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

“The best.” She stood and pulled a card out of her pocket. “You should call me, Ray. Move closer to town. You know there’s some executive condos downtown, right where the action is.”

He took the card. “Thanks, Steph. I’m enjoying the lake views, but I’ll think about it.”

“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