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

“That’s weird. Last week Oscar posted an Instagram story about someone following him home from the gym. It was dark and all he could tell was it was a big truck or SUV with one light brighter than the other. It tailed him all the way out to the cabin, but didn’t turn down the road. He joked if he turned up dead…”

“Is the story still up? Can I show it to the police?”

“No, Mom. It disappears after 24 hours,” Drew explained patiently.

“But you saw it and could tell the police about it.” Excitement bubbled in my gut.

“I guess. Why? Do you think he was murdered?” Drew sounded skeptical.

“I don’t know. He’s having an autopsy now.” That sounded strange, like Oscar was a having an outpatient surgery and everything would be fine. “Do you know if Oscar involved with someone? Could it have been an old boyfriend stalking him?”

“No, I don’t think so. He hasn’t dated anyone since Charlie Hunnam. Man, I should probably text him.”

“You should. What’s his real name?”

“Kevin Thomas.” Drew grunted softly. “Nobody would want to murder Oscar.” Drew’s voice grew thin.

“I know.” A wave of grief washed over me. “Tom promised he’d call me when the medical examiner is done.” Would his mother would make funeral arrangements?

Tom never called. Or maybe I had trouble with patience. Regardless, I drove over to the Sheriff’s office with a batch of snickerdoodles on Wednesday. Tom’s weakness for cinnamon and sugar was well known among the soccer moms.

He ushered me into his office before the staff caught the scent of fresh baked goodies. “Charlie, it’s only been two days.”

“I was hoping you’d heard something?” I placed the plate of cookies on top of the newspaper. My phone call to Darla earlier revealed she hadn’t seen or heard anything.

“Let me get you a cup of coffee and I’ll look up the ME’s, I mean the medical examiner’s report.”

“Thanks, Tom.”

He returned a moment later with a paper cup of brown liquid, the scent of burnt plastic preceded the bitter taste and scalding. I made a mental note to drop off some real coffee to the Sheriff’s Department for Christmas.

He sat at his desk, stuffed a cookie in his mouth and hummed his delight. He finger-pecked his computer, read the screen, swallowed, and his jaw hardened. Steel-blue eyes hit me with compassion. “Charlie, the ME pronounced Oscar’s death as accidental.”

Tom’s words fell into my hollow gut. It didn’t make sense. I slumped in the chair. My heart thumped, the beats slowing as the words sank in. My skin felt tight across my hands, and I wrapped my frozen fingertips around my third coffee cup of the morning. The heat refused to leech out and warm my hands.

“Accidental? How could he accidentally die, while sitting in a chair?” I didn’t hide the scorn or skepticism from my voice. “Ray mentioned he’d seen the TV lights flickering but the TV was off when I arrived. Who turned off the TV? Or if he put a sleep timer on and fell asleep why were his eyes open?”

Tom’s eyebrows rose to the you’re-annoying-me height. “It was an insulin overdose. Who knows? Maybe he put too much in that day, or the pump malfunctioned.” His voice was calm, steady, and definitely pushing to end the conversation.

I wasn’t having it. “Wait, could his pump have malfunctioned? Are they at least checking into that?”

A vein popped out on Tom’s forehead. I’d pushed him too far. He took a breath, gave me his cop-stare. “The ME is examining his pump, but the cause of death was related to his insulin levels.”

I leaned back in the chair and scrubbed my eyes. I probably looked like I was going to lose it. I wasn’t sure if my emotional response was menopausal or depression or grief, but since I’d found Oscar, I cried more than should be humanly possible. My tear ducts were probably swollen from overuse.

“Tom, Drew mentioned that Oscar thought a car followed him home last week. He’d posted a story on Instagram about it.” The boys still followed each other on social media, which I realized was how I knew most details about Oscar’s life this last year.

Tom leaned forward. “Drew did? What kind of car? Any idea who’d follow him?”

I shook my head. “A dark truck or SUV, one headlight brighter than the other. We don’t know who or why. But I did get his ex-boyfriend’s name, Kevin Thomas.”

“I already interviewed him. He’s a good kid, no motive and a rock-solid alibi.” Tom stood. “I know it’s hard, Charlie. Just so you know, his mom,” he looked like he swallowed a kiwi covered in toe fungus, “said the county can take care of Oscar’s burial.” He frowned. “Unless you’d like to…”

“I’ll call Chandler Mortuary,” I said. “It’ll be in the newspaper.”

“Thank you. I liked Oscar.” The finality of his tone triggered my standing. He’d fulfilled his promise and didn’t want to chat.

I walked with him to the door. “If the ME finds out anything about the pump, will you let me know?” I sounded desperate.

Tom shook his head. “No, Charlie, accidental deaths don’t get investigated. If it’s a pump malfunction, that’ll be up to his legal next of kin to pursue.” He squeezed my shoulder. “I know you and Joe helped him, but legally his parents are entitled to his estate. They’ve already come by to get his car. You might want to pack up his things and bring them to their house before his dad helps himself. I’m sure his mom would appreciate it.”

“Of course,” I lied. Oscar’s mom hated me. She hadn’t taken kindly to my interference when Oscar announced his sexual preference. After she’d kicked him out, she assumed he’d change his ways and agree to “go straight” so he could live under the family roof. Instead, we’d given him a place to live. Margarita Robles was not happy when he moved into our cabin and continued on his “path to hell,” as she referred