Diner Impossible, page 25
“Just like a detective movie,” Ma said. “The big reveal.”
By the time we arrived at Dale’s house, all the Trekkers were there. The SPuRTs were in their uniforms, including Beehive who was sporting her sixties flip wig this evening. I was not calling her Flipper. She’d always be Beehive to me. She pursed her lips and her purple-shadowed eyes shot attitude at Roxy, who completely snubbed her.
Working a side pony with blue corkscrew curls, and rocking a shepherdess dress, Rox acted like the room was her own private club. She paraded over to where Melissa Sue had saved her a seat. Ma sat next to her.
The SPuRTs congregated on one side of the room and the KAWs on the other.
Ax and Dale were the only Klingons out of battle gear and wearing street clothes this evening.
“How are you?” Ax asked.
I smiled. “I’m okay. Been better. Been worse.”
“Sure you still want to do this?”
I’d called him earlier in the afternoon to set up the meeting. I wasn’t backing out now. “Yep.”
Chapter 30
I wandered toward the Fleet side of the street, stopping in front of the Mark Smith. “Now, I know it’s been a bone of contention over who took the uniform. But I have an eyewitness who saw the perpetrator.”
Ooos and ahhhs chorused through the room.
“Captain Smith. It was your theater that hosted the laser tag game. According to your employee, he saw someone in the parking lot take the uniform out of Divak Khard’s car and place it in his own. It wasn’t you, since the kid said the perp was skinny.”
He stared down at his belly and gave it a pat.
“But you, Captain,” I waved a finger in Smith’s face, “knew that your parking lot cameras had stopped working.”
He rolled his eyes. “Yes, I told you that myself.”
“You could have had one of your Fleeties steal it, knowing they wouldn’t be caught on camera, and thus secure the uniform for your own.”
He slammed his beer bottle on the table. “That is ridiculous. We won the game. The uniform was already ours.”
“Is it any more ridiculous than not allowing Ensign Ray Jones to advance within your little conclave because of petty jealousy?”
The SPuRTs looked uncomfortable while the Klingons nodded and threw out an occasional grunt.
Smith stood. “Would you get on with it? If you know who stole the uniform, tell us.”
I strolled over to Sid. “And you. You were upset that Dale broke up your relationship with Melissa Sue.”
Sid’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Of course I was.”
“You knew Melissa Sue sewed that uniform herself,” I said. “With exacting care and precision, she paid attention to every detail.”
“Actually, I just kind of winged it,” she said from her side of the room. “I didn’t even use a pattern.”
“It turned out really well for no pattern,” Ax said. There were nods of agreement.
“Show me the swatch you carry in your pocket, Sid.”
His brows wrinkled into a puzzled frown. Withdrawing the square piece of fabric, he handed it over. “This?”
“Yes.” I examined the soft purple cloth. “Explain why you carry it.”
“It was the color of the flowers Melissa Sue and I picked out. Now I use it to clean my glasses. I’m sorry, what is your point?”
“Just stating the facts, Sid.” I tossed the fabric at him.
Then I meandered over to the KAWs and stood before Klek/Brian. “You, Klek. You’re new to the group. Yet you seem to straddle the fence. You could have easily taken the uniform for your own sleazy purposes.”
“bInep!”
“He says you lie,” Ax translated.
I nodded. “Yes, I do. But not today.” I clasped my hands behind my back and walked over to Ensign Jones. “Who in Starfleet knew about the broken cameras?”
Most of them shrugged, but Ray Jones’ eyes widened, and he swallowed convulsively.
“How about you, Ray? Did you know that the cameras were broken?”
He turned bright red and when he frowned, his features scrunched up even further, reminding me of a ferret. “I don’t remember.”
Earlier in the afternoon, I’d had a burst of brain power after eating a grilled cheese sandwich a la Henry—fancy cheese on homemade French bread. I called Katherine Donner’s father, also Captain Smith’s landlord, and asked a few pertinent questions. If only I’d asked the right questions earlier, I’d have solved this thing days ago.
I walked behind Ray’s chair and leaned over his shoulder. “Of course you remember. You knew because your maintenance company is contracted to the building that Captain Smith rents. You were in charge of replacing the broken parking lot lights, were you not?” I asked, raising my voice.
“Well, yeah, but how could I know about the broken cameras?”
I placed my hands on his shoulders. “Because you’re the one who broke them. You knew that the laser tag game was coming up and you knew what a cheap bastard Smith is.”
“See here,” Smith said. “There’s no need for name calling.”
I arched a brow at him. “Isn’t there? Ensign Ray Jones,” I continued, “you knew Captain Smith would never fix the cameras. Look how long it took him to fix the parking lot lights. Only when the city fined him did he finally get his ass in gear.
“You stole the uniform because you wanted to be the one to find it later. You wanted to prove yourself worthy, so that Smith would finally recommend you for a rise in the Starfleet ranks. But you didn’t think it through,” I continued. “Because once you took the uniform, you couldn’t return it. Or you’d look guilty yourself. Hand me your phone, please.”
“I don’t have to give you shit.” He looked around at the Starfleet crew. “I didn’t do it. It’s all a lie.”
“Give her your phone,” Smith said.
With shaking hands, Ray pulled it from his front pocket and tossed it at me. I caught it and turned it on. It wasn’t password protected, so I slid the screen, and thumbed through the pictures. “That night at the bowling alley, you showed me a portrait of Spock you’d painted. In the background is a distinctive blanket Melissa Sue made for Dale.” I walked over to the Klingon side of the room and showed Melissa Sue.
She nodded. “Yep, that’s it.”
Captain Smith stood once again. “You are hereby banned from Starfleet,” he said, pointing his beer bottle at Ray.
“Now wait just a minute,” I said. “Ray wouldn’t have been desperate if you hadn’t been such a poor leader. If he’s banned, you should be, too,” I said.
The other Starfleet members nodded. “She’s right,” Sid said. “You should both be sanctioned.”
“We should ask National what to do about all this,” Beehive said. “I’ll send a communique tomorrow morning.”
“Nonsense. I’m the captain and I run this ship.” His face turned a violent shade of red and a wide vein in his neck bulged. Yikes.
“Shut up,” one of the Klingons yelled.
With an angry tilt of his head, Mark Smith stomped up the stairs and a few seconds later, we heard the front door slam.
Then the Klingons stood up, one by one, and began clapping. We partied down until the wee hours, and I finally got a sip of Romulan ale.
Tasted like crap.
Epilogue
A week later, on a sunny, spring morning, Andre Thomas moseyed into the diner. He was dressed in khaki Dockers and a plaid shirt. It was freaky deaky to see him out of uniform. Even more so than seeing Sullivan out of a suit. Like when you run into your math teacher at the mall, sorting through sale bras. It throws you.
“Go on,” Roxy said. “I’ll take care of your customers.”
I moved toward him. “Hey. What’s up?”
“Can we talk privately, Miss Strickla…Rose?” He looked very uncomfortable as he rotated his head back and forth, scanning the diner for evildoers.
“Sure.” I led the way to the office, and he shut the door behind him.
“I wanted to thank you,” he said.
I hopped up on the dusty desk and swung my legs back and forth. “You’re welcome.”
“I officially requested my lieutenant look into Captain Bentley’s situation.”
“That’s good at least. Maybe he’ll get his pension reinstated. Is it your day off or something?” I tipped my head at his civilian duds.
“No. I quit the force.”
I stopped swinging my legs. “What?”
“I’ve decided to become my own boss. Go private.”
“Wow. Congratulations, I guess.” We remained awkwardly quiet for a moment. “Are you good with this decision?”
He dipped his chin. “Yes.” He shoved his hands into his trouser pockets. “You impressed me with your tenacious attitude.”
I stared at my shoelaces. “Thanks.”
“And while your methods are sloppy, you have much to learn, you’re undisciplined and your methodology requires an overhaul—”
I lifted my eyes to his. “Are you going somewhere with all this?”
“I’d like you to work for me.”
“Work for you?”
“As an apprentice PI. You’d have to work under me for two years in order to obtain your license. I’d be a demanding boss. A Hardass if you will.” His eyes sparkled just a little.
While the thought of working for Andre on a daily basis didn’t make me do backflips, it was a tempting offer. Truth was, I liked to investigate and solve puzzles. But more than that, I liked helping people and seeking justice for the deserving. Ax would make a superhero reference here, but I was just Rose the waitress. There was nothing super about me unless you counted my speediness with a coffeepot.
No doubt Andre and I would bump heads. My idea of right and wrong was a little more lax than his—he was a black and white dude in a world of gray. But his straight arrow ways might balance me out. And maybe I could loosen him up. If anyone needed unwinding, he did.
But that would mean leaving Ma and Roxy. And I wasn’t ready to do that. Just the thought of it felt wrong.
“I don’t think so. Thanks for the offer, though.”
“You like working here, don’t you?” he asked.
“Yeah, I do. Those crazies out there are like family.”
He grinned, looking years younger. Almost boyish. “We could try it part-time. You could work afternoons, weekends.”
Very tempting.
“You know I date a criminal, right?” I asked.
He shrugged. “What you do in your free time doesn’t concern me. And since I’m no longer an officer of the law, I don’t really give a damn.”
“And of course Roxy’s going to want in on this.”
He rolled his eyes like a surly teenager. “Let’s see how you do first.” He held out his hand, palm up. “Do we have a deal?”
I placed my hand in his. “Deal.”
Thank you
Thanks so much for reading Diner Impossible. I hope you enjoyed Rose’s story, and there’s more to come in the Rose Strickland Mystery series. If you’d take the time to leave an honest review on your favorite site, I’d greatly appreciate it.
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Diner Knock Out
Rose Strickland's life is complicated. Besides her waitressing gig, she works part-time for Andre Thomas, a PI with no faith in Rose's ability to investigate, her love life with Sullivan has stalled, and her BFF, Roxy, has found a new bestie, leaving Rose out in the cold.
Determined to prove herself, Rose takes a case on the sly. As she searches for a missing MMA fighter, Rose discovers an illegal fight club, a group of ruthless businessmen, dead bodies, and a trail of drugs.
Hunting down clues that lead too close to home, Rose finds herself in the fight of her life. Can she beat the killer to the punch before she gets knocked out for good?
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Just for the record, patience isn’t a virtue. It’s a copout. I suspected the first person who coined the phrase had a high threshold for boredom. To me, patience equaled sitting on your ass, waiting for something to happen. And what if it never did? What if I sat and waited—patiently, virtuously—and life passed me by? Personally, I preferred to take fate into my own hands. My new boss, however, didn’t share my proactive philosophy.
Case in point: I’d been caged in this sweltering car, trapped with a very serious, very patient Andre “Hardass” Thomas for so long, my butt cheeks were starting to go numb.
“How much more time are we going to give this guy?” I asked. “We’ve been sitting here all afternoon.”
Andre and I were staking out Ted Benson, husband of client Camila Benson, who suspected her husband was doing the nasty with another woman. But we’d fine-toothed every number on his cell, both incoming and outgoing. They were all legit.
While he was at work, Camila had given us access to his laptop. Other than a couple of standard porn sites, we found nothing illicit. No communication with another woman. Or man, for that matter. Still, Camila remained adamant. According to her, Ted had become preoccupied, distant, and they hadn’t been intimate in weeks.
Despite that, I wasn’t convinced he was cheating. After all, Ted and Cam seemed very ordinary to me. Very vanilla, much like their three-bedroom house with the white-on-white décor and their vegetarian, yoga-for-couples lifestyle. In a word, bland.
Nevertheless, Andre had spent the week tracking Ted from his home to the hospital, where he worked as a lab tech, then back again. No stops along the way, no shady behavior. As far as I could tell, Mr. Vanilla was keeping it in his pants.
But this afternoon, Ted altered his routine. After work he stopped by Ernie’s, a small bar on South Oak, and had been there ever since. For just as long, Andre and I had been parked along the curb beneath the broiling sun. I felt like a day-old fast food burger underneath a heat lamp.
“This guy is entrenched,” I said. “He’s probably in there watching baseball or something. Why don’t we just plant a GPS tracker on his car? Wouldn’t that be simpler?” Yes. It would. But Andre was insistent about training me in old school “police procedure.” The fact that he was no longer a desk cop apparently hadn’t sunk in yet.
“Do you find this boring, Miss Strickland?” Andre used that tightly controlled voice of his. The one that made my eyebrow twitch. “Is there somewhere else you’d rather be?”
Um…yes, as a matter of fact. I’d rather be almost anywhere. Except maybe the dentist. Or my parents’ house. Anywhere but locked in a car with Andre and his sparkling personality.
For the last forty-five minutes, I’d been fighting a full bladder and an empty stomach. Plus, wilting in all this heat and humidity was making me cranky. Unlike me, Andre never showed emotion or discomfort. He hadn’t shifted his position once, appearing as fresh and crisp as when we started this little excursion. His light blue button-down didn’t show a wrinkle. He never touched the bottle of unopened water at his side. He just sat. And waited. It wasn’t natural.
Yet for all his robotic ways, Hardass wasn’t hard on the eyes. In fact, if he could unbend his spine an inch or two, he’d be very attractive. His skin was the color of coffee spiked with heavy cream. High cheekbones and a chiseled jaw gave him a hot, rugged look.
His sculpted lips could have been considered sensual if he ever stopped pressing them into a thin line of disapproval. And his lean, ropy muscles spoke of long hours in the gym. In theory, Andre should be quite a delicious package. But I wasn’t even tempted. He was too strait-laced for my taste—a tall glass of lukewarm tap water. Boy Scouts never appealed to me. I liked the bad boys. In fact, the badder the better.
When my stomach gave an embarrassing, protracted growl, I grabbed my purse and started digging through the contents. I shoved my hand past my wallet and a can of pepper spray to pull out an empty box of Tic Tacs. “Damn. Not even one mint.”
“Instead of focusing on food, tell me what you see.” I glanced over at him. We’d played this “tell me what you see game” often, and he never seemed to tire of it.
I kept digging through my purse and in a corner heard the rattle of cellophane. I snatched it out and grinned. “A fortune cookie.” I didn’t know how long it had been hiding in my hobo bag—could have been weeks, could have been years. At this point, I didn’t care. “Want half?”
He’d clipped dark lenses over his glasses so I couldn’t read the disdain in his eyes, but I could feel it. “No. Thank you.”
“Suit yourself.” Since the cookie had been mostly crushed, I poured the broken pieces into my mouth as though I hadn’t eaten in weeks. Then I read the little slip of paper. “Be careful what you wish for. You just might get it.”
No shit, Fortune Cookie Gods. Tell me something I don’t know.
My name is Rose Strickland—Rosalyn, if you’re my mother or the IRS. I’m a twenty-four-year-old waitress and have been a part- time college student for, oh…ever. But I was taking a hiatus this summer. For the last couple of months after my shift at the diner, I’d change into my superhero outfit—black slacks and whatever dressy, thrift store blouse happened to be clean that day—and head over to the Thomas Detective Agency to work with Andre. Although “working with” was a broad definition. Technically, I wasn’t a detective. Not even an associate. I was nothing more than an office lackey and occasional sidekick. To be honest, this gig had turned into a real brain drain.
When Andre first approached me about working for him, I had visions of myself kicking in doors, trailing bad guys, solving crime all rogue style. I wore tight jeans and high-heeled boots in this scenario. I’d naively thought this job would be exciting.
It wasn’t.
At the very least, the cases should be interesting. They weren’t.
Despite the fact that I’d solved a few mysteries on my own— successfully, I might add—Andre wouldn’t take off the training wheels. Consequently, I wound up doing a lot of filing, performing background checks, and every once in a while, tagging along with my new mentor. It was the polar opposite of exciting.
