Read Diner Impossible (A Rose Strickland Mystery) for Free Online

mouth on a linen napkin. “That was delicious, Mom.”
    “Thank you. I made a chocolate soufflé, but from the way you inhaled that roast, I’m not sure you need it.”
    And…we were back to normal. Outright hostility. So much better than dysfunctional pleasantries.
    “I’m sure I don’t,” I said cheerfully. “Why don’t I help you clean up?” I pushed back my chair, but my father stood first.
    “No, you two go chat.” He flung a hand toward the table. “I’ll take care of the dishes.”
    And…now we were weird again. My father always watched SportsCenter after dinner. Always. And he never helped with the dishes. Never.
    “Come, Rosalyn.”
    My mother led me out of the room and up the marble stairs to a small office. The walls were painted in a taupey shade. The oriental carpet had a few splashes of red and green set in a tan background and the window treatments were a deeper khaki. It was my amateur diagnosis that she suffered from Chromophobia—an unnatural fear of colors. Also, a vocabulary word bound to be on my Abnormal Psych midterm.
    She gestured to the beige chair in front of her antique desk as she took the power seat behind it. “Rosalyn, as you know, your father and I frown on your involvement with criminals.”
    She paused and watched me, waiting. Maybe for an acknowledgement of some kind?
    I stared back, refusing to give her one.
    “These tedious situations you get yourself into are as disgusting as they are embarrassing. Most of your outrageous behavior has been kept out of the news, but word gets out. People know.”
    Did she want me to admit that finding dead bodies was a bad habit? It was. But what criminal was she talking about? Did she know about Sullivan? If that were the case, she’d be horrified at my undefined relationship with him. And she wouldn’t have been buttering me up with roast. I felt a sense of relief this lecture wouldn’t delve into my love life, because that topic was strictly off limits.
    She drummed her manicured fingernails—polished in a shade of sparkly sand—on the desk. “Don’t you have anything to say?” She sounded slightly exasperated.
    “Nope. You’re doing fine on your own.”
    A sigh slipped from between her lips. “The fact of the matter is, that while we find this behavior of yours abhorrent, your father and I are willing to overlook it. Just this once.”
    The light bulb clicked on. Now I got it. She needed something from me. That was the only reason she’d been nice. No brain tumors involved. And Barbara Strickland had never asked me for a favor. This must be killing her.
    The power was almost heady.
    “My friend’s husband is being maliciously defamed.”
    “What friend?” I asked. “And what’s being said about him?”
    She reached up and twisted the pearl stud in her earlobe. “People are saying he killed his secretary. It’s nonsense, of course, but the gossip is hurting Annabelle.”
    Hold up, now. This sounded familiar. A zing of excitement shot through my body. “Annabelle Mathers? Wife of police chief, Martin Mathers?”
    “Yes. She’s being ostracized. She’s already been kicked off the Library Board, now there’s a question of whether she’ll be able to participate in the Junior League Walkathon.”
    I gasped. “Oh no, not the walkathon.”
    Barbara narrowed her eyes.
    “This isn’t funny. The Mathers’ reputations are at stake, so please save the sarcasm. As I’ve said, this obsession you have with crime has been an embarrassment. The least you could do to make amends is help out poor Annabelle.”
    Of course I’d already decided I would look into Delia Cummings’ death and having access to Annabelle Mathers would make it so much easier. Nevertheless, I couldn’t help but tweak my mom just a bit. I’m only human, after all. I crossed my legs and wiggled my butt in the chair, making myself more comfortable.
    “That’s really big of you. But you’re right. Being involved with all that criminal activity.