Diner Impossible (A Rose Strickland Mystery)

by Austin, Terri L.

  “Fine,” I said. “You’re the expert. Why don’t you show me how it’s done?”

  She brushed a non-existent piece of lint from her collar. “Why don’t I?” Then she sauntered into the unit leaving me to trail behind.

  Julia waited for us in the foyer. “There you are. This condo is one thousand square feet.” She pulled open a closet door in the entryway. “Room for a washer and dryer.” Her eyes brushed on my green chili stains once again.

  “As you can see, it’s laundry day for Rosalyn.” My mother chuckled at her own joke, but her cold eyes weren’t laughing.

  Roxy appeared. “Rose, you got to see this bathtub. It’s beyond. You could do the backstroke in this thing.”

  “I’ll be there in a sec.”

  She disappeared back down the hall.

  “She’s very colorful. How did the two of you become friends?” Julia asked.

  I opened my mouth to answer, but Barbara beat me to it. “Rosalyn does charity work.”

  I couldn’t believe she just said that. Roxy hadn’t been born with a lot of advantages, but she was an amazing woman. I glanced at Julia. “Roxy’s my best friend. Has been for years.”

  Barbara carried on as if I hadn’t spoken. “Rosalyn, what do you think about the kitchen?”

  I crossed my arms. “You know I don’t cook, Mother.”

  We had a battle right there, over the granite countertop. A battle with our eyes. Mine said, ‘lay off the crap about my friends.’ Hers said ‘I’ll do what I like.’

  “Look at the view,” Julia said. “You can see the golf course and lake from here.” Oblivious to the nonverbal argument, she stood near a picture window in the smallish living room. I tore my gaze away from my mom and walked toward her.

  “I’m looking for hardwood. White carpet gets dirty too easily.”

  “Yes, Rosalyn has a habit of ruining nice things,” Barbara said.

  “And these walls. They’re very beige,” I said. “I don’t care for beige.”

  “You can always have them painted.” Julia led the way down the short hall to the bedroom.

  “There’s nothing wrong with beige,” my mother hissed.

  “There’s nothing right with it, either.” I traipsed ahead of her to the bedroom. With a gorgeous, floral brass light fixture and three huge windows, it was about the size of my whole apartment. And much brighter.

  “You’ve got your walk-in closet,” Julia said, holding open the door.

  No, I took it back. The closet was bigger than my whole apartment.

  In the bathroom, Roxy lounged in the tub, her laced up Victorian boots propped against the tiled wall. “Is this awesome?”

  I extended my hand to help her up. “Pretty fantastic.”

  “How is the Mathers’ house coming along, Julia?” Barbara asked as she peeked into the shower. “Annabelle says you’ve had several people take a look, but no nibbles yet.”

  I swung my head in Julia’s direction. “The Mathers are selling their house?”

  I hadn’t seen any realtor’s sign, but it was probably viewed by appointment only. And it made sense. Annabelle had run through her money like I did free peanuts at The Carp. Sullivan said with all the drug rehabs, disorder clinics, and property taxes, Annabelle Mathers was hurting financially.

  “You’re not interested in a four acre, ten bedroom home, are you, Rosalyn?” Julia’s smug tone grated along my Barbara-frayed nerves.

  “Maybe. You never know. Where are you from originally, Julia? Do I detect an accent? Wisconsin? Or northern Illinois?” I cocked my head to one side and watched her reaction.

  Her smile grew tighter than my mother’s shapewear.

  “I don’t believe I have an accent.”

  Barbara clasped her manicured hands in front of her. “Things have been so hard on the Mathers lately.” She wasn’t about to let us get derailed by regional dialects. “Poor Annabelle needs a smaller house, something without so much land. So, Julia, no nibbles on their home?” She repeated the question with a perfectly pleasant expression, but underneath, she was all steel.

  “No, Barbara, not yet. But I have shown the place numerous times. I’m just looking for the right buyer.” She spun and left the bathroom.

  “And that’s how you do it,” Barbara whispered as she swept past me.

  Roxy smacked her gum. “You have to give her props. She’s got finesse.” We followed the other two women to the entryway.

  “How much does a place like this go for?” Roxy asked.

  “Why, are you looking to upgrade?” Julia asked. Condescension dripped from her like venom.

  “What do you think, Rosalyn?” Barbara asked. “Do you like it?”

  I gave the place a dismissive glance. “No. I don’t like the flow.”

  One of Julia’s eyebrows lifted so high, I thought it might dive into her hairline. “What is it you do, Rosalyn? I know you said something about going back to school. Do you have a job or will your parents be co-signing for you?”

  I opened my mouth to tell her to blow it out her perfect ass, when my mother moved between us. “We’ve got Rosalyn covered. And by the way, we should all have dinner one night next week. John and I used to dine with Mills and his lovely wife, Hannah, quite often. Such a shame he lost her. You’ve never seen a more handsome couple. So, what day are you free, dear?”

  One thing about Barbara Strickland, she’s so snooty, she makes everyone else insecure. And when she’d deflected Julia’s barbs away from me, it was…nice. Probably for show, but I appreciated the effort.

  Julia’s face lost the mean girl expression.

  “I’ll have to check our schedule.”

  “Yes. Do.” My mother glided out the door.

  I exchanged a glance with Roxy. She snorted as we followed them.

  We looked at three more units—all beautiful and so out of my price range, I couldn’t even afford to rent a coat closet in any of them, let alone buy one.

  “None of these are right, are they, Rosalyn?” Barbara asked, sniffing at the last condo as if it reeked of cat piss instead of fresh paint.

  Julia’s mouth was tight. Her shoulders even tighter. With each passing minute, they’d risen closer and closer to her ears. Guessed I wasn’t the only one who found spending time with my mother stressful.

  We parted ways with Miss Julia Baxter AKA Shawna Platte outside the building. She scurried off to her car like she couldn’t get away from us fast enough.

  “She’s full of herself, that girl,” Barbara said. “And I, for one, do not care for it.”

  “Maybe, but she’s got herself a killer Mercedes,” Roxy said, shoving another piece of gum into her crowded mouth. “She must be doing something right.”

  “Don’t be too impressed, Roxanne. It’s only a C-Class.”

  Chapter 19

  Since I had to meet Dane at nineish, I dropped Roxy off at her apartment so she could change and I ran home to do the same. I donned black slacks and a fuzzy black sweater, straightened my hair, and called Ma to see if she wanted to meet up with the SPuRTs. She’d already spent some time with them, so she might be able to use her connections to uncover information about the uniform.

  Not only was she interested, she was enthusiastic. “Sounds like fun. I may wear my Klingon forehead.”

  “Do you want to come to Axton’s for dinner?”

  “Nah, I’ve already eaten and I want to squeeze in a Wheel of Fortune episode.”

  I promised I’d drive by on my way to the meeting with Starfleet, then I headed to Roxy’s place. When she climbed into the car, I got a good look at her. Her neon pink dress nearly blinded me. Enameled Japanese doll hairpins popped out of her Princess Leia buns.

  “On a scale of hot to sizzling, how do I look?” she asked.

&
nbsp; “Off the charts sizzle.” I sped over to Axton’s house while Roxy checked her appearance in the visor mirror.

  Axton owned a small, white clapboard house with a one car garage. He lived in a neighborhood that had Rottweilers instead of alarm systems. It was a far cry from the multi-level, expansive property he grew up in, but he was happy here. With Stoner Joe. I wasn’t sure what Joe did, other than spark up and watch TV all day, but since Ax tolerated him, I did, too.

  Roxy and I walked into the house and the smell of pizza made my stomach rumble. Ax popped out of the kitchen and waved.

  “Hey girls, come on in. Help yourselves to some eats.”

  On the round kitchen table, Ax had laid out pizza, cheese sticks, plates and napkins. Stoner Joe, his eyes closed, leaned back in his chair with his hands laced on top of his head. Long and lanky, with a purple tuque covering his greasy locks, he seemed to have fallen asleep.

  Then his eyes popped open.

  “Rosario. What’s the haps? And who’s your lovely amoeba?” He wiggled his brows at Roxy.

  “You’ve met Roxy before, Joe.”

  Roxy grabbed a paper napkin. “Like a million times.” She spit her wad of gum into it and tossed it on the table.

  “Pizza’s hot, beer’s cold in the fridge,” Ax said.

  I snagged three cheese sticks and ate one slice. Axton snarfed down the rest. And Joe just closed his eyes and stroked the braided string on his crocheted tuque.

  After we finished eating, Roxy and I helped Axton clean up. As we clanked the dishes into the washer, Joe never moved. We turned off the kitchen light, leaving him in the dark, then we slung on our coats, ready to snag Ma on our way to the meet up.

  Before we could hit the front door, Joe stumbled into the living room and stared at us in confusion. Since that was his normal expression, I didn’t pay much attention.

  “Like, where’s the fire, dudes?” he asked.

  “We’re meeting up with Starfleet, Joe. Remember I told you?” Ax said.

  Joe sniffed. “Nope.” He pointed to his ear. “And I’ve got a memory like a steel cage match. I’d like to meet these so-called Starfleet Federales.”

  Ax shrugged. “Let’s go.”

  Roxy and I may have grumbled. A lot.

  While Joe meandered into his room to grab a jacket, Ax gave me a look of such disappointment, he rivaled my mother. “Really? You’re going to begrudge him an evening out? He never leaves the house.”

  “Ax, he could get out of the house every day if he went to work,” I said.

  “For sure,” Roxy said. “And he smells all skunky.”

  Axton sighed. “Okay. But you guys have to tell him he can’t come.”

  Joe trudged toward us, wearing a faded denim jacket frayed at the collar and cuffs. “This is much more exciting than what I had planned tonight. I was going to watch a Cheers marathon and spank off.”

  The visual. The horrible, horrible visual. “Ugh. Let’s just go,” I said.

  “I am not sitting next to him.” Roxy stomped out ahead of me.

  “Roxy gets shotgun,” I called over my shoulder.

  I stopped at Ma’s blue and white Victorian on the way. I bounced up the porch stairs and knocked on the screen door. She emerged with a bag in one hand and her silicone crinkles affixed to her forehead.

  “Hey toots, I have a plan.” She turned and locked the door, pulling it shut. “I’m going to infiltrate Starfleet and I’ll keep my ears open to pick up any clues. We’re going to find that missing uniform.”

  “That’s what I was counting on, Ma.”

  I took the bag from her hand, booted Roxy to the back, and made sure Ma was comfortable before shutting the passenger door.

  With my faithful crew, I engaged in warp speed—forty miles an hour—straight into Federation territory.

  Which also turned out to be the The Gutter Ball bowling alley.

  As we walked toward the entrance, I noticed a group of kids near the front corner of the building. Looked like they were up to no good.

  “Hang on, guys. I’ll be right back.”

  I traipsed over to the group of teens and broke through the huddle just in time to see a drug handoff.

  Mason Mathers pocketed a wad of cash. The three boys and one girl who’d gathered around him glanced over at me.

  “Wait your turn, lady.” The loudmouth was pimply and looked a few years older than Mason.

  I had to stand on my toes to get in his face. “My boyfriend, the vice cop, is inside this building.” I snatched a baggie out of his hands. “Get out of here before I tell him to get the handcuffs.”

  Pushing past me, he and his friends ran to a late model sedan. The tires squealed as he peeled out of the lot.

  Mason advanced on me. “What the hell are you trying to do, ruin my business?”

  “Um, yes? What are these?” I asked, holding the baggie up to the light. He tried to snatch them away, but I was too quick and shoved them in my pants pocket. “What if your dad finds you selling again?” After witnessing Martin’s temper the night before, there was no telling what he would do to Mason. “And what about your mom? She has enough on her plate without having to worry about you and your habit.”

  He clamped his frowning lips together.

  “Listen, you’ve got to get your shit together. Your mom is selling your house. No money equals no more fancy rehabs. No macramé classes by the ocean while you sober up. And with your dad being suspected of killing his secretary, he might not have a job that will protect your entrepreneurial activities. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

  His brows sank lower. “What the hell are you talking about? My mom’s not selling our house. It’s been in our family for generations. Why would she do that?”

  Yes, he was an angry, disrespectful brat. But this kid broke my heart. His family was being shredded. His mom was stressed and sick and probably, even at the best of times, wasn’t all that stable. And his asshole dad was being shunned and accused of murder.

  “Mason…”

  Something like realization crossed his features. “Oh God, my dad’s a killer, isn’t he?”

  “No, I don’t think he is.”

  He searched my eyes, looking for the truth. “So who did it then? If it wasn’t him…”

  “Mason—”

  He punched my shoulder, sending me staggering backward. “It had to be him. That’s the only explanation,” he shouted. Then he took off around the corner and ran to the back of the building. By the time I followed, he had hopped in a car and sped off into the night. Shit. I had a sinking feeling I’d just made things worse.

  I didn’t know what to do about him. I sure as hell wasn’t informing his dad that he was selling and Annabelle seemed physically and emotionally unequipped to care for her addicted son.

  I hated to put this all on Molly, but she was the only person I could think of. Rolling my sore shoulder, I jerked the phone from my purse and called her.

  “Yeah?” she asked.

  “Molly, it’s Rose Stric—”

  “I can read the screen. What do you want?”

  I thought we’d left each other on civil terms. Apparently not. “I’m at the The Gutter Ball. I just saw Mason and he was selling pills. He ran off when I confronted him.”

  “Where is he now? Is he all right? Was he using?” Her words flowed together in one long sentence.

  “I don’t know. He just drove off. Thought I’d give you a heads up.”

  “Why did you confront him?” she practically screamed. “He hates that. You should have just called me.”

  After she hung up, I stared at my phone. I couldn’t do anything right tonight. I’d made a mistake calling her. Maybe I should have called Andre instead, although I didn’t know what he could do, eit
her.

  Mason was sixteen and out alone selling drugs. No wonder Molly didn’t want to go away to college, she felt responsible for him. But she couldn’t protect him from himself. I was no expert, but that kid needed long term care.

  I slogged back to the front of the building. “Sorry about that. Martin Mathers’ kid. Selling pills.” I pulled the baggie from my pocket.

  Ax fingered the plastic. “Probably Oxy. How old is he?”

  “Sixteen.” I scrubbed my hand along the back of my neck. “One crisis at a time. Let’s go meet the SPuRTs.” I dropped the baggie in the trashcan near the entrance.

  As soon as I opened the glass door, the thunder of balls crashing, pins falling, and an old Journey tune blaring from the bar greeted us.

  My downstairs neighbor, Wanda, manned the shoe counter, a cigarette dangling from her hot pink lips. “Hey, Blondie.” As she talked, the inch-long ash at the end of her smoke threatened to fall and I watched it, spellbound. “I ain’t never seen you here. What size do you wear?” Wanda was a drinker—red wine, the cheaper the better. Ghostly skin, dark eye circles, and fried, bleached hair gave her that just-stuck-a-fork-in-the-toaster look. She cast her glance over Roxy, then moved on to Stoner Joe, who’d lifted his shirt to scratch his scrawny belly.

  “Hey, Wanda,” I said. “I’m actually here to find the Trekkers.”

  “Oh, you’re one of them?” Leaning her palm on the red-carpeted counter, she nodded with her chin. “Lanes one through four. And tell them to untie their shoes before returning them. Untying all those laces is a pain in my ass.”

  “Will do.”

  “I got my own shoes,” Ma said, pointing to the bag Axton held.

  Wanda winked at her. “Good thinking. You wouldn’t believe some of the smells that come out of those kickers, not to mention the fungus.”

  Roxy and I simultaneously curled our lips and backed away slowly. Then I turned and led our little party to the far side of the building. Sure enough, there they were, fourteen Fleeties, decked out in Trekker uniforms, mostly from The Next Generation era. A couple members were dressed as throwbacks from the original series—one, a hot blonde wearing a bee hive wig, a minidress that flashed more fishnet-covered ass cheek than I needed to see, and black go-go boots.