Diner Impossible (A Rose Strickland Mystery) (6 page)

Chapter 9

She gasped and jumped off the bed when she saw me. “Who are you?” She’d dropped the straight-edged razor and tried to hide her arm behind her back. It didn’t work. I could clearly see the patterns she’d carved into her flesh.

Blood flowed from the shallow cuts, down her hand, and onto the wood floor. I gaped for a moment, shock forcing me to a standstill. When another drop of blood plopped next to her bare foot, it spurred me into action. I took a hasty glance around the room and ran to the en suite bathroom, grabbed a towel from the rack by the sink. I hurried back and grasped her hand, holding her arm out so that I could wrap the navy hand towel around the cuts.

She swallowed. “Who are you?” She whispered it this time.

I glanced up from the towel to stare into her wide blue eyes. She was very pale and very thin. Her prominent cheek bones should have made her model-worthy, but instead, their sharpness brought out the deep hollows in her cheeks, making her appear skeletal. She was burned-out and looked exhausted. Annabelle had said Molly was thriving. Her idea of thriving and mine weren’t the same at all.

“I’m Rose Strickland. Put pressure on that.” My eyes fell to her other arm. Long, narrow scars criss-crossed along her skin.

As she sank down on the blue, silk bedspread, she lifted the towel and watched the blood rise to the surface of each slit. I reached out and covered them once again.

“Are you related to Barbara Strickland?” she asked.

“Yeah, she’s my mom.”

She breathed out a laugh. “She’s never mentioned you. She talks all the time about Jacqueline.” Her gaze swept over my wrinkled shirt and frayed jeans. “No wonder. You don’t fit the mold.”

I sat on the bed and studied her. Dark brown hair, long and straight, flowed over her shoulders. If she put on twenty pounds and got rid of the haunted look in her eyes, she’d have been beautiful. I nodded at her wrapped arm. “Looks like you don’t fit the mold either.”

“Get out.” Molly jerked her head toward the door, glaring at me for daring to state the obvious.

We’d talked about self-harming in Abnormal Psych. It didn’t take an expert to know Molly cut herself to manage her pain and stress. What a family. Molly mutilated herself, Annabelle looked like she hadn’t slept in weeks, and Mason was a teenaged junkie. Great job, Martin.

“Why are you in my room anyway? You’re violating my boundaries and intruding into my sacred space without permission.”

Ah, shrink speak. “Sorry, I was just looking for the restroom.”

“Right. Like there aren’t four downstairs,” she said.

I nodded. Truth time. “I’m here because of Delia Cummings.”

She held her body perfectly still for one second, then leaned against the headboard. “What does that mean?”

“I’m trying to find out who killed her.”

“That still doesn’t explain why you’re here, in my house, in my room.” The haughty attitude belied her nervousness. She repeatedly licked her lips and rubbed them together. “You’re not a cop or anything. Why don’t you leave it to the professionals? You couldn’t even find your way to the bathroom.”

“She worked for your father, Molly. And she was murdered. That doesn’t upset you?”

“Why should it? Whoever killed her deserves a medal or something.”

“How can you say that?”

Her expression said I was possibly the stupidest person she’d ever met. “She was humping my dad. That bitch made my mom more miserable than usual. And when poor Annabelle’s miserable, it has a trickledown effect.” Her tone wasn’t angry. It had leaped over anger and plunged right into scathing.

I hesitated over the next question. But I had to ask. “Do you think your dad killed her?”

She gave me a grin that was far too jaded. “Possibly. Probably. Why do you care?”

I crossed my legs and got comfortable. “Because Delia didn’t deserve to be murdered. Not even if she was boning your dad.”

She was quiet a moment as she peeled back the towel and glanced at her bloody handiwork. “My dad’s a dick.”

“For sure.”

Her eyes flew to mine. “Most people tell me not to say that. That he’s my dad and I owe him respect.”

“Most people say a lot of crap that’s not important. And your dad is a total dick.”

She nodded. The snotty teenage attitude disappeared. In that brief moment, I saw the vulnerability she tried to hide. “He treats my brother like shit.”

“Because of the drugs?”

“Yeah, but more than that. He’s ashamed of him. Calls Mason a little faggot, says he needs to act like a real man. Mason pretends like he doesn’t care, but he does. He was ashamed of me, too. When I had bulimia. He never wants to deal with any of it. And my mom. She’s doped up on anti-anxiety meds all day. She’s like a wisp of smoke, you know? Present, but not really there. She wants to pretend that we’re this perfect little family, shiny and pretty from the outside. She doesn’t care if we’re rotting on the inside.”

Despite her defensiveness, not only did I pity Molly, I liked her. And I recognized myself in her, too. The biting snark, the anger. I never cut or starved myself, but I’d been an angry teen, anxious to get away from my mother’s overbearing influence. I just hoped Molly got out before it was too late.

“I hear you’re headed to college.”

She shrugged. “In the fall.”

“You don’t seem very excited.”

“I don’t want to go. I’d rather head to Florida or California. Somewhere sunny. This music program is intense. The competition, the expectations to be perfect.” She shook her head. “Whatever.”

“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.”