Diner Impossible (A Rose Strickland Mystery)

by Austin, Terri L.

“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 moth
er’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.

  Chapter 6

  I’d called Officer Hard Ass before heading over to my parents’ house, agreeing to his request to find the truth about Delia. He was on the job at the time and at his insistence, we set up a meeting at Huntingford City Park by the entrance to the wooded trail at nine p.m. Nope, not a scary place at all. In the dark. On a cold, cloudy night.

  I was cutting the time a little close. Once my mother started reading my list of transgressions, it was almost impossible to make her stop. And doesn’t every kid bite their mom at one point? Okay, I may have been more excessive than most. I’m sure I didn’t mean to leave scars. Jeez, time to let it go, woman.

  Now at five till nine, I looped my car around the winding, dark lane of the park. All five acres of it. Past the kiddie playground and the jogging track, across the bike path, working my way toward the back end. A wooded trail circled the outskirts. Not being a big fan of woods and ticks and creatures that carried rabies, I rarely had cause to come here.

  Parked beneath a street light and facing the bike path, Andre sat behind the wheel of a big, white SUV. I pulled in next to him and shut off my engine before climbing out of my car and into his.

  “Can we meet somewhere less isolated next time?” I asked, slamming the door.

  “No.” He tossed a USB drive at me which I fumbled before sticking it in my coat pocket. “Here’s everything in the official file. Show it to no one. And don’t call me before eight p.m. What did you find out from Randa today?”

  “Gosh, I’m fine, thanks for inquiring.” Maybe my dad knew a good surgeon for Andre. One who specialized in stick-up-the-ass-itis.

  He exhaled loudly. “Miss Strickland, my job is on the line. And if I get caught leaking information, I’ll go to jail. I don’t have time for games or inane chitchat. What did you learn from Randa Atherton?”

  “Delia blackmailed Randa into spying for her, reporting back any gossip she picked up. And Randa hated her for it.”

  He nodded once. “Yes. That makes sense. What kind of information did Delia have on Randa? It must have been something juicy.”

  My mind wandered back to the scene in Randa’s office. It was like a bad porn movie being played on a loop in my brain. “Randa’s having an affair with a married cop. Sam something.”

  “Sam Landers. Everyone knows about that. It’s old news. But I suppose if Delia had lodged some kind of formal complaint, Randa and Sam would have both lost their jobs.”

  “I suppose,” I said. “Tell me about David Ashby.”

  His body stiffened. “Why?”

  “Because Delia seemed obsessed with him. What do you know?”

  He rotated his shoulders and stared at the deserted bike path. “Until two years ago, I worked under Captain Charles Bentley. A good man. A good cop. But when we made a bust on a midlevel drug dealer, Mathers wanted us to cut him loose. No charges, no follow up surveillance. He wasn’t trying to catch a bigger fish, he was sweeping it under the rug. I never found out why. Anyway, Bentley wouldn’t play. Next thing you know, my captain’s arrested. Accused of taking bribes and offering protection for drug dealers.”

  He scrubbed a hand over his cheek. “Mathers and I were playing on the same softball team at the time. I gave Martin a ride and on the way to the game, he asked me what I thought about Bentley’s fall from grace. I told him I thought he’d been stitched up, that Bentley wouldn’t do something like that. I’ll never forget Martin’s response, Miss Strickland. He looked me right in the eye and said, ‘Never play against me. Charley thought he could win. But he wasn’t ready for the big leagues.’ When I asked him to clarify, he started talking softball. But from that day, I was on notice. If I didn’t side with him, I’d be out, too.”

  “You don’t strike me as a man who succumbs to threats. You’re a straight shooter, Officer Thomas. Too much so, if you ask me.”

  He cast me a sideways glance. “If you ask anyone. Look at me. I’m a thirty-four-year-old desk jock. I have a Master’s in Psychology. I could have risen in the ranks by now, but I still wear a uniform because I don’t want to put myself in a morally difficult situation. Once you break a rule here or skirt the law there, you’re on your way to being a dishonest cop. I try to hold the line every day. Enforcing the law is the only thing between order and anarchy.”

  I shook my head. “But you know your boss is dishonest. How can you work for him?”

  “I don’t work for him. I work for the people of Huntingford.”

  “So where does David Ashby fit into all this?” I asked.

  “Martin Mathers, David Ashby, and Judge Keeler are very close—they have one another’s back. If one were being dramatic, one might refer to them as a triumvirate. Ashby is the assistant PA. He’s powerful and has his sights set even higher. I’m wary of men who like power, Miss Strickland. You should be, too.”

  “Tell me again why you care if Mathers is popped for this murder. You’ve put your career aspirations on the back burner so that you won’t cross him. Why not let it play out? He’s guilty of a lot of crap. Shouldn’t he be punished for those crimes?”

  “It’s not supposed to work like that. If he didn’t kill Delia, he shouldn’t take the rap for it. No matter what else he’s done.”

  “What if Mathers did commit this crime? He and Delia could have argued about the pregnancy and in a fit of rage, he killed her?”

  “No. I don’t believe that. And when you read the report, you’ll see that’s not how it happened. Delia was murdered in her bed, probably while she was asleep. There are no defensive wounds. None of the neighbors heard a sound. These facts were held back from the public.”

  “And you’re sure it was Martin’s baby?”

  He didn’t answer immediately. “No. There were more rumors that Delia had been seeing someone else. That’s where you come in. I want you to find out what really happened. Whether it leads back to the chief or not. But my insti
ncts tell me he didn’t do it.”

  It was a lot to take in. I needed time to let all the facts play out in my head, read over the report. “Got any scoop on Annabelle Mathers? I’m meeting with her tomorrow.”

  “How did you manage that?”

  “She and my mother are friends.” I decided not to get into the whole shebang with Barbara’s dueling request to prove Martin’s innocence.

  Andre shrugged. “I’ve only met her a couple of times. She seems fragile to me, delicate.”

  “Did she know about Martin and Delia’s affair?”

  “I have no idea. But their children are a handful.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “His oldest, Mason, has been to rehab on numerous occasions. The boy’s sixteen, insolent, a delinquent, and worse. We’ve caught him several times with drugs, but we always cut him loose. And Molly is eighteen. She’s a brilliant musician from what I understand. Word is, she’s been to psychiatric clinics. Gifted, but troubled.”

  Martin Mathers was a piece of work. I felt sorry for his kids, being raised by such an asshole. Of course they wouldn’t reach adulthood unscathed. Not with him as a father.

  “I want you to set up a meeting with the cop and the dispatcher. The sexting ones that got fired.”

  He stared out the windshield, his fingers stroking the curve of the steering wheel. “I have to tread carefully here. Tell you what, I’ll call them and see if they’re willing to meet with you. That’s the best I can do.”

  Exhaustion made my brain a little fuzzy and my attitude a smidge bitchy. “Then just give me their names, I’ll talk to them myself.”

  “Fine. I’ll set it up and call you.” He shook his head. “Perhaps this whole thing was a mistake,” he mumbled to himself.

  “Possibly. But a wise man thinks about the consequences before he embarks on a task,” I said.

  He pointed his chin at me. “Who said that?”

  “Master Dragon Chinese Takeout. Found it in a fortune cookie last week. If you think of anything else, call me.”