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

“Okay, Ma.” He cleaned up the game. “Who do you think has the best opportunity to sell pills?”

Jenny looked over at the barista. “Her.” Jenny sniffed. “I heard she’s adding Viagra to the espressos.”

Ray coughed. “There’s a picture I don’t need.”

Today’s barista was Marabel’s niece. I was pretty sure Melby was more likely to add Vitamin C than Cialis.

And maybe, just maybe, Jenny hadn’t put a baggie full of narcotics in Evie’s room. Maybe Jenny was being set up.

But why?

Chapter Sixteen

I bought groceries on my way home from work and now stood in front of my fridge, door open and playing a real-life game of Tetris. I wedged the quart of half-and-half next to the block of cheese and the hummus, hoping nothing would fall. The sell-by date on the turkey was six weeks ago. Before I found Oscar. Pre-impromptu pot luck. Pre-Ray and his challenging mom. Life had been easier.

Even after clearing out the dubious leftovers, I had a hard time finding a spot for the rotisserie chicken and a bag of salad.

My phone rang and I ignored it because Joe was operating today and rarely called me between cases.

The yogurt cups tilted and threatened a domino effect that would result with cottage cheese on my kitchen floor.

My phone beeped alerting a message had been left. I abandoned the jug of orange juice to the counter, shifted the pound of Monterey Jack on top of the yogurt to hold them in place, and closed the fridge door.

Ray had called. “Hey, it’s Ray. Call me.”

I poured myself a glass of juice and called Ray. “What’s up?”

“I have an appointment with Tyler Rigby at four o’clock to discuss Mom’s power of attorney paperwork. I thought you could drop by at the same time and chat up the receptionist with questions about Oscar while I distract Tyler with Mom,” he said.

“How is your mom?” I asked.

I heard his gusty sigh. “Well, if she put the drugs in Evie’s room, I don’t think she remembers it.”

“That’s possible. Jenny’s short-term memory isn’t great.” I gulped down more juice. One more glass and I wouldn’t have to find a place for the juice jug in the fridge.

“I talked to the cops. They think it’s more likely someone has been stealing from the residents and selling to someone who distributes the drugs elsewhere. When I left, the cops suggested locking up all the drugs. Even for the patients in the retirement condos.”

“That’s not good. The retirement condos are supposed to be private. Having to ask for their own medication won’t go over well.”

“Nobody’s complained about missing meds?” Ray asked.

“No. But if the thief targets patients who get confused, they’d be less likely to complain or maybe believe they took the pills and forgot.” I drained my glass, refilled it, and recycled the juice jug. “I mean, if your mom said a couple of pills were missing, unfortunately, we’d believe she took the medicine and then forgot.”

“Well, the cops sound pissed. Do you know Brett Newsome? He’s a cop now.”

“Yeah, he plays guitar sometimes at church.” I pictured the brown-haired man with a friendly smile, about Ray’s age.

“Brett goes to church?” Ray sounded skeptical.

“He married the deacon’s daughter, so yeah, he goes to church.” I was rolling my eyes for my own benefit. “Lots of people go to church, Ray.”

“Yeah, but Brett Newsome…”

“He’s a great guy, happily married to Faith and has two kids, and–”

“He was my wingman…” Ray’s voice trailed off like he was witnessing the train wreck of his past and future colliding.

“You okay, Ray?”

“Yeah. Anyway, I only talked to Brett for a couple of minutes. We’re gonna grab a drink at the Pickle later. Jeez. Married to the deacon’s daughter. I had no idea.” He said ‘married’ like it was a terminal disease.

“Speaking of the Pickle, that rude vending machine guy was filling the machines at Sunnyview today,” I said.

“Really? Because Brett mentioned a Fentanyl overdose in the Pickle’s parking lot last weekend.”

“Could the vending guy be the dealer?” I asked.

“Maybe. He could be the thief, too. I’ll mention it to Brett. I picked up more of Oscar’s mail today. It was overflowing his mailbox. I figured you could use that as your opener with the receptionist.”

“How’s that?” I sucked down more OJ, my stomach full and burbling with sweet-acidy goodness.

“Ask her how to stop Oscar’s mail. And then ask if he and Tyler got along, and what Oscar was working on. Also, see if you can find out what’s on Tyler’s calendar. Does the receptionist use the computer for the calendar or a book, and where she keeps the client list?” Ray suggested.

I ticked off on my fingers: mail, relationship, case, calendar, clients. “That’s quite the list but I’ll try. The receptionist is Polly Cassidy, she’s not exactly chatty.”

“Gwen Cassidy’s sister-in-law?” Ray asked.

“Yes. Why?”

“I’m not sure, but it feels weird. Oscar played poker at The Pickle. The vending machine guy has both Sunnyview and The Pickle on his route. And Tyler’s receptionist is related to the owner of The Pickle. I know Forest Forks is a small town, but that’s a lot of coincidences. Don’t you think it’s weird that Polly and Sawyer are connected to Oscar and Tyler and Sawyer never mentioned it when we were there?”

The acid in my stomach burbled more. “But Sawyer isn’t super chatty. Why don’t you talk to Gwen later?”

“Yeah. Maybe. Anyway, be at Tyler’s a little after four, and I’ll keep him busy in his office for as long as I can while you find out about Oscar’s relationship with Tyler, what he was working on, and where Tyler keeps his calendar and client list.”

“Okay. And Ray?” My over-filled stomach churned with OJ acid.

“Yeah?”

“Marabel swears Tyler’s a competent lawyer, but if you decide to use someone else, you need to get the power of attorney stuff handled soon.” I rubbed my stomach, calming it, or maybe just burping the food baby.

“I will.” He sounded