by T. Doyle
“Did you touch anything?” Tom raised an eyebrow making me want to confess.
“Just now. Sorry, I forgot. I looked in his fridge and pantry. I also tried to take his pulse, but he was so cold…” I shuddered. Inhaled slowly. Contained the crazy. “I know he’s a diabetic, but he’s so careful. He has an insulin pump, too. He’s had it for years.”
“Did he have any enemies?” Tom asked, his voice professional.
“Not that I knew of.”
Tom’s eyebrow twitched. “Girlfriend? Ex-girlfriend?”
My eyes snapped wide. I thought everyone knew about Oscar. “Tom, he’s gay. His parents kicked him out when he turned eighteen. We offered him the cabin and helped him move in. We promised he could stay rent-free through college.”
“I knew his parents kicked him out. I didn’t realize he was still living at the cabin.” Tom drawled. “I wasn’t sure you knew about him.” His lips firmed, the ends curling up, locking in anymore thoughts.
“I understand.” Small towns were good for guarding secrets. “He dated a very nice man last year, but they broke up amicably when the guy moved to Ohio for a job. As far as I know, he hasn’t dated anyone seriously since.” Although, he wasn’t likely to tell me if he was dating someone new.
“Ohio’s not that far. Do you remember his name?”
“No, I called him Charlie Hunnam.”
Tom’s brows knitted together. “Why?”
“He looked like the actor, Charlie Hunnam.”
Tom studied his hands. “When was the last time you saw Oscar alive?”
That word stung. Alive. As in not dead. I held my breath and released it slowly, venting my heartache.
“Saturday. Joe and I ran into him at the movies. He was alone, coming out of the bookstore.”
“About his parents…” He looked at me, his eyes saddened to a muddy gray. “Did he still talk to them?”
“He talked to his Mom, but not his Dad.” I hated they made Oscar feel worthless.
“I guess I’ll call her.” He shot me a look like he wanted me to offer to make the call.
I raised an eyebrow, suggesting he man-up.
His shoulders slumped, and he looked around the room. “Anything seem out of place to you?”
“Other than the cleanliness? No.”
Tom leaned forward, interested.
I needed to dial back the sarcasm, my go-to response to awkward or stressful situations. “I haven’t been out here in weeks, and truthfully, it was this clean then, too.”
Tom cleared his throat and scanned the room. “You don’t have to stay, Charlie.”
“What happens now?” I hated the idea of leaving Oscar. “Someone should stay with him.”
“The coroner will bring him to the Medical Examiner for an autopsy. We’ll move forward from there.” He shifted his weight and his thick leather belt creaked. His hand scrubbed the back of his head. His discomfort seeped into the air, and I inhaled the bitter sorrow.
Oscar was dead.
Gone.
My heart felt hollow, grieving for a young life that should have had a future, a young man my children’s age, gone. Oscar was dead.
Tom stepped forward. “I’m sorry, Charlie.”
I wasn’t sure if he meant that I’d found Oscar, or that Oscar died, or that I was now freaking out about my own children. He patted me awkwardly on the back until I gulped and the dam that had been holding my emotions in place crumbled.
“Oh, hell.” Tom pulled me in for a hug, stuffing a kitchen towel in my face, I assumed, to prevent the transfer of snot. Tom was always one step ahead of most folks.
I allowed myself sixty seconds of tears and then reeled myself in. It helped that I heard a vehicle drive up. It was a small town, and my hugging a man that was not my husband was better fodder than Mabel McClure writing bad checks at the Pass-n-Gas.
“I’m okay.” I wiped my face with the towel. I folded it over, damp side in.
“Do you want me to drive you home?”
“No.”
The knock on the back door announced the coroner.
The idea of Oscar being treated like a body and not a boy was too much. “I’m going to go. Will you let me know what the coroner finds?”
“You bet.”
I stepped onto the gravel driveway and looked over at the McGuffin’s cabin. I may be myopic, but is he?
Chapter Two
The classic car parked in front of the McGuffin’s looked shabby, and the assortment of food wrappers on the front seat indicated the owner didn’t take care of himself, either. Marabel, my friend and boss, told me Ray had taken an early retirement from the Air Force and moved into the cabin. But the idea of an Air Force officer sucking down a six pack of Dewey’s Chili Dogs was at odds with my Jethro Gibbs expectations. Although, Gibbs was NCIS, and fictional.
His porch looked like it had been recently stained, and there were no cobwebs hanging from the outdoor lights. I rang his doorbell, feeling like a game show contestant pushing the button repetitively. I gave up and knocked. Not quite hard enough to wake the dead, because, as I’d just learned, I didn’t have that power.
A manly growl, followed by a thump and an angry curse, came from behind the door. A surly voice called out, “Jesus, I’ll be right there.”
“It’s not Jesus, but I wish I had that kind of mojo.” My sarcasm coping mechanism was in full power mode. I stepped back from the door.
The door swung open and a barrel-chested man, tall, WWE wrestler-sized, rolled his dark brown eyes. The whites, surprisingly, were not bloodshot. I wondered if Dave Bautista’s and Orlando Bloom’s love child would look like him? He had a pirate-like air about him with the long hair, beard, and scowl. The sweatpants and bare feet, though. Ugh.
He stared at me, dark eyes studying my face as if he were trying to place me. He wouldn’t. I met Joe in college and Ray had moved away before Joe and I settled here.
I thrust my hand toward his torso. “Hi, I’m Charlotte Sanders.” I gave him my friendliest mom smile.
He stepped back, mouth agape, his hand flailing downward as if to protect his family jewels. I grabbed it and shook.
Did I look like this before I had coffee? I kept shaking his hand.
He stood, stupefied.
My gaze dropped to his meaty paw.
Finally, he withdrew his hand. “Sorry. No coffee.”
“I understand.” I widened my mom smile.
“I’m Ray McGuffin.”
“I know.” Perhaps Ray had been gone from Forest Forks for so long he didn’t remember this was when he invited me in, offered me a drink, asked about Joe…
“I don’t remember you.” He relaxed, took another step back and his eyes scanned me from my toes to eyes.
He opened the door wider and I followed him inside, closing it behind me. The house was sparse but tidy. The kitchen had dirty dishes piled up in the sink, a coffee cup rimmed with fiery fuchsia lipstick sat on the counter. The color suited the pixie, Darla. Ray pulled a piece of paper from under the cup and stuffed it into his sweats pocket. He grabbed a clean cup from the cupboard, filled it and offered it to me.
“No, thank you,” I said.
I didn’t need coffee. I needed answers.
He took a sip, eyeing me over the rim. “Charlotte Sanders. You married to Joe or Mike?”
“Joe.”
“You’re not from here.” While that was a common Southern curse, he didn’t say it like I’d just done something stupid. He did eye me like my lack of Forest Forks roots made me suspect.
“No. California.”
“Married a doctor and ended up moving to bum-f—” He looked up suddenly.
I gave him my best mom glare.
He paled, slightly.
Nice to know, even as an empty-nester, I still had it. I got to the point. “I’m here to ask if you heard anything the other night. Did you notice if anyone visited Oscar?”
“Oscar?”
I nodded my head slowly and
motioned toward our cabin. “Your neighbor,” I added helpfully.
He shook his head. “Uh, no. I didn’t see anyone.” He walked to his dining room and pushed the curtain out of the way. I knew he saw Tom’s cruiser. “What’s going on?”
“He’s dead, maybe for a day.”
Dead and nobody noticed.
Ray turned, his pirate-self morphed into just a nice guy. “Oh, I’m sorry.” He took a swig of coffee.
I held my breath. I was sorry, too. It wasn’t fair.
“Let me think…” He rubbed his head.
Maybe he could massage the memory into his brain, but I doubted it. I’d have better luck asking Darla.
“Do you have Darla’s number? She might remember.” I gave him the stink-eye, slightly different from the mom glare. The mom glare made kids stop talking. The stink eye made them confess.
“Darla?” he said.
He didn’t seem to recognize the name. I spoke slowly, to ensure he understood I was about to lose my calm. “The woman who left your house this morning.” I raised an eyebrow. “And just so you know, her mother is Arlene Carries.” And from the cautious look he was giving me, I believed the rumors that he had biblical knowledge of Arlene. I might’ve transplanted here, but I knew the most interesting parts of the town’s history.
“Yeah?” he said, scratching his chest with a pinched expression on his face.
“Yeah. I think Darla’s about twenty. Didn’t you and Arlene date?” I paused for dramatic effect. “Back then?”
“What?” Ray turned white and he rubbed his chest again.
Based on the cholesterol and nitrate intake from the front seat of his car, he could be at risk for a heart attack. I should really stop taunting him. Except… Eww… He was dating women half his age, making them the same age as my kids. “Relax. You’re not her father, but based on your reaction, maybe you should focus on women thirty and up.”
“She was legal and I didn’t coerce her.” He sipped his coffee, a weak stink eye focused on me.
“No.” I hoped those weren’t the only two things he found attractive about Darla. “But here’s the thing,” My voice was low and serious. “I have two daughters just about her age, and I want to skewer your testicles.”
He sipped his coffee and adjusted his hips in order to protect said testicles.
“You’re kind of violent,” he said like I just mentioned it was windy outside. Clearly, he was used to being threatened.
“I’m having a bad day.” I didn’t want to discuss it further. I crossed my arms and tried again. “Darla’s number?”
He pulled the note out of his pocket and read the phone number out loud. I saved the number into my phone contact list. “Thanks.”
I turned and left him standing in the kitchen. Hopefully, Darla would be more helpful. I opened the front door.
Tom stood on the other side, hand raised and ready to knock. “Charlie, what are you doing here?” He eyed me like he’d caught me spray painting the side of the house or something.
“I wanted to know if he heard anything.” Okay, maybe I was a bit of a meddler.
Tom gave me his dead-eye cop gaze to which I responded with my I-changed-your-diapers glare, which of course I hadn’t, but sometimes it worked.
The sound of a buffalo lumbering toward me announced Ray’s presence. “Hey, man, how’s it going?”
Tom grinned, the lines around his eyes softened. “Good. You look like hell.” He stepped inside and around me.
“I feel like hell,” Ray agreed.
The two men did that back-clapping greeting that often reminded me of two rams sizing each other up under the guise of just playing around.
“You should. Seriously? The sheriff’s niece?” Tom sounded affable but the weight of his statement appeared to strike Ray.
He stepped back and glanced from me to Tom. “You know, I have to pick from a new pool.”
Tom’s shoulders hitched up. “Maybe you ought to slow down or move out of the kiddie pool. The water’s nice in the deep end.”
Ray stood a little taller and sucked in his gut. “I can’t help it if they find me attractive.”
Tom shook his head and gave me the what-are-you-going-to-do look.
I replied with a testicle-skewering side eye and smirk, but Tom ignored me.
“What about in the past week. You see anything I should know about?” Tom asked.
Ray said, “Nah. Really. The kid is quiet. I saw him a couple of times coming home from work. I don’t think he had guests over.”
“Where were you Sunday night?” Tom asked.
“Are you kidding me, right now?” Ray crossed his arms over his chest. His empty coffee cup hung from his first finger. His line-backer-sized hands dwarfed the cup.
“I’m trying to establish a timeline. I’m going to assume that even though you’re retired military police, you’re still a reliable witness. If you say you didn’t see anything, I believe you. However, if you weren’t home last night, I’d like to know.” Tom used his friendly Boy Scout Leader tone.
“Yeah. Right. Sorry. I left around nine, got home around one. His car was parked there the whole time. Lights flickering like he was watching TV.”
“Notice anything in the last forty-eight hours? Anyone coming or going?” Tom asked Ray.
“No.”
“Okay. I’m gonna talk to Darla. Is that going to be a problem?”
Ray narrowed his eyes. “Why would it be a problem?”
“Just asking.” Tom gave him a chin nod. “See you later, Ray.” He turned to me. “Charlie, you sure you don’t want a ride?”
“No thanks, Tom.”
Tom’s arms widened to shepherd me out, and I turned to leave. He herded me all the way to my car.
“Charlie, he’s telling the truth. He’d have noticed anyone coming and going.”
“You’re friends?” I asked.
“Since T-Ball.”
That made Ray forty-two years old. I thought his Dad looked young, but assumed he’d taken advantage of Sunnyview’s promotion giving new residents a free lifetime membership at the local golf course. A lot of empty-nesters moved into the condos and townhomes. His mom’s dementia put her on the assisted-living side, giving her freedom to enjoy the amenities with the safety of supervision.
“Ray joined the Air Force right after graduation?” I asked.
“Yeah. He wanted to see the world. We lost touch after high school. Ray’s not one to write Christmas cards.”
“Just like Drew and Oscar,” I mused.
Tom leaned over and opened my car door. “I didn’t think Ray would come back, but I’m pretty sure his sister threatened to move his mother closer to him.”
“She moved in last month.” I’d met Jenny McGuffin. She could be cantankerous at times.
“Yeah.” Tom rubbed the back of his neck and winced. “His mom didn’t want to go. It took three officers, Ray, and the priest before she finally got out of the car. She’s not, uh, doing well,” Tom said, using small-town lingo for dementia.
I slid into the car, knowing the conversation was over. People didn’t talk about dementia. Dating, babies, even constipation were acceptable subjects, but not losing your still-living family member.
“I’ll call you later,” Tom said with his hand on my door, eyeing my seat buckle.
“Thank you.” I buckled my seatbelt.
He closed the door, stood back, and watched me drive away. I knew he was going back into Oscar’s but waited until I was out of sight. He was a good man.
I drove home on autopilot. Once there, I resisted the urge to call Darla, proving to myself that I was not a meddler, just concerned. I’d wait until I heard back from Tom. I wanted to settle onto my couch, pull a fuzzy blanket over my head and disappear for a few days.
Instead, I texted Joe, and my kids, Drew, Ann, and Jessica: Call me when you can.
I called Tyler Rigby’s office next and left a message on the voice mail. “It’s Charlie. Oscar is
not going to make it to work. Call me when you get a chance.” It didn’t feel right to tell them he was dead in a voice mail.
My phone rang immediately, but it was Marabel from work, proving small-town gossip was faster than broadband internet. “Charlie, I’m so sorry. I heard about Oscar.”
I swallowed, but the lump in my throat was immovable. “Thanks.”
“Look, I’m going to have a float cover your shifts this week. Let me know if you need more time, okay?”
I didn’t want to relive the moment of finding Oscar dead over and over again, and I knew I’d be asked a thousand times. The lump broke free, an awkward hiccup stumbled forth. “Thanks.”
“Call me if you want to talk or need anything.” Marabel’s soothing tone reminded me why she made such an excellent supervisor and amazing friend.
“I will.” I hung up, not wanting to stay on the phone, not wanting to think about Oscar, not wanting to believe.
I dusted and vacuumed the entire house waiting for Polly to call me back.
But instead, Tyler Rigby himself called after lunch. “Hey, Charlie, I heard about Oscar. What happened?” His normally harried voice was hushed and somber.
“I don’t know. I’d like to find out. Did Oscar seem different lately?”
“No.” Tyler sounded surprised.
“Do you know if he was seeing anyone new?” I asked.
“We didn’t get personal, Charlie. It’s professional and confidential here. We talked about the clients and that’s all.” And we were back to the harried, annoying voice of Tyler.
“Oh, okay.” I was pretty sure there was a dig at me in his comment. I was surprised Oscar hadn’t been able to get Tyler to warm up. Everyone loved Oscar. “If you think of anything, will you call the police?”
“Of course. They’re not thinking he was murdered, are they?” His tone went from annoyed to curious.
No, but I am.
“Well, he’s a young, healthy guy,” I said. Was…not is.
“He had diabetes.” Tyler’s voice was flat, giving nothing away.
“But he was managing it.” At least he had when the boys were on the soccer team together. Why would he change that habit?
“Still, he wasn’t what I’d call healthy. Besides, who would kill him?” Now he sounded like Joe, when I got curious about the strange cars in Stephanie Wilson’s driveway and Joe wished I’d stop asking questions.