Diner Impossible (A Rose Strickland Mystery) by Terri L. Austin

thick paper towel under the water. Annabelle staggered out of the stall and using the walls for support, walked toward me.
    I grabbed her hand. “Sit down for a minute.” The lounge boasted a large sitting area with squishy chairs and two floral sofas. I led her to one of them and planted myself next to her. “Here.” I dabbed at her sweaty face with the damp towel. “Do you want me to get your husband? You should probably go home and rest.”
    With her eyes closed, she shook her head. “No, Martin would be ashamed if I showed weakness in front of these people. He thinks I should be stronger, have more backbone, force them to say to my face what they’ve all been saying behind my back.”
    Martin was a prick.
    “Would you like me to get my mom?” I stopped dabbing her and sat, helpless.
    She looked terrible. The flush from hurling had waned, leaving her skin pastier than before.
    “No. I’ll be fine, just give me a minute. Maybe you could fix the back of my hair? I have clip-in hair extensions and I don’t want to walk in there looking disheveled.”
    “Sure, of course.”
    Taking a deep breath, she stood and walked to one of the three vanity tables. She slipped onto a padded bench and from her evening bag retrieved a comb, holding it out to me. “Have any mints?”  “No, sorry.” I crossed the room and stood behind her. Since the back of her hair was a bit of a tangle, I had to remove two of the extensions. Her real hair was dry and brittle and as I dragged the comb through it, several strands got caught in the teeth, pulling free of her scalp. In some places, the patches of hair were so sparse, she was almost bald.
    Her eyes met mine in the mirror. “It’s been like that for the last month. The doctor thinks it’s from stress. I’m not keeping much food down and I don’t sleep well.”
    I readjusted the extensions, fixing her hair as best I could. “I don’t understand why you’re putting yourself through all this. Your health is more important than showing up for these stupid club events. And you’re vomiting blood. That’s not normal.” Surely if her husband gave a crap about her, he’d insist she stay home, at least until she felt better.
    Annabelle stood and faced me. “I just bit my tongue, hence the blood. Please don’t worry. Once the police find that girl’s real killer, things will calm down.”
    I couldn’t keep the frown off my face. Every instinct I had wanted to protect this woman.
    She patted my shoulder. “Dear Rosalyn, you’ve been so kind. I don’t expect you to understand. This has been my life for the last nineteen years. Martin is counting on me. My family is counting on me.” She turned toward the mirror and after one final glance at herself, grabbed the comb and walked out of the room.
    I watched her leave, not knowing where this need to protect her was coming from. She wasn’t a victim in her life, she was an active participant. Nevertheless, she had my sympathy. Her life was a crapfest right now and she was so stressed out, she was losing her hair.
    I stared at my fingers. Just thinking about touching that hair had me skeeved. As three women entered the lounge, settling themselves in front of the mirrors, I zipped through to the other room and washed my hands. Twice.
    Then I checked my own reflection before strolling back to the dining room and navigated my way to our table. I smiled at Jacks and pulled out my chair to sit, but looking down there was nothing but empty space where my plate used to be. “Did my food run off?”
    Barbara would have raised a brow at me, but her facial muscles had been botoxed into oblivion. “Since we didn’t know if or when you’d be coming back, we had the waiter remove your plate.” She pushed back from the table and stood. My father and Allen quickly followed suit. Aiming a glare in my direction, she tossed her napkin down and like a queen, strode to the doorway.
    My dad grimaced. “Sorry, Rosalyn. You know how your mother