Diner Impossible, page 21
Before Jacks or my mom could say anything, I stood. “Come with me, Charlotte. I know how to get it out.”
But before we could step away from the table, Annabelle Mathers wandered into the room. She wore a navy sweater set and a blue wool skirt. Large, visible bald patches dotted her scalp, and her sunken eyes were dull against her sallow skin. I’d never seen anyone, outside a cancer patient, look so ill.
Everyone froze for an instant, then the whispers started.
Swallowing convulsively, she tried to lift her head, but instead crumbled to the floor and a gut-wrenching sob escaped her. That brought a few gasps from the other ladies.
My mother flew to her side, helping her stand.
“I’m fine.” She feebly tried to push at my mother’s hands. “I have to be strong for my children.”
Barbara glanced back at us. “Jacqueline, take my car home.” Then she bustled Annabelle from the room. My sister followed, carrying my mother’s purse.
As soon as they cleared the door, the chatter swelled. I couldn’t help but worry about Annabelle. Her skin wasn’t just pale now, it had a yellowish undertone. The dark circles that ringed her eyes looked like bruises.
Charlotte stood, her mouth agape.
“Come with me, Charlotte,” I said. “Let’s try and get rid of that stain.”
I walked over to her and grabbed her wrist, as if she were a child. Dumbly, she allowed me to lead her to the restroom. Instead of using the closest one, I went down the hallway to the restroom where Annabelle had gotten sick on the night of the dance. Fortunately, it was empty.
“That poor woman,” Charlotte said, once we moved through the lounge and stood at the marble-countered sinks.
I grabbed one of the thick paper towels and doused it with cool water. As I dabbed at Charlotte’s dress, I glanced over her face.
“She has to be in turmoil,” I said, “everyone thinking her husband murdered his pregnant mistress. What would you do in a situation like that?”
Her startled eyes found mine. “What do you mean?”
I shrugged and kept blotting at the red stain. “If you found out David had cheated. Not that he has, of course.”
She grabbed my hand. “Have you heard something?” Her little girl voice rose an octave. “Tell me.”
I looked into her frightened brown eyes, and I just couldn’t bring myself to ask her. David had said she’d be devastated by his infidelity, and I believed it. David Ashby had hardcore reasons to kill Delia. Delia was pregnant and she might spill the beans about their affair. She could ruin his budding political career and his marriage in one fell swoop.
Since I couldn’t tell Charlotte about David’s affair, I had to come up with something. “I heard the two of you are having fertility issues,” I blurted out.
Her shoulders released their stiffness. “Yes. We want kids desperately. I’ve been trying for four years.” Tears clouded her eyes and she blinked them away. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted, to be a mom.”
“Then Delia Cummings’ death must be extremely sad for you?”
She batted her lashes. “How so?”
“If she was pregnant at the time of her death…” She wasn’t, but Charlotte wouldn’t know that.
She lifted her head. “That baby didn’t belong to her.” Her childish voice sounded off.
“What do you mean?”
“Delia Cummings was a whore who got herself knocked up by a married man. That baby rightfully belonged to Annabelle. Martin’s sperm belongs to Annabelle.”
Every warning bell started clanging in my head. I was dealing with a certified nut. Sperm? Annabelle’s baby? I needed to tread very carefully here, and I was glad I hadn’t told her about David’s extracurriculars.
“That’s an interesting perspective.” I continued to pat her boob with the damp paper towel.
“It’s true. Don’t you think the wife should raise her husband’s child?”
“You don’t think the mother has a say?” I asked.
“No. She was a homewrecker. She had no rights as far as I’m concerned. I know the law looks at things differently, but what’s right is right. And Annabelle tried so hard to give Martin more children. She miscarried five times over the years.”
That was news to me. From the way I heard it, Martin didn’t really give a damn about the kids he had. Why would he want more? Why would Annabelle?
I took a deep breath. “So if David got another woman pregnant, hypothetically of course, what would you do?”
She tossed her short hair away from her face and swatted at my hand. “I’d offer her money in exchange for the baby.”
“And if she didn’t accept?”
“I’d do whatever I had to do. That baby would belong to me. Me and David. No one else.” She glanced down at the strawberry stain. “I hope my dry cleaner can get this out. Thanks for trying.” She lifted her head, a beaming smile on her face.
I tried to return it, but I was pretty sure I flashed a grimace mixed with a little horror.
She turned and trotted out of the bathroom. Head case, party of one.
What if Charlotte did know about David’s affair and Delia refused to give Charlotte the baby? She was clearly nuttier than a pecan grove. Maybe David had a key to Delia’s house, Charlotte stole it, slipped into the condo, and killed Delia in her sleep? I could definitely envision that scenario.
And she was friends with Julia Baxter. If David didn’t have a key, she could have stolen Julia’s purse at the country club fashion show, taken her e-key, and used it to make a copy of the key to Delia’s condo. Charlotte was suddenly looking like a very good suspect. Of course Julia could have used the e-key herself. Killed Delia to keep her from revealing Julia’s secret identity. True, she didn’t seem to have the nerve to carry it off, but it was a possibility.
Alone in the lounge, I called Ax.
“Hey, Rose.”
“Ax, Annabelle Mathers is taking three different meds. Her skin’s yellow, her hair’s falling out in clumps, and I think she was puking blood. Could you do a little research for me? I know you’re busy, but I’ve got a million things to do this afternoon and can’t get to it until later tonight.”
“I’m never too busy to research bad medical side effects. Especially for you.”
“She looks horrible, Ax.”
“I’m on it.”
Then I called Andre Thomas. Yes, I knew it was before the magical hour of eight o’clock, but this was important.
“Thomas,” he answered.
“Andre, it’s Rose. Just listen. Julia Baxter’s purse was stolen about the same time Delia Cummings moved. Can you get a list of who used the e-key on Delia’s condo? If Julia’s name turns up, I have two new suspects for you: Julia and Charlotte Ashby.”
“Aw, hell,” he muttered. Then his voice softened. “Can you hear me?”
“Yes.”
“Martin’s being questioned right now. It’s not looking good.”
That would explain Annabelle’s breakdown. Not only was she physically ill, she was worried her husband might be arrested.
“Call me if you find anything? And I still plan on meeting you at Captain Bentley’s house at six,” I said before hitting the end button.
I walked over to the vanity where I’d fixed Annabelle’s hair a few days ago. Something about her appearance today was niggling at me. She didn’t just look sick, she looked like she’d taken a number at death’s deli counter. And that worried me.
I dialed Molly.
“What?” she yelled over depressing emo music in the background.
“Molly, your mom was just here at the club. She sort of had a meltdown.”
The music stopped. “What? She went to the club and made a fool of herself? God, she’s so freaking lame.”
I rubbed my temple. “She seemed on the edge of losing her shit, Molly. My mom is bringing her home. You might want to go easy on her.”
“My dad’s being detained by the police and Annabelle has to have her dramatic moment in front of as many witnesses as possible.”
“She’s an emotional wreck and she looks very sick. Cut her some slack, huh?”
She breathed out a laugh. “I thought you were smarter than that, Rose. She’s got you fooled, too.” Then she hung up.
I had no right to tell Molly how to deal with her mother. Look at how well I dealt with mine. I wasn’t in a position to be doling out advice. But I pitied both of them.
I hadn’t taken two steps when my phone rang again. Jeez, I was never getting out of this lounge.
I checked the screen and my heart began to pound. Sullivan.
“I’ve been thinking about you all day,” he said.
That made my toes curl deep inside the borrowed shoes. “I’ve been thinking about you, too.”
A pause so long, I felt my hair grow half an inch. “I have some news you might appreciate,” he finally said. “David Ashby has a mistress. I’ve had Henry do a little sleuthing since you took all this on. And David Ashby is nailing Taylor Springfield. She’s a Hooters girl and she swears David was with her the night Delia Cummings was killed. He called his wife, told her he’d be working late and he’d sleep at the office. Apparently, he uses that excuse a lot.”
“Why didn’t he tell me last night?” I asked. “He confessed to everything else, why keep that a secret?”
“He’s afraid you’d tell Charlotte?”
That dude was some piece of work. Thinking he’d impregnated one woman while screwing around with a second mistress. All the while his devoted—and loony—wife was desperate for a baby.
I leaned against the vanity. “Then the case against Charlotte Ashby may have just gotten stronger.” I played out the scene in my mind. Charlotte made a copy of Delia’s condo key, then waited for weeks to kill Delia in the middle of the night. No. That didn’t sound right. Charlotte was batshit, clearly, but did she have the patience and brains to plan and carry out such a cold-blooded murder? That didn’t add up.
“Hope this helps,” Sullivan said.
“Wait, don’t hang up,” I said in a flurry of words.
“Yes?”
“Last night…”
He waited.
I wanted to tell him how I felt. I took a deep breath and tried again. “Last night was…”
“Yeah,” he said, softly, “it was.”
Chapter 24
I found Jacks standing outside the dining room. She threw her hands up when she saw me. “There you are. You’ve been gone for half an hour.”
“Sorry, I’ve been doing investigative stuff.”
“Let’s go. They’re already tearing down tea and setting up for dinner.”
We retrieved our coats and dragged them on as we exited the club. The valet brought my mother’s car and Jacks drove us back to my parents’ house.
Waving goodbye to my sister, I blazed a trail to Roxy’s. I was more than a little concerned about her. I’d never seen her as upset as she’d been this morning. Sure, she was sometimes rude to customers, but she’d always fallen shy of throwing food at them. And wearing sweatpants? That was Defcon level one emotional trauma.
I parked on the street and walked to the wide porch. In its Victorian heyday, I imagined this house had been a showpiece. Leaded glass diamonds sparkled along the tops of the windows. Gingerbread trim dripped like icing from the posts and a turret stood tall at the back of the house. But the paint was chipped, and the porch sagged worse than my bowling alley neighbor, Wanda’s, boobs. The windows were filthy and the yard needed weeding.
I walked in and tromped up two flights to Roxy’s apartment. A twelve-by-twelve square with its own tiny bathroom, it was the only place she’d ever called home.
I knocked on the door, but she didn’t answer. “Roxy, I know you’re in there. Your car’s in the lot.”
“Go away.”
“Nope.” I kept knocking. She kept ignoring.
“All right,” I said, “I didn’t want to do this, but you’ve left me no choice.” I began singing the opening lines of her karaoke anthem. A Spice Girls tune. And singing was a very broad interpretation of what I attempted.
By the time I got to the chorus, she’d flung open the door. She wore a bathrobe and her snarl wrapped itself around the cigarette dangling from her lips. “You always ruin that song. It’s zigazig ah, not ziggy ziggy blah. Now go away.”
“Roxy.”
Her face crumpled like a used Kleenex. Tears began pouring from her bloodshot blue eyes. “I’m such a loser.”
I snatched the smoke from her lips and held it away as I wrapped her in a one-armed hug. “That’s the last thing you are.” Dancing her into the apartment, I slammed the door shut with my foot.
She allowed me to hug her for a few. Then she pulled away. “Give me that.” She reached for the cigarette.
“Forget it.” I spied the rest of the pack on the bed, so I feigned to the left, then darted right, snagging them up and jumping across the bed in a move worthy of an NBA star. I made for the closet-sized bathroom and dumped them all into the toilet before she could catch me.
She stood in the doorway. “Goddammit, Rose. I need those.”
“No you don’t. I have a crazy agenda this afternoon. Lots of people to harass and you need to help me.”
She shook her head, sending her two thick braids airborne. “No. I’m staying right here. I’m in wallow mode and you’re not talking me out of it.”
“Oh.” I nodded. “Okay then.” I stepped around her and walked to the door.
“Wait. Where are you going?” she sounded so lost, I almost dropped the ‘tough’ part of my tough love campaign.
I looked at her with the blankest expression I could come up with. “If you want to sit in this room and hide, I can’t stop you. But I won’t allow your wallowing to hamper my investigation.”
She slid her jaw to the right and her eyes narrowed into slits. “Hamper? I’m not a hamperer, Rose Strickland. Look at you, with those flashy new clothes, thinking you’re all that. I don’t hamper shit.”
I lifted a brow. “Prove it.”
She pulled her lips against her teeth, glaring at me while she stomped toward the portable rack she called a closet. She jerked a pink dress covered in rainbow lollipops off the hanger. “I don’t have to prove anything, but just to show you how full of total crap you are, I will.” She stormed to the bathroom and slammed the door so hard, the whole house shook on its foundation.
When she stepped out moments later, the old, fearsome Roxy was back. With a vengeance. She growled at me as she slipped pink over-the-knee socks up her legs and shoved her feet into a pair of stacked Mary Janes decorated with little leather bows. She practically tore her pink fuzzy jacket from the rack. “Who’s ready now, beyotch?”
I tried hard to keep a smile from taking over my mouth. “You are. Don’t forget your gum.”
She blinked. “I know what you’re trying to do. You’re trying to piss me off, so I’ll snap out of it. And if I didn’t love you, I’d kick your rich little ass across town.”
“Sadly, my ass isn’t rich. And by the way, you’re never a hamperer. You’re my bestie.”
“God, you’re such a dork.” She grabbed a pack of gum from her bureau, stuck it and her cell into a shooting star purse. “And that color looks good on you.”
I flipped my hair over my shoulder. “Right?”
*
My plan was to head back to Club Saturn and get more info on sometimes bartender, Jason Hall. If I could talk to him without running into his across-the-hall pal, Mr. Combover—even better.
Jason’d been to Delia’s visitation for a reason, and I wanted to know what it was. Also, Eileen, Delia’s next-door neighbor, heard arguing and saw a man fleeing Delia’s condo a week before her death. Jason Hall might be a good candidate.
Unless it was David Ashby. But he didn’t seem like the running away type. More like the swaggering away type.
On the drive to the club, we sped past the movie theater. A sudden urge to look at the upstairs laser tag arena stole through me, and I made a U-ee, forcing Roxy to grab onto the door handle.
“What the hell, Rose?”
“Sorry, something just occurred to me.” I drove to the parking lot—at this time of day it was fairly empty.
“What are we doing here?” she asked, hopping out and catching up as I strode into the building. “Recreating the scene of the crime?”
“Sort of.” I walked up to the ticket window and tapped on the glass, rousing the teenage kid from his nap. “I’d like to see a manager, please.”
His tired eyes got stuck on Roxy’s braids. “What?”
“Hey, dumbass. Go get your boss.” Yeah, the old Roxy was definitely back in action.
With the speed of a stoned sloth, he walked from the booth. Five minutes later, a man with a large belly and salt and pepper goatee walked through the inner glass door toward us.
“Oh hell no,” I said.
Roxy chuckled. “Think of the time you could have saved if you’d come here first.”
I stared in disbelief as Captain Mark Smith of Starfleet made his self-important way across the lobby.
“Miss Strickland, have you found the uniform?”
“We need to talk.”
“Don’t you have an office or something?” Roxy asked.
He tugged on his snug red vest. “Follow me.” He marched through the doors, barking orders at the concession stand people. “Get busy. Even if you have no customers, there’s work to do. Look alive, Jasmine.”
Jasmine looked at her chipped, pink nails instead.
He led us behind the rows of video games, pulling a key from his pocket to unlock the door. He allowed us to enter first. “Where’s the uniform? Do you have it with you?”
I spun and faced him. “Is there any reason you didn’t tell us you worked here?”
He puffed his chest out like a pigeon. “I don’t work here, I own it. I assumed you knew. And if you didn’t, you’re a very poor investigator.”
He had me there. “Surveillance video.”
“I beg your pardon.” He walked behind his desk and began straightening already straightened papers.
