After shunning her overbearing parents' wealthy lifestyle, waitress and part-time college student, Rose Strickland, is drawn back into their world when she tries to prove the impossible: the innocence of the town's crooked police chief. He's suspected in the gruesome death of Delia Cummings, his secretary and mistress, and all the evidence points to him. While she tracks down clues with the aid of her anime-loving bestie, Rose's pal, Axton, and his Klingon gang are feuding with their Starfleet rivals. Things get hairier than a pile of well-fed Tribbles, so Rose gets involved. In between interrogating Trekkies and quizzing socialites at high tea, she discovers the secrets Delia Cummings took to her grave. Suspects abound, but when Chief Mathers threatens to bring down Rose's criminally mischievous and maybe boyfriend, Sullivan, she makes it her mission to find the real killer before Sullivan finds himself in prison. Part of the Henery Press Mystery Series Collection, if you like one, you'll probably like them all! Diner Impossible is the third in the Rose Strickland humorous mystery series. In case you missed the first two, check out Diners, Dives & Dead Ends (#1) and Last Diner Standing (#2). Plus, Diners Keepers, Losers Weepers, a Rose Strickland novella, will be in the mystery anthology The Heartache Motel (December 2013).
After about fifteen minutes, people settled and conversation in the room resumed to a normal level. While we stood in line for the buffet, I sidled next to Barbara.
“Where’s David Ashby?” I whispered.
Her casual glance swept the room. “In the corner. Blond hair, thirties, extremely attractive.”
When I turned my head to glance his way, Barbara grasped my chin and held me still. “Don’t look.”
“Is he a solar eclipse? I can’t look directly at him or I might go blind?” I wrenched my chin from her hand.
“Rosalyn. You may gaze at him in a moment. But for God’s sake, don’t be obvious.”
“So, I can’t take a picture of him and post it on my Facebook page? What about an I Heart David Ashby website? That’s not obvious, right?”
She ignored my smartass remarks. “Stand up straight. You’re slouching. Four years of dance class, and you hunch your shoulders like a crone.”
“I haven’t had a dance class since I was ten.”
“What is your point, Rosalyn?”
I leaned toward Jacks. “Oh yeah, I’ve so, so missed this.” I glanced over to where my mother had been staring at the eye candy that was David Ashby. He was cute, in a Ralph Lauren ad kind of way. Wheat blond hair, killer smile, athletic build.
I nudged my mom’s arm. “Which one’s his wife?”
“I don’t see her. I’ll try to find her for you. Don’t talk to anyone without me. I don’t trust your interrogation techniques.” My mother’s form of interrogation involved a lot of ass-kissing.
Moving through the line, I filled my plate with something in white sauce and took it back to the table. Before I could sit down, my evening bag vibrated.
Barbara placed her napkin in her lap and gave me the hairy eyeball. “Don’t. You. Dare.”
Pretending I didn’t hear her, I snatched the bag. “I’ll be right back.” I walked out of the dining room and down a distant hallway. Near the restrooms, I found an alcove and leaned next to a potted plant. “Hello.”
“Rose, it’s the Axman. The SPuRTs have taken the most drastic action. They’ve started a flame war on a Trekker site. It’s getting ugly.”
“Ax, I can’t really do this right now. I’m at the country club.”
“What? Dude. I thought you vowed never to go back there. Even if you were dying of thirst and the only place in the city to get water was the country club sprinkler system. Those were your exact words. Like, verbatim.”
Oh yeah. I had said that. I may have been sipping a margarita at the time, because that sounded a bit extreme.
As a girl, Terri L. Austin thought she’d outgrow dreaming up stories and creating imaginary friends. Instead, she’s made a career of it. She met her own Prince Charming and together they live in Missouri. She loves to hear from readers. Find her on Twitter, FB, TerriLAustin.com,Goodreads and Henery Press.