Diner Impossible, page 11
Ma flipped the closed sign once our last customer left the diner. Then tugging on the hem of her leprechaun sweatshirt, she walked over to the counter and slid onto a stool. “So, the KAWs are meeting at Divak Khard’s house tonight. Can you pick me up, toots?”
“Sure. You know where he lives?”
She tapped her temple. “Yep. Got the directions right up here.” Roxy grabbed her purse from beneath the counter—the one shaped like a giant pink rabbit head—and pulled out a blister pack of gum. “Are you pals with the Klingons now, Ma?” She popped two fresh pieces in her mouth.
“The KAWs are fun. I’m thinking about joining the group. Get myself a fancy costume. Anyway, K’nera said the SPuRTs are out for bortaS.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Revenge,” she drew out the word. “I’m learning the language. You’ve got to if you want to have honor.”
Roxy blinked at me. “Oh jeez, they’ve gotten to her. Do we need to perform an exorcism?”
“Maybe we can just deprogram her,” I said.
“Whatevs.” She grabbed an empty bus tub and started clearing off the tables near the window.
“Very funny, girls,” Ma said. “But this is serious business. If that uniform doesn’t turn up, the reputation of all Klingons will be tarnished.”
Leaning my elbows on the counter, I raised both brows. “Just out of curiosity, who is K’nera?”
“Melissa Sue Johnson. Real sweet gal. She makes all her own costumes. In fact, she made the uniform that’s missing. She’s very talented.”
“Got it. I’ll pick you up tonight after the Huntingford Historical Society meeting, Ma.”
Roxy, slogging a full tub to the kitchen, stopped and gawked at me. “What the hell? First the country club, now the freaking Historical Society. Rose, are you flipping to the dark side?”
I breathed out a laugh and snagged a bottle of cleaner and a rag. “Hardly. Last night was painful. And I never did get a medallion of mystery meat.”
The bell tinkled over the door and Axton walked in, his bulging backpack slung over one shoulder. “Hey, dudes.” He hopped up on a stool next to Ma and hefted his bag onto the counter.
“We were just talking about KAW business,” Ma said.
I automatically grabbed a plate and snatched the three remaining donuts from the cake stand, setting them in front of Ax. “Bad times for the Klingons?”
“Yeah.” He stuffed an entire glazed donut in his mouth.
Roxy made a disgusted noise, grabbed the rag and bottle of cleaner, and headed for the tables.
“Found out about Judge Keeler,” Ax said after he’d swallowed.
“Well, not him so much as his galpal. He’s love shacking with one Julia Baxter. She’s got her realtor’s license and her last address was in St. Charles, a town outside St. Louis. But before that, nothing.”
I frowned. “What do you mean?”
“No ID, no driver’s license, no taxes. Zilch. Which makes me want to dig deeper.” He grabbed the chocolate donut and spun it around his finger. “I will uncover all of her secrets. She can’t hide from the Axman.”
“I pity the fool who tries,” I said.
“You know it. I don’t have anything on Keeler or Ashby yet. But I’ll keep at it,” he said.
“Thanks, Ax. I’m meeting you at Divak Khard’s tonight?”
“HIja’.” He spun on his stool. “Hey, Rox. Brian thought you were cute.”
She continued wiping down a table. “Of course he did. I mean, duh, look at me. And who the hell is Brian?”
“Klek.”
She glanced up at him. “Klek the Perv? Lucky me. Tell him to go pull.” She made a rather obscene hand gesture.
Ax glanced back at me. “Why shoot the messenger?”
I poured him a to-go cup of black coffee and waved as he strode out of the diner, shoving the last donut in his face.
Ma adjusted her glasses and headed for the kitchen. “Roxy, are you in on this KAW situation tonight?”
She blew out a breath and rolled her eyes so far back in her head, I wondered if she got a peek at her brain. “I guess.”
Ma raised her fist in the air. “Good. Jol ylchu’. Which means, ‘Activate the transport beam!’” Then she shoved open the swinging door and disappeared.
“You know, I worry about her,” Roxy said.
“Yep.”
*
We had just enough time to swing by my apartment so I could change for the funeral home. I owned one gray dress and one black dress. But the black dress was short-sleeved and while the temps had warmed up, I thought it was a little light for the season, so the gray dress won out. I changed in the bathroom and then grabbed a pair of black flats from the closet.
Roxy sat on the futon, watching me. “What are those shoes?” She pointed to the offending heels I’d worn the night before. I’d kicked them off next to the table and forgot all about them.
“They’re pretty,” she said. “And they look expensive. You should totally wear them.”
“I wore them last night and my feet are still killing me.” I’d taken my hair out of its usual ponytail and brushed it out. Now I stood in front of her, in the secondhand dress and boring flats. “Well?”
“Meh.” Not exactly a glowing review, but I’d take it. Roxy was already dressed for mourning. She’d shown up at the diner in a black Victorian ensemble with delicate jet lace fluttering down the bodice. Of course the skirt was so short, I hoped she didn’t have to bend over for any reason or we’d all be in trouble.
I drove to the funeral home, where a soft-spoken man greeted us at the front entrance and directed us to the left. Roxy and I walked the long hallway, and the closer we got to the viewing room, the stronger the floral scent became.
Several people stood in line for the guest book, most of them in police uniform. Murmurs and quiet whispers mixed with the piped-in organ music. As we waited our turn, I peeked through the doors. The white casket was closed and surrounded by a dozen large bouquets.
Finally, it was our turn at the guest book. Propped next to it was a framed photograph of Delia. She’d been a pretty young woman, late twenties, light brown hair, deep set green eyes.
A couple in their late fifties stood off to one side and greeted people. The woman looked like an older version of Delia. Her eyes and nose were red and every once in a while, she sniffed into a wad of Kleenex. The man at her side was stoic, determined not to show emotion, but his quivering chin told a different story. I was about to walk up to them and offer my condolences when Martin Mathers strode forward with a clearly embarrassed Annabelle in his wake. He’d clamped his hand around her wrist and dragged her behind him.
An unnatural silence descended and suddenly the organ music seemed overly loud. Everyone in the vestibule stared first at the Mathers, then at Delia’s parents. A tension hung in the air, thick and oppressive, as we all waited for what would happen next.
Annabelle’s eyes fluttered like a hummingbird, never landing on anyone in particular. But once again, Martin made eye contact with his detractors.
Mr. Cummings’ face became a mask of rage when he spotted the police chief. Two bright pops of color filled his rounded cheeks. “How dare you?” He pointed his finger at Mathers. “How dare you be here today?”
Mrs. Cummings covered her face with both hands and cried quietly.
“I’m here to pay my respects,” Martin said.
“You disrespected my daughter when you slept with her. You should be ashamed, and yet you walk in, as bold as brass, and dare to talk about respect? Get out of here, you bastard. Get out!” He yelled so loud, I jumped.
Poor Annabelle. She looked mortified. A sheen of perspiration broke out on her pale forehead. She didn’t have her extensions clipped in today and her hair was a teased nest resting on top of her head.
Martin’s features hardened. He jerked his head in a nod, and keeping hold of Annabelle’s wrist, turned abruptly. His head held high, he stormed away, with his wife almost jogging to keep pace with him.
“That was Annabelle Mathers,” I whispered to Rox.
“I figured. That took some balls for the police chief, showing up here when he knows what everyone’s saying.”
I agreed. I didn’t know if Martin Mathers was brave for facing the rumors head on, or if he was an egomaniac who didn’t give a shit what anyone said about him. Knowing what I did, I was going with the latter.
Now wasn’t a good time to talk to Delia’s parents. Mr. Cummings had thrown both arms around his wife’s shoulders and absorbed her sobs of grief.
So Roxy and I went inside and snagged a spot in one of the middle pews. As I slipped off my new coat, I openly watched the people sitting around me and carefully studied everyone who walked inside. A few civilians stood out amongst the officers, but not many. One cute guy sat in the back row. His eyes never strayed from the casket, and he’d propped both arms along the back of the pew—an obvious signal that he didn’t want anyone to sit beside him. He wore a gray t-shirt and a navy pea coat.
My gaze drifted from the Lone Ranger to wander over the crowd and ran straight into Andre Thomas. He held my gaze for a brief moment, then he faced forward without acknowledging me.
Soon Mr. Cummings helped his wife down the aisle, and they took their place in the front pew. That was the preacher’s cue to stand and give a comforting, if impersonal, eulogy. Then we all bowed our heads in prayer, and it was over.
As we filed out, Roxy headed for the room with cookies and coffee, while I made a quick stop at the ladies’. A short, older woman with orange hair and features that reminded me of a wide-mouthed bullfrog stood at the sink. As she applied coral lipstick, her eyes met mine in the mirror.
“Hi,” I said. “What a sad day, huh?”
She nodded. “Can you believe the police chief had the gall to show up here? And actually try to speak to the girl’s father?”
My full bladder was giving me a hard time, but I ignored it and moved to the sink. If this lady wanted to gossip about Delia, I wanted to listen. “Unbelievable, right?”
“How did you know Delia?” She smacked her lips together.
“I used to work with her. How about you? My name’s Rose by the way.”
“I’m Eileen. I live in the condo next to hers.”
Now she really had my attention. “That must have been horrible for you.”
She pulled a paper towel from the dispenser and blotted her lips. “Oh sweetie, it was awful. The police swarming all over the place, asking all kinds of questions. And that maniac killer’s still on the loose.”
“Did you hear anything, see anything? You could be a very important witness.”
“No,” she said, disappointment coloring her voice. “I did overhear the police talking, though.” She moved a little closer and thrust her face next to mine. Her overpowering rose-scented perfume filled my nose and stung my sinuses. “They said she was killed in her sleep.”
I gasped and tilted my head back slightly. “That’s horrible.”
“We’ve gotten extra locks on all the doors, I can tell you that much.”
“I don’t blame you,” I said. “Did she have many visitors?”
Another woman walked into the restroom, distracting Eileen’s attention, so I placed my hand on her elbow and gently tugged her to the far side of the room. “Visitors?” I repeated.
“Not really. But she only moved in a month ago.”
My eyes widened. This was a new piece of info. “Really? And she never had anyone stop by?”
Eileen cast a glance over her shoulder. “Well, you didn’t hear this from me, but about a week before she was killed, I heard shouting. When Delia’s door slammed, I looked out the window and saw a man get into a car and speed off.”
“Was it Martin Mathers?” I asked.
She shook her head. “I don’t think so, but it was too dark to know for certain.” She patted my arm. “Listen honey, you take care.”
“Wait. Did you tell the police about this?”
Her orange eyebrows furrowed. “Do you think I should?”
“Definitely, Eileen. This could be very important information.”
She straightened her spine. “I’ll go home and call them immediately.”
I waved at her, then fled to one of the stalls.
When I left the restroom, I found Roxy gazing up at the cute loner from the back row. I joined them and she made the introductions.
“Rose, this is Jason. He used to work with Delia.” She widened her eyes and jerked her head in his direction.
I held out my hand. “Nice to meet you, Jason. So sad about Delia.”
“Yeah.”
I waited a moment for him to say something else, but he didn’t.
“So, where did you and Delia work together?” I asked.
“Place called Club Saturn.”
“And Delia was a waitress?” Roxy asked.
Jason nodded. “Yeah.”
What a chatterbox.
“How long did you wor—”
“I’ve got to go,” he said. Without another word, he turned and strode out the door.
I glanced at Roxy. “That was pretty rude.”
“He doesn’t have much personality, but I could stare at him for a few hours. We going to that club tonight, or what?”
I shrugged. “I’m supposed to meet up with Sullivan. I’ll call him and reschedule. You ready? I need to get to the Historical Society on time.”
She grabbed one last cookie for the road. “Let’s bounce.”
Chapter 14
If Apple Tree Boulevard represented the socio-economic line of demarcation in Huntingford, then Huntingford Square was middle ground. Historic churches, houses, and government buildings, designed with grace and character, stood like tall shadows of a distant past amidst rectangular upstarts sprayed with stucco and covered in brick facade.
I snagged a parking place on the street in front of the old Opera House and called Sullivan.
“Hello, Rose.” I could hear the smile in his voice. Was he remembering last night? Because I couldn’t get it out of my mind.
“Hey. I’m going to have to cancel tonight.” Predictable thirty second pause. I timed him.
“Why?”
“I have to go to Club Saturn. Delia worked there before hooking up with Martin. Although it probably won’t lead anywhere, I need to check it out. You don’t happen to own it, do you?”
“No. But give me a couple of hours and I will.” Then he hung up. He was serious, too. That club would be his by the end of the night.
I jumped out of the car, stuck a few coins in a meter, and scrambled as fast as I could without actually running, to what used to be the mayor’s house in days of yore. The nineteenth century, brick building was now home to the Historical Society.
I strode through the door and shoved my phone into my hobo bag. At three-fifty, I was a full ten minutes early.
Women dressed in suits and day dresses filled every inch of the roomy foyer along with the dining room and parlor flanking it. High-pitched chatter, punctuated by the occasional tinkling laughter, rose and fell. I’d never actually been here before, although Barbara would have loved me to join, I’d dropped out of real college and left home long before I could be coerced into participating.
A black rope had been tied to a hand-carved banister, blocking access to the second and third floors. A red, hand-loomed, wool carpet covered the original hardwood planks. The whole house smelled of mingling perfumes, piney air freshener, and musty old building.
I angled my head to search the room for Jacks. And check for exits just in case I needed to make a quick escape. When I faced forward, my mother had suddenly appeared before me.
“Wah!” I leaped a foot in the air. “Stop doing that. You’re like a Navy Seal popping up out of the water. It’s eerie.”
She pretended I hadn’t spoken. “You’re almost late.”
“But I’m not.”
“Take off your coat. I’ll have Amber hang it up.” She raised her arm above her head and snapped her fingers which magically summoned a college-aged woman with shiny, straight brown hair. “Amber, this is my daughter, Rosalyn. She needs a new membership packet. And do something with her coat.”
“Right away, Mrs. Strickland.”
Oh my God, this girl was a lackey. I could so use a good lackey. I shrugged out of my coat and handed it to Amber.
“I’ll be right back, Miss Strickland.”
As she teetered off, my mother’s gaze moved over me, taking in my gray dress and the boring flats.
“Rosalyn, are you trying to give me an aneurism with that outfit?”
“No. If I were going the aneurism route, I’d show you my back tattoo and saucy body piercings.”
She placed her fingertips against her forehead. “Contrary to what you believe, you are not in any way amusing.”
Probably not. And I shouldn’t give her such a hard time, but she made it so damn easy.
Amber was back, shoving packets and books in my arms. “So glad to have you here. Welcome. If you have any questions, my number’s on page three, under interns.” She bopped off, her hair swinging like a pendulum across her back.
“What am I supposed to do with all this?” I asked.
Barbara glanced around to make sure we weren’t being spied on. “It’s your cover. You can’t very well show up here and not be a part of the Society.”
“You make it sound like I’m a superhero, infiltrating a league of villains.”
She simply stared.
“Fine.” I glanced down at the books—one was a history of Huntingford and the other extolled the virtues of volunteerism.
“Read those. Know them from cover to cover. People will ask you questions, and you need to have answers.”
Now my turn to stare. “What people? You know I’m not doing that, right? I’m here to find out the truth about Martin Mathers and Delia Cummings. I need to talk to your pal, Charlotte Ashby, and that’s it. I’m not coming back.”
She gazed at me with a shrewd gleam in her eye. “We’ll see. You may find you like it. Follow me. I’ll introduce you around.”
Had that been her plan all along? To try and lure me back into my old life? Because if so, she needed different bait. Bait involving a chocolate fountain or perhaps compromising pictures, because that’s the only way she’d ever get me back here.
