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

I left a note for Joe about dinner being the rotisserie chicken and salad and warning him to open the fridge door carefully. Contents may have shifted in my attempt to fit everything inside. I loved the man with all my heart, but unless I told him where dinner was, he ate cereal.

Tyler’s office was located near the courthouse in a renovated Victorian home. After his divorce, he lived on the second floor. The hand-painted wood sign in the front yard caught my eye and I parked in front of the two-story gothic and gingerbread beast. Ray had parked his car across the street and a large SUV sat behind it, practically kissing Ray’s bumper.

I crossed the street, pulling my coat tighter around me against the crisp autumn air. Tyler maintained the cement walkway, not an easy feat with the tall Silver Maples in his front yard. I stepped into the vestibule. On one side of the hall behind Tyler’s closed office door I heard Ray’s low grumble. On the other side of the hall, a parlor room, now renovated into a beautiful reception area was decorated with hunter green walls and cherry wood bookshelves, and comfortable burgundy leather club chairs.

Polly Cassidy totally pulled off a 40’s pin-up girl vibe with her bright red lipstick and all-American-girl beauty. She sat behind an antique desk with her laptop open on a leather blotter, and a coffee cup off to the right. I guess that meant yes to the computer calendar. Her fabulous dark blonde curls swung around her shoulders. She smiled and pulled one of her curls. “I heard you found Sam and her CurlyGirl revolution.”

I patted my head, careful not to start a frizz event. “Yes, she’s amazing.”

“You look great.” She waved me closer. “What did Joe say when he saw you?”

“Wowza.” I felt my cheeks heat.

“Oh, good for you.” Polly winked.

I waved Oscar’s mail. “I had a quick question I was hoping you could help me with?”

Her smile faded. “Of course, Charlie. Anything.”

I put the mail on her desk. “I’m not sure how to stop Oscar’s mail. You know, his parents and I aren’t…” I rolled my eyes. “Basically, Margarita hates me and I don’t know what to do about his mail.”

Polly flipped through the mail. She glanced up at me. “Oscar loved you. He was so appreciative of everything your family did to help him.” She frowned. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.” I blinked fast to ward off tears and regret about not being there more often for him.

Polly rested her hand on his mail. A melancholy smile crossed her face. “I miss him.”

“Me, too.”

She patted the mail. “As far as the mail goes, it’s best to return to sender. You might want to print off a sheet of ‘return to sender’ stickers with a note to remove him from the mailing list because he’s deceased.”

I cringed at the word deceased. “Okay. I’m sure Tyler told you I’m not convinced Oscar’s death was accidental.” I stuffed the mail back into my purse.

She leaned forward. “Tyler hasn’t said anything. What do you mean, not an accident?”

I couldn’t tell if she loved to gossip and wanted my side or was polite and curious. It didn’t matter, either way, I needed information from her. “Oscar was vigilant about his diabetes and his health.” I looked behind me as if checking for an eavesdropper. “Did anyone threaten him at work?”

Polly shook off that idea, her curls bouncing. “Everyone loved Oscar.”

You’re preaching to the choir, sister. “What about any new friends? Oscar hadn’t told us if he was dating someone new, and the last breakup seemed to be amicable.”

Polly leaned back in her chair. “He was acting strange the last few weeks.” She looked over my shoulder and narrowed her eyes. “Tyler’s friend, Peter, was here and Oscar asked me about him.”

Anticipation hummed in my veins. “When was this?”

“It was after the Bias’s adoption.” She pointed to the wall behind me.

I turned. There was a large display of five by eight-inch framed photographs covering the wall. There had to be a hundred pictures of children.

I stepped closer.

“Their adoption may have even been a month ago. Their photograph is on the bottom row, third from the right.” Polly pointed to the wall.

I walked over to the wall. There were ten pictures per column and nine rows. I pointed to the picture of an infant and a toddler. “These two are the Bias’s?”

“Yes.”

“What did Oscar ask you?”

“How long they’ve been friends. I honestly didn’t know. I think they’ve been friends since college.” Polly clucked her tongue. “And then, Oscar left and the next day he was weird. He stopped joking and talking, just kept to himself. I asked him what was wrong, but he said everything was fine. He spent most of his time in the file room after that.”

I studied the photos, but they were two ordinary looking Hispanic babies. I stepped back and noticed most of the babies were Hispanic, more than half. “How long has Tyler been working with adoptions?”

Polly hummed a little noise. “The top row were his first adoptions, but about five years ago he started to specialize and he’s done eighty adoptions since then.”

Five years. Eighty kids. “Wow, that’s amazing.” I kept the disbelief out of my tone but the number seemed high. And lucrative, probably. I scanned the pictures. There were a few toddlers, but the rest were infants.

The middle of the top row, I recognized the brightly colored quilt… because I’d bought it. I stepped closer. “That’s Paul.” I pointed to my nephew’s picture. “I’d forgotten that Angela and Christopher used Tyler for the adoption.” He looked adorable, happy, and so small. “He’s twelve, now, all elbows and knees and crashing into everything.” I stepped back and scanned the rest of the pictures. “And all the others were from the last five years?”

“He’s definitely found a niche. We get calls from all over the country for adoptions,” she said with pride.

I rummaged in