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

He was easily the most frustrating man I’d ever met. “Please. I would appreciate your vast and superior knowledge in all things murderous.”

He grinned. “Now that was good.”

“So, you’ll come over and look around?” I took a bite of the donut and yummed.

He looked in the bag and pulled out a chocolate covered donut. “Yeah. Let me put some shoes on.”

“And a shirt,” I suggested.

“Jesus, you’re worse than Amanda and my mom, combined.”

“It’s a mom thing, and my name isn’t Jesus, it’s Charlie.”

“You nag your husband like this?” He plodded down the hallway into his bedroom.

“No,” I called out. “He’s an adult and has been dressing himself since he was three. He can even tie his own shoes.” I stuffed the rest of the donut in my mouth and enjoyed the tart lemon and sweet sugar. I’d do thirty minutes on the elliptical later…

“Clever,” Ray said, now dressed in a long sleeve t-shirt and boat shoes on his un-socked feet.

I still didn’t understand why women found him appealing, but I supposed there’s someone for everyone. He was tall, probably over six feet, broad shoulders, and kind of hairy, with the long hair and beard giving him a bad-boy biker vibe. He wasn’t trying to go Duck Commander with the beard, but it wasn’t groomed like a topiary either. It was just sort of there, neglected, but not too untidy. Like the rest of him. A beer gut listed over his waistband, but with the t-shirt on, and his shoulders rolled back, you couldn’t see it.

Kind of like me wearing an underwire bra, using my boobs to keep the attention away from my maternal-spread.

“Done checking me out?” he asked, a bored look on his face.

“I’m wondering why my gender finds you attractive.”

He blinked and cocked his head to the side. “You Asperger’s?”

I grinned. “Nah, just mean.”

He laughed. “Come on, let’s get this over with.”

The crisp air felt good against my cheeks, like it could scrub away the ugliness that permeated the cabin. I wondered if our family could use our cabin again without thinking of Oscar. Or maybe we should do something to always remember Oscar, like plant a tree.

There were only three cabins off the private road, each sat on two grassy acres, with forest in the back and the lake in front. A quarter of a mile down we had three more neighbors. Only thirty cabins were on the north shore of the lake, the south side was a National Forest that had campsites.

I unlocked the front door and pulled my phone out of my pocket to take pictures of the living room.

“Was he always this neat?” Ray asked.

“Yeah. Kind of freaked me out, to be honest.” My hushed voice still sounded loud in the quiet cabin.

“Eh, makes sense. His mom’s a hoarder.”

“What?” I turned around and faced him, astonished. Oscar had never mentioned that fact and it wasn’t like Mrs. Robles ever invited me over.

“You didn’t know? Yeah. She’s got a hell of a collection of Hummels, but that’s nothing compared to her toaster ovens. Not sure exactly what the story is there, but she’s been known to hit up every garage sale on a Sunday and return home with several toaster ovens.”

I reached out, stunned, and touched his arm. “I did not know that. Wait, how do you know so much about her?”

“Mom keeps me in the loop. She might not remember to eat, but the woman has a memory for gossip.”

I retracted my hand and eyed the room. “It explains Oscar’s aversion to clutter.”

Ray looked around, his face offered no clues about his thoughts. “There’s no sign of forced entry. The place looks perfect. Is the furniture yours?”

“Yes. He moved in here when he turned eighteen and Drew left for University of Kentucky. Joe and I wanted him to have the independence and privacy. We left it furnished with the full kitchen.”

“Huh. You gonna keep the death chair?”

I winced. “I don’t know.” I looked away from the recliner, to the television which still had the high school graduation picture taped to it. I snapped a picture with my phone.

“I’ll give you twenty for it.” Ray checked out the chair and gave me a quick glance.

“You want to buy the chair that Oscar died in. Are you kidding?”

He shrugged, completely unfazed by my harpy tone. “Well, yeah. I mean, it’s nice. A real La-Z-Boy, those things last for decades. It’s not like he got sick in it. He just died.” He looked over at me. “Unless you want me to take it because you feel guilty about accepting money for the death chair.”

“You can have it,” I snapped. “Look through it, first. Did he leave a note?”

“Suicide by insulin? I haven’t heard of that before,” Ray said.

I waved him closer to the chair and ignored his comment. “Maybe there’s some kind of clue.”

Ray cocked his head, his mouth ready to argue, but instead he inspected the chair, every surface, nook, and cranny. “No note, but there is a pencil.” He stood, holding the pencil like a conductor’s baton. “Let’s look in the bathroom.”

I followed him, snapping pictures of the medicine cabinet Ray opened using the pencil.

“No condoms,” I whispered. Had he been dating?

“Those are usually in the bedroom.” He stared at the cabinet, the dust-free shelves with over-the-counter medicines lined up by symptom. “He had allergies and dry eyes. Nothing exciting here.” Ray closed the door to the medicine cabinet and waved for me to exit.

I stopped at the door. “There’s no insulin. Not in the medicine cabinet or the fridge. How did he overdose when there’s no insulin?”

“That’s interesting, but maybe Tom took the insulin when he was here.” Ray stirred the pencil through the garbage can. “What color hair did Oscar have?”

“Dark brown.”

“Okay. Don’t throw out the garbage.”

I moved closer, excited, and peered around his shoulder. “Did you find something?”

He stood.

I scrambled back a few steps.

“No, but just in case.” He shook his head and scowled. “You know what? Never mind.