Diner Impossible (A Rose Strickland Mystery) Read Online Free PDF Page B

sister’s  car missing from the driveway. Unusual. She always made it to family dinners. I was sometimes an afterthought, but Jacks had a standing invitation.
    I rang the bell and shivered on the flagstone stoop. The sharp tang of wood smoke hung in the air. It was a perfect night for a fire. In the overcast sky, a sickle moon peeked through thick, swiftly moving clouds. I hoped we wouldn’t get snow. March. So fickle. Seventy degrees one day, stormy and freezing the next.
    My mother answered the door, looking sleek as always in a bronze silk blouse with matching slacks. Every champagne blonde hair perfectly in place. Stick thin and flat-chested, I got my lack of the boobies from her side of the family. From my dad, I inherited my blue-green eyes. In fairness, he was flat-chested as well.
    “Hello, Rosalyn,” she said. “Come in dear, it’s so cold.” Something about her was different tonight. The withering glare she always reserved for me was absent.
    “Sorry I’m late.” I didn’t know what she’d prepared for dinner, but it smelled savory and delicious.
    “Only by a few minutes, it happens. Let me take your coat while you go to the living room. Your father’s pouring drinks.”
    This was not the verbal smackdown I’d been expecting. No Jacks, no vegetarian cuisine, no castigation. Who was this woman and what had she done with my real mother? Glancing over my shoulder, unable to pull my eyes away from this stranger who looked just like her, I stumbled into the formal living area.
    My father stood next to the antique mahogany liquor cabinet. He wore his thick, sandy hair parted to the side. His uniform—khakis, golf shirt, and argyle sweater vest—showed off his trim figure. “Hello, Rosalyn. What would you like to drink?”
    “Just water, please.” I needed my wits about me tonight. Something was going on and it scared me. Were they getting a divorce? Or moving to Boca Raton? No, that was insane. My father still had his podiatry practice and my mother held court at the country club and Junior League. She wouldn’t give that up, not for anything. In fact, they’d probably have to pry the Special Events Coordinator chair from beneath her cold, dead ass.
    My father poured a glass of sparkling water and brought it to me, bussing my cheek after handing it off. “Good to see you, dear.”
    My mother reappeared. “Dinner’s ready. I made a roast. We don’t eat much red meat, but I know how you like it, Rosalyn.”
    I slammed my glass down on the marble-topped coffee table, which caused my mother’s shoulders to twitch. “Okay, that’s it. What is wrong with you two? Mom, do you have a brain tumor?”
    They stared at me like I’d just farted in public—a mixture of shock and distaste.
    “What on earth are you talking about?” she asked.
    “Just tell me. You guys are acting all weird and it’s freaking me out. Are you divorcing and you don’t know how to break it to me?”
    My mother’s eyes fluttered closed for a second. “Oh, for God’s sake, Rosalyn. Why must you be so dramatic? Can’t we just get through one dinner without a fuss? First, you’re late, now this.” She gave my father an exaggerated shrug before throwing her hands high into the air.
    “It’s just that roast can dry out so easily…” he trailed off and took a sip of whiskey.
    “And I’m not taking the blame for a dry roast.” Barbara strode from the room with my father trailing after her.
    I lagged behind. I was rethinking this glass of water and wished I’d opted for wine.
    In the dining room, the polished oval table gleamed beneath the chandelier. The vibe felt strained as we passed porcelain bowls of potatoes and carrots. I enjoyed the roast while my mother stared at me in between miniscule nibbles of that devil, red meat. My father’s glances darted between us so frequently, he reminded me of one of those cat clocks whose ping pong eyeballs clicked back and forth.
    When I was through, I wiped the corners of my