Too Sweet to Die

by T. Doyle

  “He’s seen me play darts and still thinks I should get a gun?” I pictured the halo of holes I’d made to the wall surrounding Ian’s dart board.

  Joe grinned. “He thinks every Southern woman needs a gun.”

  “I’m good, thanks.”

  “Ian says we’re probably the only household in West Virginia that isn’t armed.” Joe pulled a cucumber and tomato from the fridge. “I told him we’re better with knives than guns.”

  I wrinkled my nose at the idea of hitting an artery. “That’d be so messy.”

  The front doorbell rang and I wiped my hands on a towel. I pulled open the door expecting Ian and found Ray.

  “Hey.” He took his baseball cap off and wiped his feet on the mat.

  I opened the door wider. “Come on in. Have you eaten dinner?”

  “No.” He pursed his lips and his eyes twinkled. “Are you going to feed me?”

  “Apparently.” I closed the door and Ray followed me into the kitchen. “Beer’s in the fridge. Help yourself.”

  Joe glanced up from slicing the cucumber. “Hi Ray, what did you find out?”

  Ray grabbed a beer and sat down at the kitchen table. He twisted off the cap and sucked down a third of the beer. “Tyler’s suicide note was typed and left on his printer.” Ray raised an accusatory eyebrow. “The FBI will handle the investigation. I’m guessing they doubt it’s suicide.” He tipped the beer bottle towards me. “We never got to catch up after I talked to Gwen and Brett at the Pickle last night.”

  “I blame the brake-line distraction.” I grabbed the chicken and other pasta ingredients.

  Joe finished tossing the salad and set it on the table. He snatched plates and silverware and handed them to Ray. He then grabbed a beer and salad dressings and joined Ray at the kitchen table.

  Ray leaned back in his chair. “Brett told me a couple of gangs are trying to gain territory in Forest Forks. They’ve seen an increase in overdoses, but it’s pretty on-par for the area. What’s got him worried is the increase in Fentanyl-laced heroin. The Pickle had an overdose in the parking lot last week and when they checked the guy’s car they found a hundred pills.” Ray sipped his beer. “Someone’s trying to bring a large volume of drugs into the area. Brett says they rounded up the usual guys but none of them know who’s bringing in the drugs. In fact, Brett said a couple of guys were upset that they’re missing out on the action.” Ray played with the label on his beer. “I don’t think any of this is related to Tyler.” He looked at me. “It’s probably a coincidence.”

  “Speaking of coincidences, Hilda Collins was recently diagnosed with Parkinson’s. Parker was planning on renovating her house and even talked about getting a companion for her.” I filled a pot with water for the pasta and set it to boil. “She may have committed suicide.” I tossed the prepped chicken into a saucepan with artichoke hearts, garlic, olive oil, and Italian seasonings.

  “That would explain Parker not wanting to sue the insulin pump company,” Ray said.

  “I wonder if Tyler really suggested suing the company,” I asked.

  Joe made a pfft sound. “Of course, he suggested it. Big company like that? He’d only have to draw up the paperwork and they’d probably be bending over backwards to settle out of court.”

  “Do you think Parker really notified the company about the malfunction?” I asked.

  Ray stroked his beard, which I now recognized was his thinking face. “Maybe. He could have worded it carefully so they understood he considered a human error was possible. Hilda may have had a life insurance policy that wouldn’t pay out for accidental death or something. But I doubt that. I had a case a few years ago where the guy committed suicide making it look like murder, so his wife could get the life insurance. Turns out, he’d had the policy for twenty years and he could’ve saved himself the trouble. His insurance covered suicide if the client had been covered for three years.”

  “How did you prove it wasn’t murder?” I asked.

  Ray straightened his beard hairs. “He’d taken care of everything. He’d paid off the house, re-roofed it, paid off the wife’s car, transferred his retirement to their savings account.” Ray shook his head. “Wife had no idea he was depressed. She said he was having a hard time finding something to do in his retirement.”

  “That’s more common than you think,” Joe said. “People don’t want to move to retirement communities like Sunnyview because they think it makes them old, but the truth is it keeps you active, and gives you a reason to wake up every morning.” Joe winked at me. “And that’s why I’m never retiring.”

  “Yes, dear.” I stirred the chicken thankful that retirement wasn’t a discussion we needed to have for at least a decade. “I think Mrs. Collins heard about Oscar’s death and decided to commit suicide by insulin.”

  Ray tipped his beer bottle toward me. “It’s plausible.”

  “But I still believe Oscar’s death is related to Tyler’s adoption-slash-kidnapping situation.” I added the pasta to the boiling water and checked the time.

  Ray narrowed one eye. “And probably the same guy killed them both.”

  I pointed my wooden spoon at Ray. “Agreed. If Oscar knew about the kidnappings, then he’d probably have tried to find out who Tyler was working with before turning it all over to the police.” I stirred the chicken, watching it turn from pink to white. “If Oscar was killed to keep the kidnapping secret, why was Tyler killed?”

  “Can you find out who is Tyler’s beneficiary?” Joe asked.

  “I already did. Tom called a locksmith to open the safe in Tyler’s office because Polly didn’t have the combination. Inside the safe was cash and his will. Tyler left everything to his parents and included his bank account information, even the one in the Cayman Islands.”

  “Nice.” I tested the pasta, squishing it in my mouth. “Perfect.” I drained the pasta and then put it back in the pot, added the chicken mixture and tossed everything together.

  “Smells delicious, Babe.” Joe grabbed the pasta bowl from the cabinet and handed it to me.

  I poured the pasta into the bowl and added a serving spoon.

  Joe poured me a glass of wine and grabbed another beer for Ray.

  We sat at the table and dug into the food.

  Ray mumbled happy noises and chewed his pasta which I took as a compliment.

  “How did Tyler get the babies?” I stabbed at my salad. “Angela and Chris met the mother through someone at church. Tyler made sure the father signed a form so they could adopt Paul. There’s got to be a paper trail for all these babies.” I shook my head. “I’m just having a really hard time picturing Tyler transporting babies in the back seat of his car. And wouldn’t the parents be suspicious when he shows up with a newborn but no parent? I should ask Ingrid what happened when her grandchildren were adopted.”

  Joe squeezed my thigh. “My love, someone cut your brake lines. Maybe you shouldn’t ask more questions. The FBI can handle this.”

  I glanced at Ray. He cocked his head, eyebrows raised, reminding me of a dog waiting for a command. “Joe’s got a point, but I could ask Ingrid,” Ray said.

  “That works for me.” I sipped the cold, sweet, white wine and relaxed. “Do you think Tyler was killed to tie up loose ends?” I asked Ray.

  He added more pasta to his plate. “Yeah. I wouldn’t be surprised if Oscar’s death scared Tyler. I think Tyler got involved and then got sucked into something much bigger than he intended.” Ray shoveled a forkful of pasta into his mouth. “I’ve seen it happen before,” he said while chewing. He swallowed. “You know, a guy gets some party favors once, and the next thing he knows he’s the dealer on the base.”

  “You’ve lost me,” I said. “Party favors?”

  “Drugs, prostitutes.” Ray wiped his face with the paper towel. “Had a guy who planned his best friend’s bachelor party. A friend of a friend hooked him up with his dealer. Next thing this guy’s the go-to guy on base for party favors. His contact refuses to deal with anyone
but him, making him the dealer-on-base. Ruined his career because he didn’t want to say no to his buddies. I think Tyler found himself in a similar situation. He arranged a few adoptions and became ‘the’ guy to make a desperate couple a family.” Ray picked at the label of his beer. “We’ll never know for sure because he’s dead, but I’m guessing someone put pressure on him when he was still feeling pretty raw over his divorce.”

  A lump had developed in my throat and I swallowed hard. “He ruined so many families. Children may have been taken from their birth parents.”

  Joe squeezed my thigh again. “Maybe only a few were kidnapped.”

  “Fingers-crossed Ingrid gets to keep her grandchildren,” I said.

  Ray blew out a huge sigh. “Yeah. You kicked a hornet’s nest.” His phone pinged and he pulled it out of his back pocket and read the screen. “Kristi just finished up with the FBI. She gave them your address and wants me to warn you they’re headed this way.” He typed a response to Kristi.

  “Do we need a lawyer?” I asked.

  “Nah. But if you have anything of Oscar’s you want to keep, you better hide it now.” He stared at his phone like he expected a reply.

  I shook my head. “You still have his tablet, right?”

  Ray raised an eyebrow. “What tablet? I don’t remember a tablet.”

  Joe grunted. “Great. First you persuade my wife to break and enter, and now she’s concealing evidence from the FBI.”

  Ray shushed Joe. “Just for a couple of days. I want to try to clone the tablet and then I’ll turn it over to the FBI.” His phone pinged again. Ray read the message and a scowl grew on his face.

  “Is Kristi okay?” I wondered what was really going on between those two.

  Ray nodded and typed a response. He looked up after sending the message. “She’s fine. You want me to stick around while the FBI asks you questions or take off?”

  Joe pushed back from the table. “Stay. I don’t like the idea of Charlie lying to the FBI about the tablet.”

  Ray took my empty plate and stacked it on top of his. “She doesn’t have to. If they ask I’ll tell them I have it and leave Charlie out of it.” He stood and grabbed Joe’s plate.

  Joe picked up the pasta and salad bowls. The two men went to the kitchen and cleaned the dishes and pots. I sipped my wine and marveled that Ray rinsed dishes before putting them in the dishwasher. A sure sign of domesticity, adulthood, and definitely something to remember to tell Kristi the next time I saw her.

  The doorbell rang and I waved off the men, leaving them to finish. I walked through the dining room and noticed Oscar’s box. The envelope with photos sat on top of his birthday cards. On a whim, I scooped up the photo envelope and tucked it into the silverware drawer of my china hutch.

  I peeked through my front door peephole. An official-looking business-suited couple waited on the other side of my door with Tom. I swung the door open. “Hello, Tom.”

  “Hi, Charlie. Agent Simms and Agent Krakauer from the FBI wanted to ask you some questions.” Tom’s thumbs were hooked into his belt, his palms resting over his weapon on one side and flashlight on the other.

  “Sure.” I stepped back. “Would you care for something to drink?” I motioned to the dining room.

  “Agent Simms, and coffee, black, if it’s no trouble.” The young woman thrust her hand in my direction and gave me a sturdy handshake.

  “No trouble. Decaf or regular?”

  “Regular,” Agent Krakauer said.

  I poked my head into the kitchen. “Want to make a pot, or shall I?”

  “I’ll do it.” Joe lightened his smarmy look with a wink.

  “I know how to make coffee. I just choose not to,” I said with a touch of sass.

  “It’s hard to make it when you’re asleep,” he teased.

  Ray folded the dishtowel he’d used and followed me into the dining room.

  “Tom,” Ray said.

  Tom nodded in his direction. “Ray.”

  Krakauer cracked his knuckles. “Mrs. Sanders, how do you know Mr. McGuffin?”

  “His cabin is next to Oscar’s. We met the morning I discovered Oscar’s body.” I sat at the head of the table.

  Ray left a seat for Joe and sat in the next one.

  Tom, Krakauer, and Simms filled in on the other side of the table.

  “Are those Oscar’s things?” Agent Simms pointed to the box on the table.

  “Yes.”

  “Is this everything of Oscar’s?” Krakauer asked.

  “No. I brought most of his things to his parents’ house but Mrs. Robles didn’t want anything so I brought Oscar’s things to Goodwill and the foodbank. There are a few small items at the cabin.” It was a mostly honest answer.

  Ray spoke up. “And Tom and I took Oscar’s notebooks earlier today.”

  Krakauer pulled a small notebook out of his suit pocket and made a note. “Are those the notebooks you gave us?” he asked Tom.

  “Yes,” Tom answered.

  Joe entered and put four coffee cups down in the center of the table. He stretched his arm across the table. “Joe Sanders.”

  Krakauer shook Joe’s hand. “Agent Krakauer. This is Agent Simms.”

  Joe shook her hand and murmured a hello and then sat next to me.

  “Do you believe Tyler Rigby is responsible for the death of Oscar Robles?” Krakauer’s eyes narrowed on me, and his cop-glare was far more effective than Tom’s.

  My stomach knotted. “I think he may have been involved.”

  “Can you go over the events of Friday night, after you left your work?” Krakauer asked.

  “Wait a minute, is she a suspect?” Ray asked Tom.

  Krakauer’s hands fisted on the table. “She has a motive.” He stretched his hands, and the knuckles cracked, the sound a sickening click-clacking.

  “What motive?” My voice rose past soprano with surprise, making me sound like I was speaking dolphin.

  Krakauer tightened his fists. “You thought Tyler killed Oscar and was going to get away with it.” He unwound his fists and cracked each knuckle, slower this time, like he knew I hated the sound and wanted to provoke me.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Joe stood and his chair squeaked against the wood floor. He slapped his hands against the dining room table. “Her brake lines were intentionally cut. Tom investigated. I picked her up from the side of the road and we came home and went to bed where she remained all evening. If you have further questions you can talk to our lawyer.” Joe used his very scary dad voice.

  I didn’t know we had a lawyer.

  Krakauer seemed to be studying us like we were his psych experiment.

  “We just need the information for our records,” Simms said. Her calm tone diffused the anger stifling the air.

  Ray grunted. “Sure you do. Stop trying to intimidate Charlie. Take the box and go.”

  “Actually, we have a search warrant for the house and the cabin,” Krakauer said.

  Joe leaned forward like he planned to grab Krakauer’s tie and yank, which I’d seen him do to his brother Mike a couple of times.

  I grabbed his bicep. He allowed me to pull him back into his chair. “If you want to go through the majority of Oscar’s things, you need to go to Goodwill.” I pulled the box toward me. “I saved his birthday cards and sent his school textbooks back. There are his old tax records but not much else in here.” I handed Oscar’s tax record folder to Krakauer. It occurred to me that Oscar had been holding on to the textbooks after he’d dropped out. Why? “The cabin has toilet paper and some kitchen things, but Ray and I cleaned it out.”

  Krakauer’s eyebrows slid up his forehead from ‘curious’ to the ‘oh-no’ position. “When was that?” His gaze locked on me.

  “The Friday after he died.” I doubted they’d find anything at Goodwill.

  The coffee spluttered and hissed in the kitchen. I pushed back from the table and retrieved the coffee pot and placed it in the center of the table on top of a trivet. They
could pour their own coffee.

  Joe, always a gentleman, poured a cup and slid it toward Simms.

  Krakauer helped himself to a cup. He sipped and hummed. “This is good, thank you.” He took another sip. “We talked to the ME’s nurse, Kristi Bias. She said you were close to Oscar.”

  I reached for Joe’s hand. “We cared about Oscar. After his parents kicked him out we gave him the cabin to live in. We should have done more, been more present in his life, but as the boys drifted apart we didn’t see him as much and I missed a lot of what was going on his life.” That was a guilt I’d be hanging on to for a long time.

  Joe squeezed my hand and I appreciated the extra boost of affection.

  “Like what?” Krakauer asked.

  “He was failing school. He was playing professional poker and was successful,” I said.

  “I’ve got a list of the tournaments he played back at my place,” Ray said. “I interviewed some of the other players and he was well-liked.”

  “Uh-huh,” Krakauer sounded unimpressed.

  “What made you suspect Tyler was involved in Oscar’s death?” Krakauer picked up his cup of coffee and leaned back in his chair, like we were having a friendly after dinner conversation.

  I glanced at Ray. He did a weird eye-thing that I couldn’t read.

  “Well?” Krakauer prompted.

  “Oscar is–was–a great guy and very careful about his diabetes. There was no way he’d accidentally overdose. I knew his parents wouldn’t bother investigating and Tom was happy with the accidental death ruling.” I ignored Tom’s uncomfortable gaze from across the table. “I knew if I wanted answers I needed to find them myself. I didn’t suspect Tyler at first. I thought it was related to the gambling or maybe a client of Tyler’s. He specializes in adoption. It wasn’t until I went to Tyler’s office, and his receptionist, Polly, mentioned Oscar started to act weird after the last adoption that I considered Tyler’s involvement.” I shrugged, not knowing what else to say.