by T. Doyle
“You do that.” She stepped back. “See you later, Charlie.”
“You bet.” I waved and buckled my seat belt.
He started the engine, a throaty purr rumbled. The car clunked into gear and he backed out of the driveway, still wearing a stupid grin. His face soured when he noticed me. “You need to get a haircut.”
“Me?” I pulled on the seat belt, but it had locked. I unbuckled and rebuckled.
Ray headed toward The Salty Pickle, a sports bar and casino twenty miles from Forest Forks, but located near the private Stevens College.
“Yeah, you.” He looked over at me and then back to the road. “Best place to get information about Hilda Collins is from her hair dresser.”
“Do you even know who does her hair?”
“Yep. Sam, at Curl Up and Dye.” He tapped the steering wheel, which I assumed was a different nervous habit.
Samantha Havers was a couple of years younger than Ray and now married to a podiatrist and had three kids. “Did you date Sam?” I asked.
“Charlie, why not just assume I’ve dated and pissed off every woman in Forest Forks. If not them personally, then their daughter or their best friend.” He sounded tired.
“Except, Stephanie.”
He chuckled, the sound dark and dirty. “Well, she was my babysitter.”
“She’s got like twenty years on you.” My nose wrinkled.
“Jeez, she was nice to me. I had the biggest crush on her and she was sweet.” He rubbed his chin. “She looks great.”
“Yeah, she does.” I sighed and looked down at my Lands’ End wardrobe with the no-roll waistband. Maybe it was time for a drastic change. Nothing surgical, but certainly a new haircut and maybe Ann and I could go clothes shopping. “Okay. I’ll make an appointment with Sam.” I typed a note into my phone.
“Good. If things were tense between Hilda and Parker, Sam will have all the dirt.” He accelerated onto the highway. “By the way, remind me to give you back your cabin key. I was right, there were no fingerprints on the TV.” He looked at me like I should understand the significance. “None, Charlie. That means someone wiped it down removing even Oscar’s fingerprints.”
“So, someone was in there. Should we tell Tom?”
Ray snorted. “Not yet. And they didn’t preserve the crime scene, anything found is useless as evidence.”
I seethed about that. I figured having Ray with me would have been enough, but it wasn’t. “I wonder why the guy didn’t take more stuff?”
“He wanted something specific.” Ray tapped the steering wheel. “He could’ve brought a backpack and filled it with stuff if it was a robbery. Hell, if it was a robbery, why not take the whole TV? Nah, this guy was trying to get in and out unnoticed. He probably took more stuff, we just don’t know what it was.” He looked at me. “You ever been to the Pickle?”
“No. You?”
“Sure, hundreds of times, in high school. They were pretty lax on checking fake ID’s. Of course, back then it called itself The Battered Beaver.”
I cringed. “That’s a horrible name.”
“Like Salty Pickle is better?”
“No,” I agreed.
Cars filled the parking lot. Ray parked at the end of a row, under a tree. I got out and pushed the heavy car door closed. Thunk. The faded paint aged the car, but it was in good condition.
“What kind of car is this?” I walked toward Ray, hitching my purse on my shoulder.
“Woman, this is a 1970 Dodge Challenger. What is wrong with you?”
I clicked my tongue. “Oh, whatever.” I waved at the car. “It’s just a car.”
He shook his head, hanging it low, and eased out a suffered sigh. “No, it’s not. It’s a 1970 Dodge Challenger R/T, and in case you didn’t notice, the interior is original.”
“So, the cracked leather seats are a bonus? Is this like Antiques Roadshow where you actually lose value if you refinish Great-Aunt Mary’s hideous chest of drawers?” I kept pace with his long strides.
He huffed, rubbed the back of his neck, and shot me a half-smile. “Yeah, it’s exactly like that. Jeez, now I’m picturing doilies as seat covers.”
“Your mom could crochet those up for you.”
“I wish. Anything to keep her hands busy and not around Evie’s neck,” he muttered.
The casino looked intentionally neglected, like the architect aimed for rustic but overshot into ramshackle. Situated at the end of an older strip mall, one of those shoe-box strip mall nightmares, the casino’s neon signs blinked asynchronously. The adobe walls had a grey hue from weather, and gave way to huge windows for the laundromat next door. At the far end, a pawn shop continued the decrepit facade.
A casino next to a laundromat wasn’t a bad idea. I’d have gambled more in college if there were slot machines next to the soap dispenser. Three big vending machines crowded the sidewalk in front of the laundromat, and a man reloaded the drink machine from a crate full of bottled sodas. He wasn’t in a uniform, instead wearing black jeans and a ratty dark t-shirt. He eyed Ray, a wispy excuse of a mustache darkened his upper lip. Ray gave him a chin nod which wasn’t returned.
That was an unusual behavior, since most West Virginians were incredibly friendly and courteous.
Ray stared the man down, as if assessing the risk threat.
Inside, the Pickle looked dangerously overcrowded. I looked like Forest Forks entire fire department occupied a long table. At one end, the Fire Chief was decimating a huge basket of chicken wings. The scents of beer, barbecue, and peanuts littered the air, delicious, decadent, and probably adding calories just by inhaling.
Dark, rough-hewn wood walls were covered with beer signs and NASCAR posters. Leather banquettes occupied the left wall, a bar was to the right, and wood tables, polyurethaned to a high shine, were clustered in odd groups around the center.
And most of the tables were occupied.
“This place is hopping for being so far from town,” I said.
“It’s a rite of passage, everyone goes to the Pickle. You should see it on race days. Gotta know someone to get in.”
“Ew.” Marabel’s comment about Ray flashed in my mind. “Don’t ever mention rites of passage again.”
“What?” He cocked his head and studied me.
I probably looked like I swallowed Drew’s dirty sweat sock. “Someone described you as a rite of passage.”
His lips twitched. “Yeah? Huh.” He rolled his shoulders back.
“Ray.” I patted his puffed-up shoulders. “That’s not a good thing.”
“For you, maybe, but for me, I mean, it’s…” He noticed my expression. “Hey, look the thing about Vi–I didn’t know Jana was her niece. They don’t have the same last name.”
“She’s like twenty years younger than you.” The mama-bear in me awoke and wanted to do battle.
His eyes widened. “She’s an adult. She may have crappy taste in guys, but… Look, Vi’s panties are in a twist because she and her niece have me in common. That’s Vi’s issue, not mine and not Jana’s. You can ask Jana.”
I shuddered. “There’s a discussion I’m never going to have.” Mama-bear or not, it wasn’t like Ray had forced himself onto the female population.
“Fine.” He gave me a half-hearted eye-roll and looked around.
Hozier’s Someone New blasted from the speakers. Televisions placed around the space with the sports announcer’s words rolled across the screen added to the overwhelming sense that I was experiencing a modern-day Tower of Babel.
“Isn’t this your song?” a melodic voice said behind Ray. I caught the refrain about loving a stranger.
Ray turned toward the voice.
A small brunette peered up at him with an easy smile. Behind her stood a large glaring lumberjack-man, his hands possessively wrapped around her shoulders.
“Gwen?” Ray put his hand out to shake hers. “When did y’all buy the Pickle?”
“About five years ago. This is my husband, Sawyer.” Sh
e gave a quick shake and dropped Ray’s hand.
“Nice to meet you.” Ray held his hand out.
Sawyer stared at it and then narrowed his eyes at Ray.
Ray dropped his hand.
“This is Dr. Joe Sanders’ wife, Charlie.” Ray shifted and pushed me forward.
Sawyer’s head nodded slow, like the act of greeting someone was a foreign motion.
Gwen thrust her hand forward. “Sure. Dr. Sanders fixed Sawyer’s knee after his ATV accident.”
“It’s nice to meet you both.” I tried to speak with the same amount of Gwen’s enthusiasm. Sawyer and Gwen were yin and yang in personalities and size.
“I called earlier.” Ray shifted his weight, leaning back. “I think I talked to Sawyer.”
Sawyer blinked. And I guessed since Sawyer hadn’t spoken, Ray was guessing either Sawyer was mute, unfriendly, or incapable of answering a phone. Sawyer had that Alpha-Dog thing going on, and he didn’t seem to like Ray in his territory.
I stepped closer. “We’re here about Oscar Robles.” I tried to dazzle him with my friendly smile and thrust my hand toward Sawyer.
Sawyer’s big hand dwarfed mine. His grip wasn’t too firm, and he returned my hand, so I figured things were going pretty well.
Gwen leaned closer. “It’s really loud in here. How about we talk in the office?”
“Sure.” I looked at Ray, who actively avoided Sawyer’s glower. Although, after Vi and Marabel earlier today, Ray should’ve grown immune to ocular censure.
I followed Gwen through the kitchen, past a freezer door, and into a small office. Ray’s footsteps thudded behind me.
File cabinets lined one wall of Gwen’s office. She sat in the rolling chair behind a desk with a laptop and three stacks of papers. “Phew, it’s really busy out there.”
“Yeah. Seems like the whole town is here.” I stepped further into the office with Ray shadowing me, and Sawyer hulking in the doorway.
Gwen tilted her head toward Sawyer. “Sawyer’s really good at packing them in.” She slid Sawyer a sweet smile, filled with love and pride. The smile fell off her face when she turned to Ray. “How can I help you?” She pointed to a chair.
I sat down.
Ray remained shoulder to shoulder with Sawyer, by the door, and if Gwen had a type it was tall, dark, and burly.
Ray’s face morphed into a mask of seriousness. “We found the Salty Pickle’s business card in Oscar Roble’s desk. Do you remember him?” He spoke clearly, and I realized this was Ray-the-Cop.
Gwen’s eyes flicked to Sawyer.
“Yes.” Sawyer’s voice was low, serious, and rumbled like thunder.
I startled. Sawyer could do voice-overs for Lurch on the Addams Family. But then he didn’t say anything else. It was like asking the kids ‘how was school?’ and they answered ‘fine’.
I turned my chair, squeaking against the linoleum and faced Sawyer. “Oh, good. How did you know him?”
Sawyer shrugged.
Gwen huffed. “Sawyer Finn Cassidy, answer the question.”
His lips firmed, but his eyes warmed. He ignored Ray and spoke directly to me. “He played poker here, probably four times a month. He was good. Very good.”
Ray’s eyes did that weird thing he’d tried earlier when he’d first seen Vi. The thing was, I couldn’t understand his facial tics. He seemed to give up, rolling his eyes and then staring me down with his cop glare.
“Good enough to play in tournaments and win?” I asked Gwen, hoping she was polite enough to ignore Ray’s facial gymnastics and the awkward silence.
Gwen’s eyes flicked to Sawyer. The married couple had no trouble with unspoken communication.
Sawyer nodded. “Yeah.”
“Good enough to make someone angry?” My question hung in the air, in between the smell of fried onions and beef.
“No.” Sawyer frowned, his eyes darkened, and his fists clenched. “Wait, you think someone here would hurt Oscar?”
Angry Sawyer was a bit scary. I wilted, and gave a pained smile. “I’m not sure.” My voice trailed off, making it sound more like a question than an answer.
Ray looked like he wanted to smack sense into me. “No, but we found a note cleaning out his place, and he could owe someone money and Charlie’s trying to settle Oscar’s accounts.” Ray’s professional tone seemed to calm some of Sawyer’s anger.
Sawyer shook his head. “We play table stakes only. If the dealers allowed side bets, they’d be out of a job.”
“Who did Oscar play poker with, usually?” I asked.
Ray pulled a small notebook and pen out of his back pocket. The fluid motion looked as familiar to him as breathing. I wondered if he missed investigating.
Sawyer shifted his weight. “Everybody and anybody that wanted to play.” Sawyer crossed his arms, and his shirt sleeves slid up his forearms revealing complicated tribal tattoos.
“What about the other regulars? Any of them here today?” Ray asked.
Sawyer’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not letting you harass my customers.”
I leaned forward on my chair. “We won’t. I promise. It’s just, I was hoping to understand this part of Oscar’s life.” I faced Gwen. “He was like a son to me, and I can’t believe he would accidentally overdose on insulin. He was so careful.” It was a lie. I cared about Oscar and I hated the relationship he had with his parents, and I wanted him to have justice, but if it had been Drew…I’m not sure I’d survive.
Gwen nodded. “I remember that about him, he told me he was diabetic and had to be careful about what he ate and drank.” That sweet smile slid on to her face, again. “Sawyer, who was the girl who played with him the last time? The one with the horrible laugh?”
Sawyer sighed. “Christine Scottman. I think they knew each other from school.” He looked at me. “And she’s not here today.”
“Okay, that’s really helpful.” Ray stuffed the notepad back in his pocket and reached for my elbow, helping me out of my chair.
I still had a question, though. “Did Oscar have to show proof of his age to play? Like a driver’s license?”
Sawyer grunted. “Yeah. Why?”
“He wasn’t twenty-one and I thought–” The hairs on the back of my neck prickled.
Sawyer’s glare was way better than anything I’d ever accomplished in my life. It’s like he was sucking the marrow from my bones and reducing me to a lump.
Ray rocked on his heels. “We suspected he had a fake ID. I guess you’ve confirmed that.”
“Of course!” Gwen placed her hand over her heart. “We check and the dealer checks. Oscar never ordered alcohol, either. I thought it was because of his diabetes. We could lose our license!” She faced Sawyer. “Do we have to report this or something?”
Sawyer lifted a shoulder.
Ray spoke up, “Nah. I’m sure it was a good fake. We won’t mention it.”
“Thank you, Gwen.” I turned to face Sawyer, who remained hulking in the doorway. “I appreciate your time, Sawyer.”
Sawyer relaxed his shoulders. “Look, Oscar was a nice guy. I’m sorry he’s dead. I just don’t think anyone here knew him well enough to go to the trouble of killing him.”
I shot Ray a look, because that was a strange sentiment.
Ray hustled me out the office door. “It was good seeing you, Gwen. You look great.”
“Thanks, Ray. Welcome home.”
Sawyer rumbled, and I caught two words, ‘never’ and ‘here’.
I followed a waitress through the kitchen and out a different set of doors. Ray pointed to the bar. We passed a room I hadn’t seen when we’d first entered. The flash of bright green felt on a round table caught my eye. A group of people surrounded the entrance to the room, and Ray slid through the crowd, people shifting, but not seeing him.
Unnoticed.
Unphased.
Untouched.
Like oil through water.
Chapter Eleven
Ray remained silent as we trudged throug
h The Salty Pickle’s parking lot. He unlocked my door and swung the car door open. “It’s almost four, you good to hit up Del Lago Casino before heading home?”
“Sure. That’s a bigger casino, right? Because the Pickle had five slot machines and some poker tables. I’d hardly call it a casino.” I wondered if maybe West Virginia only had pseudo-casinos.
Ray’s eyebrows slid up. “Charlie, the guy at the podium was taking bets on a horse race. The back room is all television sets and bookies.”
“Oh. I didn’t notice. But Del Lago is bigger, right?” Ray closed my door, shaking his head and muttering to himself, and I wondered how his sister dealt with this side of Ray.
He settled into his seat and started the car. “Del Lago is bigger. Joe never took you gambling?” Ray drove onto the state highway.
“Yes, but we gambled in Tahoe and Vegas. I’m not much of a gambler, and betting on sports probably requires you to watch the game, so…” I wrinkled my nose. “Not my thing.”
“What is your thing?” Ray asked.
“Well, as a brand-new empty nester… I got nothing. Honestly, I find myself sucked into Pinterest more than before, but I’m too lazy to actually make anything I’ve pinned. Other than that, I’d say stalking my kids on social media.”
“Well, that beats beard growing.” He gave me an amused side-eye.
“Hey now, menopause is right around the corner, I could have facial hair to look forward to.” I stroked my chin which was thankfully, hair-free.
He sucked air between his teeth. “I’m not sure if I appreciate your optimism or I’m freaked out by your TMI.”
Snickering to myself, I used my phone and searched Ann’s Facebook page which she never used. “I wonder if I can find Christine Scottman on Facebook?”
“I thought only old ladies use Facebook.”
I punched his arm.
“Ow.” He rubbed his arm.
“Moms use Facebook, but kids do, too.” I searched through Ann’s friends and then Drew’s friends for Christine’s name. “Ha.” I turned my phone toward Ray. “There she is, and she has no restrictions on her page.” I scrolled through her photos. “Jeez, she’s either the most boring kid ever or she’s using her Facebook page to promote a dry cleaner. She’s posed, well-dressed, in every photo, standing next to someone in a suit.”