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

Tom studied his hands. “When was the last time you saw Oscar alive?”

That word stung. Alive. As in not dead. I held my breath and released it slowly, venting my heartache.

“Saturday. Joe and I ran into him at the movies. He was alone, coming out of the bookstore.”

“About his parents…” He looked at me, his eyes saddened to a muddy gray. “Did he still talk to them?”

“He talked to his Mom, but not his Dad.” I hated they made Oscar feel worthless.

“I guess I’ll call her.” He shot me a look like he wanted me to offer to make the call.

I raised an eyebrow, suggesting he man-up.

His shoulders slumped, and he looked around the room. “Anything seem out of place to you?”

“Other than the cleanliness? No.”

Tom leaned forward, interested.

I needed to dial back the sarcasm, my go-to response to awkward or stressful situations. “I haven’t been out here in weeks, and truthfully, it was this clean then, too.”

Tom cleared his throat and scanned the room. “You don’t have to stay, Charlie.”

“What happens now?” I hated the idea of leaving Oscar. “Someone should stay with him.”

“The coroner will bring him to the Medical Examiner for an autopsy. We’ll move forward from there.” He shifted his weight and his thick leather belt creaked. His hand scrubbed the back of his head. His discomfort seeped into the air, and I inhaled the bitter sorrow.

Oscar was dead.

Gone.

My heart felt hollow, grieving for a young life that should have had a future, a young man my children’s age, gone. Oscar was dead.

Tom stepped forward. “I’m sorry, Charlie.”

I wasn’t sure if he meant that I’d found Oscar, or that Oscar died, or that I was now freaking out about my own children. He patted me awkwardly on the back until I gulped and the dam that had been holding my emotions in place crumbled.

“Oh, hell.” Tom pulled me in for a hug, stuffing a kitchen towel in my face, I assumed, to prevent the transfer of snot. Tom was always one step ahead of most folks.

I allowed myself sixty seconds of tears and then reeled myself in. It helped that I heard a vehicle drive up. It was a small town, and my hugging a man that was not my husband was better fodder than Mabel McClure writing bad checks at the Pass-n-Gas.

“I’m okay.” I wiped my face with the towel. I folded it over, damp side in.

“Do you want me to drive you home?”

“No.”

The knock on the back door announced the coroner.

The idea of Oscar being treated like a body and not a boy was too much. “I’m going to go. Will you let me know what the coroner finds?”

“You bet.”

I stepped onto the gravel driveway and looked over at the McGuffin’s cabin. I may be myopic, but is he?

Chapter Two

The classic car parked in front of the McGuffin’s looked shabby, and the assortment of food wrappers on the front seat indicated the owner didn’t take care of himself, either. Marabel, my friend and boss, told me Ray had taken an early retirement from the Air Force and moved into the cabin. But the idea of an Air Force officer sucking down a six pack of Dewey’s Chili Dogs was at odds with my Jethro Gibbs expectations. Although, Gibbs was NCIS, and fictional.

His porch looked like it had been recently stained, and there were no cobwebs hanging from the outdoor lights. I rang his doorbell, feeling like a game show contestant pushing the button repetitively. I gave up and knocked. Not quite hard enough to wake the dead, because, as I’d just learned, I didn’t have that power.

A manly growl, followed by a thump and an angry curse, came from behind the door. A surly voice called out, “Jesus, I’ll be right there.”

“It’s not Jesus, but I wish I had that kind of mojo.” My sarcasm coping mechanism was in full power mode. I stepped back from the door.

The door swung open and a barrel-chested man, tall, WWE wrestler-sized, rolled his dark brown eyes. The whites, surprisingly, were not bloodshot. I wondered if Dave Bautista’s and Orlando Bloom’s love child would look like him? He had a pirate-like air about him with the long hair, beard, and scowl. The sweatpants and bare feet, though. Ugh.

He stared at me, dark eyes studying my face as if he were trying to place me. He wouldn’t. I met Joe in college and Ray had moved away before Joe and I settled here.

I thrust my hand toward his torso. “Hi, I’m Charlotte Sanders.” I gave him my friendliest mom smile.

He stepped back, mouth agape, his hand flailing downward as if to protect his family jewels. I grabbed it and shook.

Did I look like this before I had coffee? I kept shaking his hand.

He stood, stupefied.

My gaze dropped to his meaty paw.

Finally, he withdrew his hand. “Sorry. No coffee.”

“I understand.” I widened my mom smile.

“I’m Ray McGuffin.”

“I know.” Perhaps Ray had been gone from Forest Forks for so long he didn’t remember this was when he invited me in, offered me a drink, asked about Joe…

“I don’t remember you.” He relaxed, took another step back and his eyes scanned me from my toes to eyes.

He opened the door wider and I followed him inside, closing it behind me. The house was sparse but tidy. The kitchen had dirty dishes piled up in the sink, a coffee cup rimmed with fiery fuchsia lipstick sat on the counter. The color suited the pixie, Darla. Ray pulled a piece of paper from under the cup and stuffed it into his sweats pocket. He grabbed a clean cup from the cupboard, filled it and offered it to me.

“No, thank you,” I said.

I didn’t need coffee. I needed answers.

He took a sip, eyeing me over the rim. “Charlotte Sanders. You married to Joe or Mike?”

“Joe.”

“You’re not from here.” While that was a common Southern curse, he didn’t say it like I’d just done something stupid. He did eye me like my