyed glance. “What a freaking nutbar.”

“Totally. Think she could have killed Delia Cummings?”

She popped another piece of gum in her mouth. “Um, yes. She hated Delia enough.”

“True. We’ll keep her for now.”

“What’s our next step?” Roxy asked.

“Find out about David Ashby. If I manage to survive dinner with my parents.”

Chapter 5

I arrived at my parents’ house ten minutes late—if anything would cure my mother’s strange behavior and induce her ire, tardiness was the ticket. It wasn’t my fault. I got held up by an accident on Apple Tree Boulevard. Nevertheless, she wouldn’t accept excuses.

I noticed my sister’s  car missing from the driveway. Unusual. She always made it to family dinners. I was sometimes an afterthought, but Jacks had a standing invitation.

I rang the bell and shivered on the flagstone stoop. The sharp tang of wood smoke hung in the air. It was a perfect night for a fire. In the overcast sky, a sickle moon peeked through thick, swiftly moving clouds. I hoped we wouldn’t get snow. March. So fickle. Seventy degrees one day, stormy and freezing the next.

My mother answered the door, looking sleek as always in a bronze silk blouse with matching slacks. Every champagne blonde hair perfectly in place. Stick thin and flat-chested, I got my lack of the boobies from her side of the family. From my dad, I inherited my blue-green eyes. In fairness, he was flat-chested as well.

“Hello, Rosalyn,” she said. “Come in dear, it’s so cold.” Something about her was different tonight. The withering glare she always reserved for me was absent.

“Sorry I’m late.” I didn’t know what she’d prepared for dinner, but it smelled savory and delicious.

“Only by a few minutes, it happens. Let me take your coat while you go to the living room. Your father’s pouring drinks.”

This was not the verbal smackdown I’d been expecting. No Jacks, no vegetarian cuisine, no castigation. Who was this woman and what had she done with my real mother? Glancing over my shoulder, unable to pull my eyes away from this stranger who looked just like her, I stumbled into the formal living area.

My father stood next to the antique mahogany liquor cabinet. He wore his thick, sandy hair parted to the side. His uniform—khakis, golf shirt, and argyle sweater vest—showed off his trim figure. “Hello, Rosalyn. What would you like to drink?”

“Just water, please.” I needed my wits about me tonight. Something was going on and it scared me. Were they getting a divorce? Or moving to Boca Raton? No, that was insane. My father still had his podiatry practice and my mother held court at the country club and Junior League. She wouldn’t give that up, not for anything. In fact, they’d probably have to pry the Special Events Coordinator chair from beneath her cold, dead ass.

My father poured a glass of sparkling water and brought it to me, bussing my cheek after handing it off. “Good to see you, dear.”

My mother reappeared. “Dinner’s ready. I made a roast. We don’t eat much red meat, but I know how you like it, Rosalyn.”

I slammed my glass down on the marble-topped coffee table, which caused my mother’s shoulders to twitch. “Okay, that’s it. What is wrong with you two? Mom, do you have a brain tumor?”

They stared at me like I’d just farted in public—a mixture of shock and distaste.

“What on earth are you talking about?” she asked.

“Just tell me. You guys are acting all weird and it’s freaking me out. Are you divorcing and you don’t know how to break it to me?”

My mother’s eyes fluttered closed for a second. “Oh, for God’s sake, Rosalyn. Why must you be so dramatic? Can’t we just get through one dinner without a fuss? First, you’re late, now this.” She gave my father an exaggerated shrug before throwing her hands high into the air.

“It’s just that roast can dry out so easily…” he trailed off and took a sip of whiskey.

“And I’m not taking the blame for a dry roast.” Barbara strode from the room with my father trailing after her.

I lagged behind. I was rethinking this glass of water and wished I’d opted for wine.

In the dining room, the polished oval table gleamed beneath the chandelier. The vibe felt strained as we passed porcelain bowls of potatoes and carrots. I enjoyed the roast while my mother stared at me in between miniscule nibbles of that devil, red meat. My father’s glances darted between us so frequently, he reminded me of one of those cat clocks whose ping pong eyeballs clicked back and forth.

When I was through, I wiped the corners of my mouth on a linen napkin. “That was delicious, Mom.”

“Thank you. I made a chocolate soufflé, but from the way you inhaled that roast, I’m not sure you need it.”

And…we were back to normal. Outright hostility. So much better than dysfunctional pleasantries.

“I’m sure I don’t,” I said cheerfully. “Why don’t I help you clean up?” I pushed back my chair, but my father stood first.

“No, you two go chat.” He flung a hand toward the table. “I’ll take care of the dishes.”

And…now we were weird again. My father always watched SportsCenter after dinner. Always. And he never helped with the dishes. Never.

“Come, Rosalyn.”

My mother led me out of the room and up the marble stairs to a small office. The walls were painted in a taupey shade. The oriental carpet had a few splashes of red and green set in a tan background and the window treatments were a deeper khaki. It was my amateur diagnosis that she suffered from Chromophobia—an unnatural fear of colors. Also, a vocabulary word bound to be on my Abnormal Psych midterm.

She gestured to the beige chair in front of her antique desk as she took the power seat behind it. “Rosalyn, as you know, your father and I frown on your involvement with criminals.”

She paused and watched me, waiting. Maybe for an acknowledgement of some kind?

I stared back, refusing to give her one.

“These tedious situations you get yourself into are as disgusting as they are embarrassing. Most of your outrageous behavior has been kept out of the news, but word gets out. People know.”

Did she want me to admit that finding dead bodies was a bad habit? It was. But what criminal was she talking about? Did she know about Sullivan? If that were the case, she’d be horrified at my undefined relationship with him. And she wouldn’t have been buttering me up with roast. I felt a sense of relief this lecture wouldn’t delve into my love life, because that topic was strictly off limits.

She drummed her manicured fingernails—polished in a shade of sparkly sand—on the desk. “Don’t you have
anything
to say?” She sounded slightly exasperated.

“Nope. You’re doing fine on your own.”

A sigh slipped from between her lips. “The fact of the matter is, that while we find this behavior of yours abhorrent, your father and I are willing to overlook it. Just this once.”

The light bulb clicked on. Now I got it. She needed something from me. That was the only reason she’d been nice. No brain tumors involved. And Barbara Strickland had never asked me for a favor. This must be killing her.

The power was almost heady.

“My friend’s husband is being maliciously defamed.”

“What friend?” I asked. “And what’s being said about him?”

She reached up and twisted the pearl stud in her earlobe. “People are saying he killed his secretary. It’s nonsense, of course, but the gossip is hurting Annabelle.”

Hold up, now. This sounded familiar. A zing of excitement shot through my body. “Annabelle Mathers? Wife of police chief, Martin Mathers?”

“Yes. She’s being ostracized. She’s already been kicked off the Library Board, now there’s a question of whether she’ll be able to participate in the Junior League Walkathon.”

I gasped. “Oh no, not the walkathon.”

Barbara narrowed her eyes.

“This isn’t funny. The Mathers’ reputations are at stake, so please save the sarcasm. As I’ve said, this obsession you have with crime has been an embarrassment. The least you could do to make amends is help out poor Annabelle.”

Of course I’d already decided I would look into Delia Cummings’ death and having access to Annabelle Mathers would make it so much easier. Nevertheless, I couldn’t help but tweak my mom just a bit. I’m only human, after all. I crossed my legs and wiggled my butt in the chair, making myself more comfortable.

“That’s really big of you. But you’re right. Being involved with all that criminal activity. Unseemly. It’s time to stop getting into these distasteful situations.”

She simply appraised me with frosty blue eyes. I didn’t know what was going through her head, but it wasn’t a happy thought.

“What is it you want, Rosalyn, in exchange for helping my friend?”

I wasn’t mercenary. It hadn’t occurred to me to ask for anything in return, other than the jolt of satisfaction I got from torqueing her. But it was an intriguing question. I wasn’t sure I wanted anything. But to admit that—uh uh, no way.

“If I do this for you, I want a favor in return, at a time of my choosing.” Sullivan’s negotiation skills were rubbing off on me.

However, the part that shocked me in all this was my mother’s loyalty to Annabelle Mathers. Status and keeping up appearances were the two most important things in her life. That’s why my dropping out of real college, dating inappropriate men, working as a waitress drove her batshit. I put a dent in her façade. I was living, breathing proof that she’d failed. A blemish on the perfect family, the perfect life. And I suspected a small part of her hated me for it. My mother staying true to a friend who was being cold-shouldered? That was an unexpected move.

With her lips pressed so thin they almost disappeared, she nodded. “Deal. You need to clear his name. His children are being harassed at school and poor Annabelle is under so much stress, her doctor has her on three different medications.”

Okay, now I felt like crap. Yes, Martin Mathers was shady, a cheater, a cop on the take, but his kids didn’t deserve the harassment they were getting. Of course I wanted to help them, if I could.

“Why didn’t you hire a private investigator?” I asked. “They know how to do this stuff better than I do.”

“I’ve checked into private investigators. Every last one of them in this town is a former police officer. People talk, Rosalyn. Even if they sign confidentiality agreements.”

Ah, so I was the only avenue she had left. All the pieces finally slid into place.

“I’ll agree on two conditions,” I said. “Number one, I can’t offer you any guarantees about Mathers’ innocence. He might be guilty. And number two, you have to let me ask the hard questions. The embarrassing, uncomfortable questions that Annabelle won’t want to answer.”

Barbara nodded. “Agreed. You can ask all your questions, though I hope for once in your life, you’ll apply a little sensitivity to this delicate situation.”

“Huh. When have I ever not been sensitive?”

With her eyes on me, she reached into the middle drawer and pulled out several sheets of paper. She had a list that started with my resistance to potty training and it went downhill from there.