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

Ray approached the nurses’ station. He stopped. His eyes flicked to Violet and back to me, like I was sitting next to a ticking bomb.

I signed off the computer. “Vi, I’m going to talk with Mrs. McGuffin now.”

She spotted Ray, her eyes narrowed and she harrumphed.

“You okay, Vi?”

Violet’s stink eye hit Ray so hard he stepped back. “He’s a pig.” She faced me. “He slept with Jana, my niece.” Her upper lip curled back, in that protective mama-bear snarl.

“Is Jana okay?” I slammed Ray with my testicle-skewering glare.

He hung his head and approached the desk. “Hello, Violet.”

“Jerk,” she whispered. She stood. “If we weren’t at work, I would…” She shook her fist, and I could picture a thought bubble above her head filled with expletives. Her face turned pink. “You’re not right in the head.” She grabbed her stethoscope and marched down the hall.

“I’m sorry,” Ray said to her back. He held up a hand. “I don’t need any comments from you. Your face says enough.”

“Fine.” I nodded to Eric, the ward clerk, who watched us with fascination. “I’ll be back in a minute. Don’t leave the desk, please.”

“Sure.”

I wasn’t sure if Eric was easy-going or incredibly lazy. I’d guess the twenty-something Tobey-Maguire look-a-like was lazy, but the CNA’s seemed to like him.

Ray’s mom lived at the far end of long-term care wing, past another nurses’ station. Ray stopped outside the door. “You ready?” He held his hand to the door ready to knock.

“What do you want me to say?”

“Do your scary-mom-thing.” He cocked his hand back.

“Wait.” I grabbed his arm. “I don’t know what that means.”

“Just follow my lead.” Ray knocked on the door, and a nurse’s assistant poked her head out.

She frowned. “She’s not in a good mood right now. I’d get out while you still can.”

He chuckled. “Sweetheart, I had that thought every day I lived at home.” He opened the door farther and called out, “Ma, I’m home.”

“That’s not funny, Raylin. Why am I still here?” Mrs. McGuffin sat on a pleather recliner in front of the window.

Ray stepped into the room.

The nurse’s assistant flashed a quick smile at me and scooted out.

I closed Mrs. McGuffin’s door behind me. She lived in Sunnyview’s assisted-living studio apartment, a large bedroom with a private bath, but no kitchen. Residents were encouraged to bring their own furniture. But for someone downsizing from a three-bedroom home to a three-hundred-fifty square foot room, the place felt claustrophobic. Her small kitchen table was overwhelmed with paperbacks, crossword puzzle books, and a plate with the remains of her lunch.

Mrs. McGuffin’s recliner faced the window. A noisy cardinal spilled seeds from the attached bird feeder.

“Ma, how are you today?” Ray asked.

She turned and scowled. “You need a haircut. Hello, Charlie.” Mrs. McGuffin turned back to the cardinal.

Ray kissed his mother’s cheek. “It’s good to see you too, Mom. So, what’s new with you?” He motioned for me to sit on the end of the bed.

“Nothing.” Mrs. McGuffin swiveled her chair to face us. “There’s nothing to do here. The food is awful. Those aides won’t bring me anything I ask for.”

Ray pulled a kitchen chair closer to her and sat. “What’s going on at the Pass ’n Gas?”

I realized Mrs. McGuffin wasn’t just a birdwatcher. Her room faced the road and the gas station across the street.

“Nothing. The first of the month was a regular who’s who of Social Security fraud flying in and out of there.”

“How’s that?” Ray asked.

She grunted. “You know as well as I do we have at least six dead residents of Forest Forks that still vote and receive social security. The Thompsons, Annie Reynolds, and I know I saw Dan Adkin’s kid go in there.”

Ray shook his head. “Ma, why would anyone send their illegal social security check to the Pass ’n Gas? Why not just send it to their home?”

She blinked at him like he was unworthy to breathe air. “If you paid attention, Raylin, you’d know that those people moved into this pit of death before they died. They sold their homes. It’d be easy to send in a change of address form and forge their signature. I think the mailman is in on it, too.”

“Huh.” Ray stroked his beard like he was considering the possibility.

I was too, but got stuck on logistics. And somehow, I couldn’t see Mr. Carlton, the mailman and Sunday School teacher at First Presbyterian, participating in Social Security fraud.

Ray tapped his fingers on his thighs. “What else do you have to keep you occupied? Planting a poisonous garden? Sending chain letters? Knitting?”

She grimaced. “Knitting. Eh.”

“Plotting murder?” I asked.

Mrs. McGuffin’s bored gaze slid from Ray, to me, and then back out the window. “So, you’ve heard the rumors.”

“Yeah. Any truth to them?” Ray asked.

“It’s not like I’d ever follow through.” She smoothed the blanket across her legs. “And it’s not like I have anything better to do. Your father is spending all his time with her. It looks bad, Ray. You should talk to him.”

“You divorced him. He’s allowed to date.” Ray’s voice was soft, and patient.

“She’s still married.” Mrs. McGuffin’s lips thinned.

“Evie’s husband died two years ago.” I reached over and patted Mrs. McGuffin’s thigh.

“So, she’s a black widow.” She followed her I-told-you-so look with a bony pointing finger. “You need to check her out.”

“Ma, what’s your plan?” Ray leaned forward, his elbows on his knees.

She blinked and offered a small smile. “Raylin, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Mrs. McGuffin’s chestnut colored eyes were faking forgetfulness.

“Now if I was going to off someone in a nursing home…” Ray stroked his beard.

She leaned forward, crossing her ankles.

“It would be easy to fake an accident.” Ray stroked his beard again. I wondered if this was a nervous habit.

“You’re wrong, Ray. They’ve got the nurses’ stations set up to see everyone in the hallways, they’ve got actual eyeballs on us every time we leave our room.”

“Are you planning to murder Evie inside her room?” I asked.

Ray waved me off. “No,