Too Sweet to Die by T. Doyle (the false prince .TXT) 📗

“Oscar? No.”

“Yeah? You sure?” Ray asked, his one eye narrowed and the other managed a dull stare. The look was part scowl, part disbelief.

Was I sure? “Well, he never mentioned it.” I’d ask Drew later.

“Would he?”

“Probably not.” My heart seemed to shrink in my chest.

He grunted. “I never told Ma when I was doing stupid stuff.”

I stood. “But gambling? He’s not even twenty-one.” He wasn’t ever going to be twenty-one. My heart squeezed tight. “No. No way. Not Oscar.”

Ray stood, patted my shoulder in an awkward, halting manner. “He probably had a fake ID. We don’t have to do this.” His voice was soft. “Knowing what happened doesn’t change the outcome.”

A horrible feeling, like the one I got when the school principal called to schedule a meeting because Drew had been cutting Spanish class for two weeks, curled around my throat and squeezed. Hard.

Ray kept patting my shoulder. “Look, it’s okay to drop it.”

“I’m not giving up because Oscar may have done something stupid.” I stepped away. “It doesn’t change that he was good person or that he deserves to have his death investigated. And what if Oscar and Hilda Collins’s deaths are related? A murderer is still out there.”

Ray’s hands fisted at his sides and he nodded. “Okay, then. Let’s see if we can find his phone.”

“Joe forgets his in his jacket pocket. I’ll grab the wardrobe box and we can clean out his closet.”

“I’ll put it together.” Ray’s kindness felt clumsier than the shoulder taps.

I walked off Ray’s gawky compassion and opened Oscar’s bedroom closet. “There’s not much in here.” I patted down Oscar’s winter coat pockets.

Ray made the gimme motion with his fingers.

“You want to stick your hands in without checking first, be my guest.” I offered the coat to Ray. “But after Drew’s insect-fascination phase, I prefer to pat down first.”

Ray held up his hands. “You have a point.”

“Besides, he could have insulin needles in here, although with the pump I doubt that.” I squished the pockets and then fished my hands through them, finding nothing.

Ray hung the coat in the wardrobe box.

“He could have left his phone in his car or at the office,” Ray said. “You could ask his mom if they found his phone.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Trust me, Margarita won’t answer my questions.” I passed the next coat to Ray. “Do you think the phone company would tell us where the phone was last?”

“No. Not unless the police asked.”

We found nothing in Oscar’s clothes pockets.

Ray taped up the box with Oscar’s two coats, three pairs of slacks, and six shirts.

I opened his drawers and recognized all eight t-shirts. He didn’t have much in the chifforobe. “This will all fit in a large garbage bag. I think they’re under the kitchen sink.”

Ray went to the kitchen and returned. “You get the rest of his clothes; I’ll get the bathroom.”

I put three sweaters, two pairs of jeans, a hoodie, some sweats, and then his underwear in the bag. I added his sneakers and flip flops. A cramp squeezed my heart at the familiar grey band t-shirt nestled on top, a stupid smiley face taunting me. He’d been wearing that when Joe and I bumped into him a couple of weeks ago. I tied the ends of the garbage bag and sealed the memory away. I put his bedding and towels in another bag and dragged the bags to the hall.

I stuck my head in the bathroom. “I’m going to put these in my car.”

“Do you want me to save any of his toiletries?” The opened bag had toothpaste and Oscar’s shampoo inside. Ray held an opened bottle of Tylenol in his hand.

“No, just the toilet paper.” I slung Oscar’s clothes bag over my shoulder, and held the other in front of me, and stepped outside. The clean pine-scented air filled my lungs and cleared my head. The bags fit into the back of my CRV, and I left the trunk door open.

What happened, Oscar?

Ray joined me in the kitchen. Both of us worked silently, sorting the food to give away into one pile, perishable in another, and tossed the rest. I didn’t want to return to a refrigerator undergoing biological warfare.

“The pots and pans, and most everything else is ours, except the coffee maker. That’s new. Do you think his mother would want it?”

“Yeah, I do. She’s a hoarder, remember? Doesn’t mean you have to give it to her. Just leave the coffee pot here for now.”

“I hate that she’s probably not going to do anything with Oscar’s things.” I tugged on the bag full of rice and ramen, and his other non-perishable foods.

“Bring Margarita the bag of perishable stuff and take the rest to the shelter.” Ray closed the now empty refrigerator door.

We carried the bags out to my car, putting the garbage in the back seat so I didn’t accidentally give it to Mrs. Robles. Ray brought the box from Oscar’s desk and put it in the passenger’s seat.

“Will you come with me to Mrs. Robles?” I closed the trunk door.

His nose wrinkled. “Are you chicken?”

I nodded. “Margarita hates me. Besides, you can ask her about Oscar’s phone.”

A teasing smile spread across his face. He stroked his beard. “It’s gonna cost you.”

“What do you want?” I tightened my grip on the bag.

“Tell my mom we’re friends.”

“Deal.” I stuck my hand out and he shook it. “This feels very grade school.”

“She’s worried that I’ve moved back to town and I haven’t made any friends.”

“She must not have heard about your dates.” Before he could scowl, I pointed at him. “Sorry, slipped out. No more momming. And yes, we’re friends.”

“Let me get the death chair before we drive out to Mrs. Robles. You lock up. Leave all the lights off. Tonight, I’ll set up a motion camera to catch anyone snooping in his cabin.”

“Okay.” I checked the light switches, the back door, and found Ray in the living room, La-Z-Boy over his shoulder.

He slid out the front