by T. Doyle
“I heard that recently.” Rosemary dead-panned.
“That’s a shame,” I said.
“Yes.” Mrs. McGuffin leaned forward and whispered, “She delivered the baby seven months after her second wedding. Poor Tyler.”
I scrounged for a new subject to get her off the baby-in-seven-months loop. “I met your son, Raylin, the other day. You must be glad he’s back in town.”
“Yes. I’m happy he’s home. He’s retired now. He’s on disability after being shot.”
He’d never mentioned being shot, but then again, I hadn’t talked to him about anything other than Oscar. I seriously needed to apologize and start-over with Ray.
Jack returned with tea for everyone. I wasn’t sure where the messages got crossed. Maybe he needed a hearing test, too. He plunked down packets of sugar beside each cup.
“Thank you.” I added a packet of sugar to the steamy cup.
“You bet, kiddo.” Jack sat.
Rosemary pushed her cup away. “Nobody wanted tea, Jack.”
“They didn’t know they wanted tea, love.” He winked at me.
“Everyone liked Oscar.” Mrs. McGuffin stirred the sugar in her cup. “Some people are like that. Everybody is their friend. Ray’s like that.”
I choked on my tea wondering if she meant the female population between the ages of eighteen and twenty-two. “I really appreciate all the help he’s given me with cleaning out Oscar’s cabin.”
“Can you find him a good woman, Charlie? He needs someone like you. And a haircut.”
“I’ll try. You said Tyler did adoptions? That seems like satisfying work.” I wanted to see if a new approach would get us back to people who might not like Tyler.
Ingrid perked up. “He was my son, Isaac’s lawyer. I have two beautiful grandchildren from Guatemala because of Tyler’s hard work.”
“That’s wonderful.” I grinned.
Ingrid passed me her keys, the fob was a small frame with a Christmas photo of her son and family.
“They’re beautiful.” Ingrid’s son was blond and blue-eyed, his wife a red head, and they each held a brown-eyed happy toddler in their lap.
“Those kids are American.” Mrs. McGuffin sniffed.
Ingrid’s lips pursed. She pulled her keys back. “Jenny, they’re from Guatemala. Their parents died in an earthquake. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Amazing they can speak English without an accent.” Mrs. McGuffin raised an eyebrow like she’d just Matlocked the logic.
Ingrid’s jowls waggled and she pushed back from the table. “That’s because they learned to talk here.” She harrumphed and waddled away.
“Ingrid—.” I gave Mrs. McGuffin the mom-glare, hoping she’d stop talking.
Ingrid turned the corner, headed out the door and down the hall to the residences. I doubted she’d return.
As if sensing I needed her, Nora glided toward me, a smile on her face. “What happened?” asked Nora.
“She’s overly sensitive about her grandchildren,” Mrs. McGuffin lied with grace.
Rosemary narrowed her eyes at Mrs. McGuffin. “Jenny, that’s not true. You have to stop teasing her.”
“I’m not,” she said. “The woman is crazy if she thinks those kids are from Guatemala. I’m not even sure they speak Spanish.”
Jack cleared his throat. “Are we going to continue to play?”
“Of course.” Nora pushed the die to Mrs. McGuffin. “Your turn.”
“Fine.” She rolled the die.
I heard a muttered curse behind me and recognized the growl. I turned in my seat and flashed a sparkly smile. “Hi, Ray. Want to join us?”
He wore real clothes, including shoes. He lifted an eyebrow, suspicious, wary, and maybe a little bit frightened, like I was going to tell his mom about his overnight guests.
“Ma.” He kissed her cheek.
“Sit down, Ray. I need a partner.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He sat in Ingrid’s seat, a question in his dark eyes.
His annoyed departure yesterday sat uncomfortable in my memory, like an ant crawling on my arm but I couldn’t knock it off.
“What?” I sounded guilty. And I couldn’t interpret his expression.
He ignored me and turned to Jack. He reached out his paw. “Ray McGuffin.”
“Nice to meet you, Ray. I’m Jack, and this is my wife, Rosemary.”
Nora nudged me and I introduced her. “This is Nora.”
“You’re Jenny’s youngest?” Nora asked.
“Middle.” Ray shook Nora’s hand.
Jack interrupted the riveting conversation with a game question. “Paul McCartney dated Jane Asher. What group did her brother perform in?”
Nora and I groaned.
“Peter and Gordon,” Ray answered.
“Dang it, Jenny brought a ringer,” Nora whispered.
“I listened to this stuff growing up.” Ray put the colored wedge into their piece.
“Never could stand that noise you listened to.” Mrs. McGuffin shook her head, as if she could still hear the melodies.
Ray gave her a quizzical look and frowned. I wondered if she was remembering a different child, and he didn’t want to argue. In fact, for the rest of the game he remained affable, good-natured about his mom’s harping about his hair and clothes, and he kept her engaged in the conversation.
The game continued, and Nora and I won because of a lucky roll. Nora grinned, a tad prideful and cleaned up the game, not gloating, but definitely pleased.
“Thanks for the game, kiddo,” Jack said.
I stood and shook his hand. “It was a close one. See you in two weeks?” I put the game into my tote bag.
“You bet.” Jack’s booming voice had me take a step back. He helped Rosemary stand, and the two walked toward the cafeteria.
Ray kissed his mom on the cheek. “I’m gonna go, Ma. See you tomorrow?”
“If I’m not dead,” she said.
I pulled the swatter out of my tote bag and handed it to Ray. “I confiscated this earlier.”
“Ma.” Ray sighed. “You gotta stop. It’s assault. And you’ll get kicked out of here.”
“Like I wanted to come here in the first place.” Her voice rose.
“It’s meatloaf and mashed potatoes night.” Nora’s eyebrows slid up, her expression said, run. “I want to get the first batch of potatoes. See you guys later.” I followed her thump-slide into the cafeteria and away from the fighting McGuffins.
“You have fun.” I hugged her.
She patted my back. “Remember what I said.” She gave me a half salute and thumped-slid after Jack and Rosemary.
Right. Invest in medical marijuana and die early.
Chapter Five
“Hey.” Ray called to me from across the parking lot.
I’d made it to my car, almost a clean getaway.
He approached with a swagger and a scowl. “Nice. You hand off her weapon of choice and bail? No backup?”
“It sounded like a personal conversation.” I put the tote bag in my car.
“Not at that volume.” He stood, hands on hips, and chagrined. “She accused Evie of tempting Dad with her ‘hooker’ shoes.” He combed his fingers through his hair. “They’re Skecher sandals.”
“Shamefully open-toed.” I couldn’t stop the smile spreading on my face.
He shook his head. “Evie Feeney.” His shoulders twitched. “I can’t even…”
“You missed them going at it behind the ficus.” I squeezed my eyes shut.
“Please tell me she had her teeth in.” Ray’s voice sounded tired.
“If you want me to lie.” I opened my eyes and laughed at Ray’s horrified expression.
His head shook again, like an etch-a-sketch trying to erase the image. “I think Ma started a rumor Evie has a STD.” He wore that pained expression family members had when talking about loved ones with dementia.
“It’s not her, Ray,” I said in earnest. “She’s not herself
.”
Doubt and sadness seemed to weigh down his frown. “Nah, she was always mean.” His shoulders rolled, like he could shake off the pain. “Kind of like you. Ma likes you. She says everyone likes you.” His tone indicated that was not an enviable position to be in.
“She says that about you, too. Is that a bad thing?”
One eyebrow rose, questioning my sanity. “People have certain expectations of nice people.”
“Is that why you’re a grump?”
His lips tightened. “I’m not.” He ground out the words. “You know what? Never mind. I was going to offer to help you finish at Oscar’s.”
My stomach tightened, I’d screwed up, again. “I should have phrased that better.” I reached out for his arm. “You’re not a grump, Ray. I’m sorry. And you’re right. I’m mean.”
He narrowed his eyes, as if to gauge my sincerity. He chuffed, part chuckle, part snort, all forgiveness.
“I don’t know why I keep harping on you.” I pulled my hand back.
He sighed. “It’s gotta be a mom thing. But seriously, I get enough from my own mom.”
“I’ll stop momming you.” I crossed my heart. He was right, since becoming an empty-nester I found myself parenting strangers. I needed to work on that, starting with Ray.
“You headed to the cabin?” He scratched his beard, and then smoothed it down. “I mean, I could help you. After all, you stopped mom from committing assault and battery with a fly swatter.” He smiled. It was a nice smile, friendly. “And I could get the chair. I mean, unless you decided to keep the death chair.”
I swallowed my snark about ruining the moment. Unsaid snark tasted bitter and unsatisfying. I got into my car and squinted up at him. “I’d appreciate you going through the cabin with me. Joe said he’d help this weekend, too.”
“No problem. I’ll follow you.” He held my door, waited for me to buckle—was that a cop thing?—and closed the door.
At Oscar’s front porch, Ray ran his fingers over the door frame. “I wondered if Oscar kept a spare key. Police said no sign of forced entry.”
“You read the report?” I handed my keys to Ray and he unlocked the front door.
“Yeah. I asked Tom for it.” He gave me my keys.
Surprise must have shown on my face.
“What? Dead guy next door, I’m a little curious.” Ray pushed the door open and waved me in first. “Where do you want to start?”
“I guess his desk?” We walked past the recliner in the living room and turned left into the small hall that led to the bedrooms and bathroom. Oscar had placed a student desk on the far wall between the bunk beds Joe and I left. It was dorm-room claustrophobic with the beds towering over the desk.
Ray sat in the old secretary chair that squealed in protest under his weight. He opened the left file drawer.
“Looks like his toolbox.” Ray dug through the drawer.
I stepped behind him and leaned to the side to peek in. A small hammer, screwdrivers, and small drill were stuffed in there along with a measuring tape. “Oscar didn’t seem like a handy kind of guy. I mean, I knew he could change a light bulb, but why did he buy a drill?”
“Maybe it came as a set.” He closed the drawer and pushed back on the chair, hitting my thighs. “Sorry.”
“My fault.” I stepped back.
He opened the lap drawer. “Looks like a typical junk drawer.” Ray pushed the pens, pencils, staples, and paperclips to the side, stacked thirty dollars in casino chips, and handed me a thin spiral notebook stuffed in the back.
The pages contained math written in long hand. “This looks like homework from his statistics class.”
“Why would he save that?” Ray asked.
“Not sure.” I turned a few more pages filled with graphs and equations in Oscar’s handwriting. “He had statistics more than a year ago, hated it, and had to get a tutor. Maybe he saved his notes to remind himself he could do it?”
Ray gave me a weak eye-roll at my explanation.
I placed the notebook on the bed.
He handed me a marketing textbook from the desk. “Did he rent his textbooks? Not that you need to worry about Oscar’s credit rating at this point.” Ray searched through the top left drawer.
“There’s a sticker on the spine, so I think so. And not returning a loaned book would haunt me.” I admitted. I looked through the book and a folded piece of notebook paper fluttered toward me. The note was written in Oscar’s handwriting but cryptic.
“Whatcha got?” Ray asked.
“I’m not sure.” I gave him the note. “Numbers and initials, it looks like an accounting ledger, maybe?”
“Do you recognize any of the initials?”
“No. And what’s .7 net?”
Ray gave me back the note. “No idea. Save it.”
I read through the paper, but it didn’t make sense.
<12K SL>
2 PP
.2 IP
3 MG
.7 P
.15 DG
.7 Net
<6800>
* * *
I put the note in my purse and continued searching through the textbook for return information. “The sticker on the spine tells me who Oscar rented the book from, but there’s only a website listed. Remember when instructions were included instead of having to look it up online?”
“You’re whining,” Ray said in a patient tone.
“I’m complaining. It’s different. Have you found Oscar’s phone?” I leaned over and picked up the Business Communication textbook. “I’ll bring these home and figure out how to return them later.”
“Good idea. Why don’t you get a box for this stuff? Anything that looks important bring to your house.”
“Do you think Oscar was murdered?” Hope strained my voice, I needed help finding Oscar’s murderer, but guilt churned my gut. What was wrong with me that I wanted Ray to believe me more than worrying about if Oscar suffered?
Ray turned around, the chair squealed. “You heard about Hilda Collins?”
“Yes.” A sinking sensation started in my chest and dragged down to my knees.
Ray cocked his head to the side. “I talked to an old classmate of mine works in the ME’s office. She said Hilda’s death was insulin related.”
“Oh?” My voice sounded like a squeaky door. “That’s a weird coincidence, isn’t it?”
“It’s curious. And it makes me curious.” He paused, his dark brown eyes searched mine. “But the police aren’t curious.”
“Why not?” I asked.
He turned back to the desk and opened the top right-hand drawer. “Could be because the sheriff is running for re-election and if Hilda Collin’s death is related that makes two murders in a week. And that isn’t good press.” He lifted a USB charging cord. “Does Oscar have a charger on his bedside table?”
“Let me go check.” I left Ray and crossed the hall to Oscar’s bedroom. I called out, “That’s a pretty weak reason. You don’t think they’d investigate his death, even secretly?”
Oscar had rearranged the master bedroom, pushing the bed against the back wall under the window. The bedside tables were recycled from Joe’s sister, painted a denim blue to hide the nail polish accidents and water rings. The left one had a reading lamp and charging cord. The right nightstand had a bottle of water. “His charging cord is on the bedside table.” I picked up the cord, went to the front room and grabbed his tablet, and then returned to the office.
“What’s that?” Ray asked.
“His tablet. I tried to turn it on. It’s got a screen lock.” I put it on the bed with the textbooks.
Ray grunted and stacked piles on the desktop, one of photo envelopes, one with greeting cards, and a pile of USB cords and batteries. He handed me the cards. “Check through these for names of friends and family.”
“Okay.” I sat down on the bed and opened the first card. “You really think the sheriff won’t investigate?”
He scrubbed his hand over his f
ace. “Anyone from the sheriff’s office come out to talk to you again?”
“No.”
“Ask to have the keys to investigate the cabin?” One eyebrow rose, and his rapid-fire questions urged rapid fire answers.
“No.”
“Ask you to stay out?”
“No.”
“Then yeah, they’re done. This place should have been dusted and taped off five minutes after you left. Nobody’s been in here but us.” He leaned back, the chair tilted too far, and he slapped his hand down on the desk to steady himself.
“Did you investigate many homicides?” I asked.
“Not too many. Mostly I broke up fights and filed stolen goods reports.” He turned back to the desk.
“Did you like it?” I asked.
“Nope.”
The curious in me wanted to ask why, and how he was shot, but I ignored that, because if he wanted to tell me he would. I could totally be less meddling and stop the momming.
He pushed the contents in the drawer around and then tossed a bunch of keys on top of the desk. He sorted through the other things, pulling out a few business cards and setting them on the desk. I hadn’t noticed the cards earlier.
He nodded and put the part back in the desk drawer. “Is this your desk?”
“No, Oscar bought it at a yard sale.”
“Uh-huh.” Ray pulled the drawer out of the socket, and examined the back and bottom. He reached his hand inside the drawer space and retrieved a crumpled paper.
I inched closer, holding my breath.
He flattened out the creases of the letter-sized paper. It was a syllabus for an English course. He added the syllabus to the toss pile. “Were you expecting a note from the killer?”
“It’d be nice,” I admitted. I was crowding Ray, and he was looking at me like I was an idiot. I ignored the heat of embarrassment slinking up my neck.
I read through the cards Oscar saved. “Besides the ones from my family, there’s a couple of Christmas cards from his Nana Robles. It looks like Oscar started saving birthday cards when he turned ten. I found one for every year, until he was eighteen. He has one from his parents, and one from each set of grandparents. On his eighteenth birthday, only his Nana Robles sent him a card.”