He raised his fake black brows. “What murder?” he whispered.
I shot Klek a glance. “I’ll call you later.”
Ax tapped the side of his nose with a finger. “Got it.”
Chapter 8
While the rain had slacked off, heavy, gray clouds clung together and threatened more bad weather. Unlocking the driver’s side door, the icy wind slithered through my coat, making me shiver.
I let my car heat up, then pointed it toward the exclusive gated community, The Greens, where my parents lived.
Pulling up to the guardhouse, I smiled at Ben. Retired from the police force, he had to be pushing mid-seventies. Today, he covered his gray hair with a knit cap to ward off the chill.
“How are you doing, Miss Strickland?”
“Can’t complain. How about you, Ben?”
“Knee’s giving me a fit.” He gazed up at the rain-swollen clouds. “Be glad when summer gets here.” He pressed a button and the wrought iron gates slowly opened. “Have a great day.”
I waved, zoomed through the wide streets, and pulled into my parents’ drive. The Strickland home was stunning. A sprawling three-story with floor-to-ceiling windows. It sat in the middle of a yard filled with maples and oaks, their naked branches rattling in the wind.
I hustled up the path, slick from rain, to the front door where my mother stood, arms folded, foot tapping.
“I’m not late,” I said. “I told you I’d be by after work.”
“Let’s go. Annabelle’s waiting.”
She wore a tan overcoat and a silk scarf patterned in swirls of brown and bronze.
“I could have just met you there, Mom. We didn’t need to carpool.”
She ignored me, and with a spin worthy of a diva, swirled, making her coat flare around her knees, then marched through the house to the garage door.
I could have insisted on driving, but number one, I would have lost that fight and number two, she had heated seats.
The drive to the Mathers’ house took about twenty minutes but it felt much longer. Barbara drove the highway to the county line, where she turned down a water-logged country lane.
During the ride, she lectured me on how to behave like a human being while Barry Manilow sang an upbeat tune in the background.
I finally interrupted her. “Mom, we made a deal. I ask the questions. I know how to comport myself, thank you. And can we please turn off Barry? I’m getting a toothache.”
She sucked a breath through her nose and pinched her lips shut. But at least she piped down for a few minutes. And Barry remained.
I stared out the window as we rolled past acre after acre of wet, green grass. When we rounded a corner, an enormous red barn came into view. It stood about five hundred feet from the road and was hemmed in by a line of trees along either side. It looked like it had been freshly painted and the roof was new.
“That’s Annabelle’s barn,” Barbara said. “She’s sentimental about it. Her family owned all this land. Her grandparents were farmers, but her father developed most of the larger subdivisions in north Huntingford. Including The Greens.”
So Martin Mathers got his money the old fashioned way. He married into it.
Barbara pulled onto a long paved drive, through the arched stone portico, and stopped in front of the Mathers’ home. As I stared at it, my mouth hung open.
My parents had some nice digs, but Annabelle Mathers lived in a freaking mansion. Made of thick limestone walls, the damn thing had multiple wings. And the fountain at the center of the circular courtyard rivaled the Trevi, in Rome. It was ridiculously huge.
We exited the car and walked to the front door. A Latina maid in a black uniform answered. She took our coats and led us through a broad, winding hall painted in a warm terracotta color. Interesting abstracts hung along the walls and I lingered over a few before hurrying to catch up. I didn’t know anything about art, so none of the artists’ names were familiar and some were illegible. Most looked like a child could have painted them, so I knew they were expensive.
The maid stopped at a room with polished, closed double doors. “Please go in. Mrs. Mathers is expecting you.” Then she retraced her steps.
Barbara cast her usual withering glare over my wrinkled, long-sleeved blue t-shirt. I tried smoothing it out with my hands which earned me a weary sigh.
“Honestly, Rosalyn.” she muttered. Then she opened both doors and led the way into a cavernous living room.
Annabelle Mathers was in her early forties. Diminutive and pretty in a vague way, she sat perched on the edge of a lemon yellow upholstered chair. Her shoulder-length brown hair was combed away from her face, the thin tresses teased in an unflattering ‘do. Made her look much older. Puffy, purple half-moons underlined her medium blue eyes. Her casual blue sweater and black slacks were designer expensive, as were her snakeskin black pumps.
“Annabelle, this is my daughter, Rosalyn. Please forgive her appearance, she just came from the gym.”
I refrained from giving her the evil eye and clamped my mouth shut. I could get into an argument with my mother anytime. Right now, I needed to focus on Annabelle and what information she could provide about Delia Cummings.
She remained seated, so I walked over to her and reaching out, offered my hand. “How do you do, Mrs. Mathers?”
“Well, thank you. Please, have a seat.” Her voice was soft, airy, and would easily be drowned out in a crowd. She was one of those women who didn’t make much of an impact. As soon as she’d leave the room, you’d forget she ever existed.
I sat on the sofa and the maid returned with a tea tray. She poured and handed us each a cup without asking if we wanted sugar or milk. I took it and placed it carefully on the antique table in front of me.
Once she left, I looked at Annabelle. “I’m sorry for your troubles.”
“Thank you. Barbara says you can help me. I’m still not sure how.”
“She’s going to clear Martin’s name, Annabelle.” My mother’s tone rang with certainty.
Me, I wasn’t so sure. “Well, I don’t know about—”
Barbara spoke over me and subtly kicked my shin with her heel.
“And Rosalyn is discretion itself. Anything you tell her will remain in this room. Isn’t that right, dear?”
“Absolutely.” I reached into my purse and pulled out my little notepad. “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”
Annabelle shrugged. “Of course.”
“How well did you know Delia Cummings?” I asked.
“Just casually. She was my husband’s secretary for two years. I spoke to her when I couldn’t reach Martin. I bought her Christmas presents, birthday presents and signed his name to the card. I chatted with her at the Christmas party.”
I could feel my mother’s eyes shooting through me like blue lasers. She was giving me a bad case of performance anxiety. Since I wasn’t exactly sure how to broach the next question, I figured I might as well dive in head first.
“Did you know Martin was having an affair with her?”
Tension radiated from my mother’s body. Her fingers clamped down so hard on the china saucer, I was afraid she might pinch a chunk out of it.
Annabelle delicately sighed. “Yes. That’s why he hired her. It certainly wasn’t for her typing skills.”
Wow, a person offering up truthful information. I didn’t have to pull teeth for a change. This was kind of awesome. “Do you know where she was working before becoming his secretary?”
“I believe she was a waitress at some club or other. I don’t know where. But Martin’s taste in women tends to the trashy.” She said it so pleasantly, we could have been talking about her garden instead of her cheating husband. “And no, I don’t know if Delia was really pregnant. But I wouldn’t be surprised. That would have cem
ented their relationship.”
Barbara shifted uncomfortably and set her cup down next to mine.
As for me, I sat immobile, stunned. How could this woman know her husband was such a dickweed and not divorce him?
She took a deep breath. “I can see that you’re wondering why I stay with him.”
And she was a mind reader. Or I had a really pathetic poker face.
“It’s simple. I have two children and I want them to benefit from an intact family. Also, I don’t believe in divorce. Marriage is for life.” She cast her eyes to her teacup and gazed into it.
“Of course it is,” my mother said. “And marriage is difficult. You have to work at it. Isn’t that right, Rosalyn?”
How the hell would I know? “Your marriage is none of my business, Mrs. Mathers.”
She looked up and smiled. “You may call me Annabelle.” She acted as if she were bestowing some great boon on a lowly peasant. I could see why she and my mother got along so well.
“I understand your son has been in some trouble.” I felt crappy, dredging up all this ugliness. But I had to if I wanted to help Hard Ass find the truth. I needed as much information about Mathers and his life as possible.
She placed her middle finger between her eyes. “Yes, Mason. He’s such a sweet, sensitive boy. He has an artistic temperament. If he can channel all of his energy into his work, he’ll be great one day.”
“He’s an artist?” I asked.
“He could be, with the proper encouragement. Martin is very tough on him.” She let her hand drop gracefully to the chair’s armrest. “But Mason is an addict. Martin doesn’t understand that a person can’t will their way out of addiction.”
“He’s been to rehab?” I asked.
“Three times so far. Each time, I pray for his sobriety.” Annabelle pressed her lips together and widened her eyes to keep the tears that gathered there from falling.
God, she was a fragile mess. No wonder her doctor had her on three different meds.
“And your daughter?” I asked.
She blinked rapidly. “Molly is so gifted. She’s a pianist. She’s been admitted into the Missouri College of Music. She had other options, of course, but they have an extremely competitive program. And it’s near home. She and Mason are very close.”
“Congratulations, Annabelle,” Barbara said. “That must be so satisfying, having a daughter who exceeds your expectations.”
Oh brother. “I understand she’s been to some mental health facilities?” I asked.
If looks could kill, bury the body, and walk away from a job well done, my mother’s glare qualified.
Annabelle nodded. “Yes. Molly’s a perfectionist. She had an eating disorder. But she received treatment from a clinic in New York. They take a more holistic approach. She’s thriving now.”
“That’s wonderful.” Barbara picked up her tea and took a sip.
I needed to get out of here. The pretty, spindly furniture, the cloying scent of flowers filling every corner, my mother’s disapproving presence. It was all too much. “Do you mind if I use your restroom?”
Annabelle raised her brows. “Not at all. Down the hall, to the left, third door on the right. Shall I call Juanita to show you?”
“No.” I held up a hand and stood. “I’ll find it.”
I left my mother and Annabelle chatting and scampered from the room.
If I wanted to sneak a peek through the house, now was as good a time as any. With a furtive glance around, I followed the path I’d originally taken to the front hall and as silently as possible, trotted up the stairs. One wing wound to the left, another to the right. I chose left and began opening doors. More sitting rooms, a library that smelled a little musty, a guest room that looked unused, and a music room with a grand piano. On lucky number five, I heard angry whiplash rock hammering against the door.
I decided not to knock and instead, just walked right in. The room had a bed with an ornately carved headboard, a marble fireplace, and faded antique rug. It was every bit as fusty as the rest of the house. The only evidence that a teenager stayed here was the thrash metal music and the teenager herself, propped on the bed, cutting her forearm with a razor blade.
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.”
Diner Impossible (A Rose Strickland Mystery) Page 6