Too Sweet to Die T. Doyle (tharntype novel english .TXT) 📖

I fought my urge to grab Ray and drag him into the bedroom to keep looking. Maybe he really believed Tom, or maybe he was lazy, but either way I wanted answers for Oscar. I wasn’t above pleading for help. “Yes, there is. Come on, we’re almost done with the house. You’ve already earned a La-Z-Boy and doughnuts. Who knows, maybe you’ll find a chifforobe that you can’t live without.”

His lips twitched. “Chifforobe? Are you making words up?”

I relaxed. “No.” I lowered my voice and said with a touch of mystery, “I’ll show you my chifforobe.”

He chuckled. “Fine. Show me.” He followed me into the bedroom. “You must keep Joe on his toes.”

I shrugged. “It keeps things fresh.” I batted my eyes and taunted, “You’d know what I mean if you ever had a second date.”

He threw his hands up in the air. “What is with everyone getting on my ass about my love life.”

“Sex life,” I corrected. “Because it’s a small town and you’re a man of a certain age.”

“I am not! Take that back.” He blurted out, like I’d cursed him.

“Fine. You’re years before your prime.” I used a soothing tone.

“That’s better.” The lie seemed to calm him and he searched the bedroom, opening drawers and peeking in the closet. He stood in front of the chifforobe. “It’s like an armoire mated with a bureau.” He opened the chifforobe door exposing the shelves with Oscar’s towels.

“Aren’t you worried about fingerprints?” I asked.

“No.”

“Huh.” It was too late to put on gloves, but I wondered if Ray’s indifference was because he was placating the crazy neighbor. Which reminded me of his mom. “Hey, Ray? Does your mom keep on top of the recent town gossip?”

His head swiveled. “Yeah.” Distrust crept into his eyes, making the edges pinch.

“Would she know who Tyler Rigby’s clients are? If any of them might have it out for Tyler?”

“If someone wanted to kill Tyler, why would Oscar be dead?” He didn’t wait for my answer. “What’s in the other bedroom?”

“Oscar’s desk.”

Ray pushed past me, stepped across the hall, and paged through the papers on his desktop.

I hovered over his shoulder.

“Maybe it was accidental. I mean, anyone can die of an insulin overdose.” Ray opened the lap drawer, pushed a few pens and a casino chip to the side. He closed the drawer and raised an eyebrow at the Comic-Book themed bedding in the spotless room. “Charlie, there’s nothing here. I’m sorry but I think you should just let it go.” He lowered his voice, sounding kind and concerned. “Maybe it’d be better if you let someone else pack his things up.”

“Really? Who? His mother who kicked him out? His grandmother who’s ninety if she’s a day?” My voice rose but I restrained my full-on banshee mode. My coffee and anxiety to common sense ratio wasn’t good. Ray hadn’t known Oscar, he hadn’t cared about Oscar, and he wouldn’t miss Oscar.

He leaned back, his eyes widening a fraction.

I sucked in a calming breath. The man was useless. Why I thought he’d be helpful was illogical. The man was dating girls and living in his parents’ cabin.

My spine stiffened, shoulders squared, face impassive. “Thank you for taking your time to help me. I appreciate your concern. I can handle it from here.”

“I’m being dismissed?” He blinked, bewildered for just a moment, and then his face morphed into a you’re-an-idiot expression.

I gave him a quick nod and my Sister Mary Magdalene caught you stealing quarters from the milk-money jar stare.

He threw his hands up. “Okay. Fine.” He cocked his head to the side and pointed at me. “Woman, you don’t just have the Mom-glare down. You could stop a group of delinquents on a Saturday night with a car full of beer and toilet paper and make them clean the gum off the sidewalk with that look.”

He turned and left through front door muttering, “Joe is my hero.”

Chapter Four

I was still taking time off work, but today was Trivial Pursuit Club day. I’d started the club when my mother-in-law, Momma Sanders, rehabbed after a hip surgery and continued because several of the residents enjoyed spending the time together.

My picturesque drive to Sunnyview Villages included winding through pastures and up a hill. Small clumps of trees surrounded by cattle or horses dotted the landscape. I enjoyed the rolling drive unless there was fog or ice. Then, I’d white-knuckle the route hoping to avoid sliding off the road and falling into the deeply eroded ditch beside the shoulder. But today’s drive was clear and the trees’ autumn colors made it postcard perfect.

I parked in the visitor’s lot of Sunnyview Villages and noticed the sign had been tampered with, again. Today’s anagram was Sullen iVy weavings. The anagrams began six months ago, right after the nursing home spent money for new benches and the shuffleboard courts. I suspected the anagram anarchist was a long-term resident tired of looking at the pathetic temporary sign with its plastic letters.

Nora, my favorite resident and Trivial Pursuit partner, greeted me in the lobby sporting her West Virginia University track suit and white Reeboks. Her recently dyed brunette hair matched her penciled-in eyebrows. She hunched over an aluminum walker with tennis balls on the front feet.

“Hello, Nora.” I eyed the Grateful Dead bumper sticker wrapped around the walker’s front bar. I kissed her cheek; her soft skin was powdery dry.

“Hurry up. Ingrid is saving us the good table and she’ll forget why she’s sitting there if you don’t get a move on.” She lurched forward, leaving behind a scent trail of baby powder and Aqua Net.

“Right.” I walked beside her.

Thump-slide, thump-slide. She pushed the walker forward, her right foot hit the ground and the left slid up beside it. Her stroke caused left-sided weakness and at our current rate of speed, Ingrid would have left the table, had coffee, and be back in her room having a nap.

I pointed to the new Grateful Dead sticker. “Nora? I gotta ask. What’s with