by T. Doyle
“You can have it,” I snapped. “Look through it, first. Did he leave a note?”
“Suicide by insulin? I haven’t heard of that before,” Ray said.
I waved him closer to the chair and ignored his comment. “Maybe there’s some kind of clue.”
Ray cocked his head, his mouth ready to argue, but instead he inspected the chair, every surface, nook, and cranny. “No note, but there is a pencil.” He stood, holding the pencil like a conductor’s baton. “Let’s look in the bathroom.”
I followed him, snapping pictures of the medicine cabinet Ray opened using the pencil.
“No condoms,” I whispered. Had he been dating?
“Those are usually in the bedroom.” He stared at the cabinet, the dust-free shelves with over-the-counter medicines lined up by symptom. “He had allergies and dry eyes. Nothing exciting here.” Ray closed the door to the medicine cabinet and waved for me to exit.
I stopped at the door. “There’s no insulin. Not in the medicine cabinet or the fridge. How did he overdose when there’s no insulin?”
“That’s interesting, but maybe Tom took the insulin when he was here.” Ray stirred the pencil through the garbage can. “What color hair did Oscar have?”
“Dark brown.”
“Okay. Don’t throw out the garbage.”
I moved closer, excited, and peered around his shoulder. “Did you find something?”
He stood.
I scrambled back a few steps.
“No, but just in case.” He shook his head and scowled. “You know what? Never mind. There’s nothing here, Charlie.”
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 the sticker?”
She winked, her head bobbed getting in on the action, and she glanced around the lobby. “This is the walker that doesn’t creak, and I’m making sure no one else will take it.”
“And putting your name on it wouldn’t do that?”
Lips pursed, Nora’s rheumy eyes narrowed. “Are you kidding me? Alcohol
wipes take off Sharpie. And it doesn’t creak. At all.”
The walker wheezed under her weight and I made a mental note to mention scheduling a hearing test to her doctor.
“Where’d you get the sticker?” I sidled closer, giving way to a flame-haired woman in a wheelchair.
“Johnny’s kid sold it to me. He’s making a killing here.” Nora stopped, dragged in a deep breath, coughed a few times and then lurched forward. “I’ve been thinking.”
“Yeah? You sure that’s a good idea at your age?” I teased.
“Eh.” She sent a blistering a look in my direction and kept going.
“Sorry.” And I was.
We rounded the final corner, continued through the double doors and into the cream and country blue room that looked more like a parish hall than the advertised “homey place to mingle”. Ingrid Thorsten sat at the table closest to the coffee bar. Definitely the good table, it was the one that didn’t wobble.
Residents and their guests filled the five other tables, keeping the barista busy. The coffee bar had a well-deserved reputation for being the place for silver-hairs to hook up. A rumor suggested that a widow intentionally took a header at the Piggly Wiggly for a new hip and a chance at Forest Forks most eligible senior. They married after his dentures were found in her room. Scandalous!
The cozy nook, which consisted of two loveseats and a club chair all in genuine naugahyde, was taken over by a group of rowdy septuagenarians and a game of poker.
“Medical marijuana.” Nora said.
“What?” I replayed through our conversation… Grateful Dead bumper sticker from Johnny’s kid and Nora had an idea.
Thump-slide.
“It’s the IBM of today.” Nora’s sage expression and sincere tone meant she was serious. “You’ve got to invest now.”
“I’ll look into it.” Translated: I’d monitor Johnny’s kids visits in the future.
We continued toward the table, Ingrid’s face brightened, as if she finally remembered why she was seated.
“Hello, Ingrid, you’re looking well.” I leaned in and hugged her.
Ingrid reached up and patted my shoulders, her fine white hair fluttered like goose down on her head. “It’s good to see you, dear.” She grabbed my chin in a near painful pinch. “You’re so pretty.”
“Thank you.” I sat at the round table, across from Ingrid.
Nora eased into the chair next to mine, leaving three more seats available for players. She landed, rocked her hips, pain flashed across her face and settled in. “Don’t get old, Charlie.”
“Okay, Nora. So, apparently, I’ll be dying young and dealing pot. My mom will be so proud.”
Nora slapped my arm. “Pot is legal now.”
Evie Feeney, wearing open-toed Sketchers, denim Capris, and an orange halter top, gave me a toothless grin from across the room. Slender, silly, and splashy, she had a retired Vegas Showgirl vibe.
I smiled back, ran my tongue over my teeth, and added to my mental note to schedule a dentist appointment.
Ray’s father joined Evie, pulling out her chair. He reminded me of a retired sea captain, a dapper pirate. Deep laugh grooves surrounded dashing brown eyes.
Ray’s mother wheeled into the room in one of those walker/wheelchair combos and Flinstoned her way toward Evie. She glared at Evie and her ex-husband. It was a pretty good glare, but it lacked a certain seriousness to it. Perhaps it was because she was wearing a lime green moo-moo and mismatched slippers, or that she had a fly swatter in one hand, which in October was useless. Unless she planned to swat her ex-husband. She rolled closer.
I watched, hoping she’d turn toward the ladies’ room.
Her elbow cocked back.
“I’ll be right back, ladies.” I lunged for Mrs. McGuffin, extricated the fly swatter and tucked it under my arm. Ray must take after her. “Hello, Mrs. McGuffin, would you care to join us for Trivial Pursuit?”
“I’ll play if you give my swatter back to me.”
“Nope.” I said with no hesitation.
She glared.
I glared.
She threw up her hands. “Fine.”
I wheeled her to the table and settled her next to Ingrid.
“Hello, kiddo,” Jack, a regular player, called out in his booming voice. He pulled a chair out for Rosemary, his wife. The couple was active and spry in their late eighties. Rosemary reminded me of Betty White; quick witted, and sometimes a bit naughty.
“Hello.” I stuffed the fly swatter in my tote bag, pulled the Trivial Pursuit game out and set it on the table.
“Rosemary and I are going to win today, kiddo.” Jack’s fuzzy grey monobrow quivered over his twinkling grey eyes.
They had a fifty-fifty chance of winning. We were playing the Baby-Boomer edition today and I was weak on the music section.
We played for an hour, running out of small talk, and then Mrs. McGuffin perked up. “Did you hear Hilda Collins is dead?”
I looked to Nora, Jack, and Rosemary for confirmation. Nora gave me a curt chin nod. She leaned forward and rose.
“If you’ll excuse me.” Nora panted from the exertion of standing. She pointed her walker toward the bathroom and began the journey.
“We’ll wait for you,” Ingrid said.
Mrs. McGuffin’s eyes followed Nora. “He’s having an affair.”
“Mr. Collins? I thought he’d been dead for a few years,” Rosemary said.
Mrs. McGuffin slapped the table. “No, my husband. He’s having an affair.”
Jack and Rosemary bent their heads together, ignoring her.
Ingrid leaned toward Mrs. McGuffin. “Aren’t you divorced?” Ingrid asked.
“Not in the eyes of God!” Mrs. McGuffin huffed. “He’s a fool. I heard Evie’s got the clap.”
Jack’s eyes widened.
“Shush.” I gave Mrs. McGuffin my don’t-make-me-stop-the-car look.
“It’s no matter to me.” Mrs. McGuffin swiped her hands across her lap, smoothing out lime green moo-moo wrinkles. “I don’t want him, anyway.” She gave a little shrug to emphasize her disinterest. “Anyway, Hilda’s son found her, and they think she’d been dead for at least a day. Can you imagine? Thank God her son came to check on her.”
I appreciated the subject change, but if God was involved, he could’ve sent Parker Collins over before his mother died. Although, Mrs. Collins did have a lot of cats... “How did she die?” I pushed the picture of Hilda Collins being consumed by calicos out of my head.
“I don’t know.” Mrs. McGuffin’s haughty reply came with that same what-kind-of-idiot-are-you look Ray hurled my way when we first met. Mrs. McGuffin was a bit prickly and I promised to be nicer to Ray in the future.
“I never did like Hilda’s son, Parker, and neither did Ray.” She waved her hand. “Parker’s always flashing his money around. There’s something fishy there, if you ask me.”
Ingrid looked perplexed. Jack looked uncomfortable. Rosemary looked at her fingernails.
“Isn’t Parker older than Ray? How does he know him?” I ignored the spending barb, Parker drove a Camry and worked as a pharmacist.
Mrs. McGuffin leaned forward in her chair. “I can see you there, you idiot.” The venom in her voice caused Mr. McGuffin to retreat past the cozy nook and hide behind the potted plants with Evie Feeney.
I wished Nora would return, but she was waiting at the front of the line for the bathroom.
Switching subjects, I asked, “Mrs. McGuffin, did you know Oscar Robles?”
“Margarita’s boy?”
“Yes.”
“She’s a hoarder, you know. Hummels, toaster ovens, and vacuum cleaners.”
“I think someone told me that,” I said.
“Yes. Poor boy. That’s probably why he’s a gay.” Mrs. McGuffin’s logic escaped me.
“Hoo boy.” Jack pushed his chair back, and his wide eyes seemed to search for an escape. “Want more tea, Rosemary? Charlie? Ingrid? Jenny?”
“No, thank you,�
� we answered like a Greek chorus.
“Good, good.” He waved and made his way to the coffee counter.
Ingrid clucked. “I’m pretty sure being surrounded by toaster ovens wouldn’t change who you found attractive.”
Mrs. McGuffin’s head cocked, her eyebrows rose, like she was ready to explain her theory on what makes one homosexual.
“Oscar was working with Tyler Rigby,” I said, hoping the new subject would distract her. “Could Tyler have enemies?”
“Now how would I know that?” Mrs. McGuffin asked.
“Ray mentioned you knew everyone in town so well.” I attempted an innocent smile.
She pinched her lips and pulled on the white acrylic bead necklace that hung down the front of her dress. “People like me. They find me easy to talk to.”
“I can see that.” I scooched my chair closer.
“Poor man. Did you know Tyler’s wife left him?” Mrs. McGuffin frowned, like the details were getting fuzzy.
“That was a while ago, wasn’t it? Four or five years?” I remembered Drew and Ann had been living at home at the time. Or were all three kids at home? Dear God, why couldn’t I remember? Was this place rubbing off on me?
“Really?” A flash of confusion or maybe a hint of panic crossed Mrs. McGuffin’s face.
I patted her hand. “Would you like a drink?”
“No, thank you, dear.”
A flash of orange caught my eye. Sweet baby Jesus in the manger. Ray’s father was behind the ficus with Evie. Toothless Evie was eating his face, and his hand was moving—. Eye bleach. I needed eye bleach.
I hurried to distract Mrs. McGuffin. “Why did Tyler Rigby get a divorce?” Squelching wet sounds and slurps emanated from the ficus tree area. I prayed it was the espresso machine.
Mrs. McGuffin waved her hand. “That’s old news. She hated his friend, you know. They had a big fight at Dewie’s Dogs. She was yelling at him that Peter wasn’t a real friend. It was the only time I ever saw Tyler get flustered. They got a divorce just a month after that. Makes me wonder what kind of relationship he had with Peter.” Mrs. McGuffin raised her eyebrows and I chose not to go there. “Then, his wife got pregnant and delivered seven months after she remarried. Poor Tyler. He wanted a family so much. He specializes in adoption now. His wife, well, I shouldn’t tell you this, but I think she was having an affair.”