Diner Knock Out (A Rose Strickland Mystery Book 4)

by Terri L. Austin

  Jacks’ eyes flitted between us. “Oui.”

  Once she left, Barbara pinned me with a steely glare. “Tell me why you’re so interested in the Children’s Hospital Foundation. What are you up to?”

  I began moving around the table, collecting dishes, piling them on my forearm. “You’re being totally paranoid right now. I simply wondered about service opportunities. And I like kids.” That might be the whopper of the night.

  Here was the thing about my mom: if I came straight out and asked for what I wanted—an intro to Will Carlucci—she’d play a power game and push every one of my buttons, putting me in a position of weakness. Instead I planned on dropping hints, thereby whetting her voracious curiosity. Something I inherited from her side of the family, along with my flat chest.

  “No, Rosalyn, you never just wonder. Does this have something to do with that new job of yours? And while we’re discussing that particular subject, snooping into people’s personal lives is a very distasteful way of earning a living.”

  “Somebody’s got to do it.” I walked to the kitchen and placed the dishes in the sink.

  She marched after me. “Well, it doesn’t have to be you.”

  “I like it.” A bit of an exaggeration. Performing background checks didn’t make me squeal with delight. But now that Andre and I were on the same page, searching for Rob Huggins’ murderer, maybe he’d start seeing me as more of an equal.

  “The Children’s Hospital,” she said softly, more to herself than me. “You mentioned the board. Why would you be interested in fundraising?”

  I shook off the jab. If I reacted to every one of her taunts, I’d be here all night.

  I turned and walked back to the table, clearing it of glasses while she picked up the silverware. In the kitchen, I carefully placed the crystal on the granite countertop.

  “Don’t tell me someone absconded with research funds.” She flipped on the faucet and filled the sink with hot water. “A patient-killing nurse? Doctors bilking insurance companies?”

  “You’ve got quite an imagination there.”

  She took a deep breath through her nose. “Do not insult my intelligence. You’re involved with something. What is it?”

  And just like that, I’d reeled her in like I had with that Ozark crawdaddy all those years ago. “Okay, you’re right. I’m in the middle of a case.” I watched her don a pair of pink rubber gloves.

  “Of course you are.”

  “What do you know about Will Carlucci?”

  She narrowed her blue eyes. “What exactly are you looking for?”

  I grabbed a towel from the drawer. “Your overall impression.”

  She dumped the silverware into the suds. “He’s an odious man in every way. He’s crass and flashy and likes to talk about how much money he has. However, he’s generous to various charities, so he’s tolerated. His wife is a member of the Junior League, but she doesn’t fit in. Very blond and very dim. The daughter is as tacky as they come.”

  Carlucci’s success might have bought him a golden ticket into parties with the upper echelon, but he’d never truly be accepted by this town’s elite. His money was so new it still squeaked. For all his business acumen and charitable efforts, to the who’s who of Huntingford, Carlucci was nothing but a jumped-up car salesman.

  She angled her head to one side. “The Rutherfords are hosting a cocktail party tomorrow night.”

  I dried the wet fork she’d handed me. “A cocktail party on a Monday night? Isn’t that a bit unusual?”

  “Independence Day is right around the corner. Everyone’s trying to squeeze in their event at the last minute. You could come, if you like.” She said it so smoothly, dangling the invite like a shiny, forbidden apple. Daring me to take a bite.

  “And Carlucci will be there?”

  “It’s a distinct possibility. It’s a fundraiser for remodeling the old opera house. If he’s not in attendance, his wife and daughter will be.”

  I needed to meet Carlucci himself. “The wife and daughter can’t help me.”

  She set down the plate she’d been scrubbing. “Honestly, have you learned absolutely nothing from me? You can ask a man anything, and he’ll never give you a satisfactory answer. Befriend his wife and children, you’ll get insight into the man himself.”

  Crap on a cracker, she was right. It nearly killed me to admit it, but that was actually good advice. “Who else will be there?” I threw it out as casually as possible, but my mother knew me too well, sniffing out my ulterior motive faster than she could spot a fake Prada handbag.

  She barely faltered in wiping a plate, then resumed scrubbing, her tone just as casual as mine had been. “Who do you want to be there?”

  “Wyatt Sanders.”

  Her hands froze as she turned to glare at me. “Wyatt Sanders is a successful businessman. Well-respected in the community. How on earth is he involved with a car salesman?”

  I could point out that Will Carlucci was one of the richest men in town, but it wouldn’t matter to my mother. She admired rank over bank every time. “That’s what I’d like to find out.”

  “Wyatt is something of a mystery. Whether he’ll be there or not, I don’t know. You’ll have to come and find out for yourself.”

  She was still angling for something, I could feel it in my bones. The same way Ma knew about an impending storm when her elbow started getting sore. “What is your help going to cost me? A kidney? My firstborn?”

  “Do not take that tone with me, Rosalyn. I’m doing you a favor. All I expect in return is that you show up wearing something appropriate.”

  “I can do that.”

  “And come for dinner one night next week. There’s an internist I want you to meet.”

  There it was. The price tag. “I’ve heard all about him from Jacks. His ass is the talk of the town.”

  “Don’t be crude. You don’t have to marry him, just meet him. What else have you got going on?”

  “I’m working two jobs.” And exclusively working Sullivan.

  “What exactly is this current case anyway?” She grabbed the bread plate I’d just dried, then snatched the towel out of my hand. “This is your grandmother’s wedding china. If you don’t dry it thoroughly, you’ll have spots. There.” She handed it back.

  I couldn’t possibly tell her about Rob and the underground fight club, but I had to throw her a crumb. I decided to give her a bare bones rendition. “A man died. He did a few odd jobs at the dealership. Looks like suicide, but I need to be sure.”

  One of her brows raised a fraction of an inch. “Why would Will Carlucci personally know someone who does odd jobs? That’s like asking your father about an orderly at the hospital.”

  I shrugged. “It’s worth a shot.”

  “All right, Rosalyn, keep your secrets. But I expect you to show up for dinner.”

  I tried to wipe the crystal to my mother’s satisfaction, even holding it up to the light. “Sorry, Mom, I’m not doing that.”

  She closed her eyes for several seconds. “Fine. Have it your way. Remain single. Alone. Childless. Stuck in a horrible job with no education. You’ll only have yourself to blame.” We continued the dishes in silence. Fine by me. I used the time to mentally catalog my wardrobe. The dress I currently wore was the most decent thing in my closet. Maybe I’d have time to go shopping tomorrow. There was a discount department store not far from Andre’s office.

  As soon as we finished washing up, I quizzed Jacks about the cocktail party. She was going too, so I made plans to meet at her house beforehand. Then I kissed Scotty goodbye and headed to the door.

  My mother followed me outside and stood on the front step. “Don’t be late tomorrow night. You know how I feel about tardiness.”

  I knew how she felt about everything. Barbara Strickland refused t
o suffer in silence.

  According to Sugar, the fights started at ten. Jimmy “Kiss My Ass” Duncan promised to leave our names at the door so we shouldn’t need tickets. Question: where does one get tickets for an illicit fight? Just another unanswerable to add to my growing list.

  I left my parents’ house and tootled over to Roxy’s place—a saggy, temperamental Victorian that had been dissected into tiny apartments. Architectural history aside, it came equipped with tricky plumbing and a stingy boiler.

  With a smack of her gum, Roxy climbed into the passenger seat. “Heya.”

  I glanced at her princess dress and suddenly had a major sugar craving. The material was dotted with colorful cupcakes, its glitter icing sparkling beneath the car’s interior light. To top it off, she wore a headband featuring a life-sized cupcake with a swirl of pale pink frosting and a cherry on top.

  “You look delicious,” I said. “Tell me that cupcake isn’t real.”

  “Duh, of course it’s not. It’s made of clay. Sugar knows an artist who sells them.”

  I leaned toward her and, using one finger, poked at it. Allen’s birthday cake had tasted like carrot dust. On top of that, I suspected it was gluten-free.

  Roxy smacked my hand. “What’s the one rule I have, Rose? Don’t touch the hair.” First time I’d heard of this rule. “How was dinner with the fam? And what happened with Andre?”

  “Andre found out about my private inquiries. He wasn’t happy, but he hasn’t fired me. Yet. In fact, we’re teaming up, Dynamic Duo-style.

  “Dinner wasn’t as bad as I expected. My mom’s getting me into a cocktail party tomorrow night. Will Carlucci might be there. So I’ve been thinking about something.”

  “Uh-oh, here we go.”

  As I drove, I laid out a theory that had been troubling me. Twice now, I’d quizzed Buster Madison about the fight club. Yesterday he’d turned so purple I was afraid he might have a heart attack on the spot. Despite my questions, the fight was still happening—business as usual. Either Buster didn’t tell the scary men in charge that I’d been sniffing around asking questions, or he did tell them, and they weren’t bothered in the least. Which was a frightening prospect. It had been my experience that ballsy criminals were more dangerous than your garden-variety lawbreaker.

  “Maybe there’s too much money on the line to cancel the fight,” Rox said.

  “It’s possible. But you can bet that if I ran an illegal operation and some random girl started asking a lot of questions, I’d have my guard up. Buster told me I should forget I’d ever heard about the club. He was shaken to the core when he found out Rob was dead.”

  Roxy swiveled her head so fast, her cupcake flew into the backseat. “Dead? Rob is freaking dead?”

  I smacked my forehead. “I forgot to tell you that part. Sorry. Feels like it happened a month ago, not this afternoon.” I explained the situation.

  “You think it was staged to look like a suicide?” she asked.

  “I do. Buster assumed Rob had been murdered too. He didn’t come out and say it, but he suspects the guys in charge of the fight club.”

  “Holy crap. And we’re walking into the lion’s den tonight.”

  I stopped at a red light and glanced over at her. “You can still back out. No reason to put yourself in danger.”

  She slapped my arm and ignored my yelp of pain. “You think I’d let you waltz in there tonight without backup? I live for danger, you know that. Stop being such a dumbass, Rose.”

  I nearly sighed with relief. Roxy had my back, just like always. Still, by bringing her and Sugar along, I may have been putting a target on them. “I don’t want you to get hurt. Or Sugar. If anything ever happened to you—”

  “Yeah, yeah. Save the mushy stuff for Sullivan. I can take care of myself.” Roxy’s petticoats rustled as she reached into the backseat and grabbed her headband. “Back to Buster. He may not have even mentioned you to the head honchos. Though he could have been protecting you, he was probably covering his own ass.”

  “Good point. If they found out we’d been questioning Buster, he’d be seen as the weak link.”

  Driving north, we drifted into a nicer part of town—not luxe, but solidly middle-class—to pick up Sugar. I laid on the horn, and she pranced out of the house wearing a tight silver lamé dress with her hair swirled up in an elaborate ’do. She looked like a screen goddess from the fifties—if those screen goddesses sported tattoos and dyed their hair the color of raspberry Kool-Aid.

  She slipped into the backseat. “Hey, girls. Ready for a fun night?”

  Roxy turned around. “Rob’s dead. Things are getting dicey now. Rose and I do this type of thing all the time, so we’re used to it. But if you want to back out, we won’t judge.”

  Sugar let out a gasp. “He’s dead? This is just like a murder mystery.”

  I shook my head. “Um, not real—”

  “Totally,” Roxy said.

  Sugar thrust her head between us. “The first time I danced naked on stage I was terrified and exhilarated at the same time. My heart was racing and my palms were sweaty. It took three tries to unhook my bra, but it was the best feeling in the world. This is almost as thrilling. You girls know how to live big. I am so in.”

  Chapter 10

  She and Roxy wiggled their fingers together in solidarity, and I plugged the address Sugar had handed me into my phone’s GPS.

  Backing out of her driveway, I laid out my plan for everyone. “We need to be on the lookout for Will Carlucci and this guy.” I had Roxy pull up a pic of Wyatt Sanders on her phone and show it to Sugar. “Jimmy Duncan works for him.” I explained how I thought Sanders might be one of the bigwigs behind the club. “Sugar, can you get Jimmy to introduce us to the other fighters? I want to find out if Rob had any enemies and uncover details about Wyatt Sanders.”

  “Roger that, Rose.”

  I took the highway leading to the industrial part of town. One-way roads kept us circling the blocks until we finally reached the warehouse district. Most of the buildings had been fenced off and were surrounded by covered pallets. A few appeared to be abandoned.

  As I rolled through the open gates of the seventh warehouse on the left, there were no signs of life, but I heard a thunderous rumble coming from within the building itself. Around back, ten or twelve buses—extended black party buses with tinted windows—were parked in a row, along with two limos and two black SUVs. I guessed those belonged to the men in charge of the fight club.

  I slowed my car, angled my head, and stared up at the building through the windshield. No visible windows, but security lights jutted from the rooftop. “I wonder if there’s a predestined meeting place for the spectators. The buses bring them here, that way there’s no long line of cars or road congestion getting in and out of this place. Less conspicuous that way.”

  “Makes sense,” Roxy said. “You don’t want to bring attention to your illegal fight. This keeps things nice and quiet.”

  “Are you sure we can get in, Sugar?” I asked.

  “Jimmy said it wouldn’t be a problem. There must be a VIP list or something.”

  When Roxy and I climbed out of the car, Sugar stayed inside and opened her vintage clutch. One of those old-fashioned numbers like my great-grandmother Strickland used to have, buried deep in her closet next to the fur coats and tweed jackets. Sugar withdrew a gold compact and dark red lipstick. She did a touch-up, then checked her hair.

  In the heavy night air, I waited impatiently, my skin becoming damp from a case of nerves and the high humidity. My phone rang, and I ripped it from my bag. Sullivan.

  “Hey, what’s up?” I asked, distracted.

  “Sugar, move your ass,” Roxy yelled, tapping her foot. She loved this undercover stuff more than I did. While it made my insides cramp, it amped her up.

  �
�Where are you?” he asked. “You left me a message earlier.”

  Sugar finally slinked out of the car, smoothing a hand over her skintight dress, and gave us a photo-ready smile.

  “Um, can’t talk right now. I’ll fill you in later.” Then I hung up on him for a change.

  “Okay, girls,” Sugar said. “Let’s go.” She strutted toward the building, acting like the world was her catwalk. Tall and self-assured, her hips swayed seductively with each step.

  When she knocked on the metal door, a bouncer/human boulder opened up. His biceps were as big as cantaloupes. Wearing a buzz cut and a squinty stare, his glance dismissed Roxy and me, focusing only on Sugar. Loud, cheering voices burst into the night and competed with the crickets before he shut the door and cut us off from the raucous noise.

  “Turn around and leave, ladies. This is the only time I’ll say it.” The seriousness of his threat was lessened by the expression of pure lust on his face. Sugar’s tits had him in a daze.

  She slinked forward and ran her finger over his bulging arm. “Jimmy Duncan invited me. Said I could bring friends.”

  “You must be Sugar.”

  “Guilty,” she practically purred.

  His voice dropped to a deep bass. “You sweet all over?”

  She laughed, a sultry, husky sound that had him leaning even closer. “Maybe I’ll let you find out.”

  Roxy huffed out a sigh and smacked her gum. “Are you going to let us in or what?”

  Buzz Cut tore his gaze from Sugar’s cleavage, this time taking in the whole Roxified package. “Is that a cupcake on your head?”

  “Yeah. What of it?”

  “Won’t it melt?”

  Her eyeballs completed a full rotation.

  “Yeah, go on in. And you”—he dipped his head toward Sugar’s ear—“make sure I get your number.” He opened the door for us. When we stepped inside, the cacophony of music and voices crashed over us like a tidal wave.