Too Sweet to Die by T. Doyle (namjoon book recommendations .TXT) 📕

He sighed. “It’s gotta be a mom thing. But seriously, I get enough from my own mom.”

“I’ll stop momming you.” I crossed my heart. He was right, since becoming an empty-nester I found myself parenting strangers. I needed to work on that, starting with Ray.

“You headed to the cabin?” He scratched his beard, and then smoothed it down. “I mean, I could help you. After all, you stopped mom from committing assault and battery with a fly swatter.” He smiled. It was a nice smile, friendly. “And I could get the chair. I mean, unless you decided to keep the death chair.”

I swallowed my snark about ruining the moment. Unsaid snark tasted bitter and unsatisfying. I got into my car and squinted up at him. “I’d appreciate you going through the cabin with me. Joe said he’d help this weekend, too.”

“No problem. I’ll follow you.” He held my door, waited for me to buckle—was that a cop thing?—and closed the door.

At Oscar’s front porch, Ray ran his fingers over the door frame. “I wondered if Oscar kept a spare key. Police said no sign of forced entry.”

“You read the report?” I handed my keys to Ray and he unlocked the front door.

“Yeah. I asked Tom for it.” He gave me my keys.

Surprise must have shown on my face.

“What? Dead guy next door, I’m a little curious.” Ray pushed the door open and waved me in first. “Where do you want to start?”

“I guess his desk?” We walked past the recliner in the living room and turned left into the small hall that led to the bedrooms and bathroom. Oscar had placed a student desk on the far wall between the bunk beds Joe and I left. It was dorm-room claustrophobic with the beds towering over the desk.

Ray sat in the old secretary chair that squealed in protest under his weight. He opened the left file drawer.

“Looks like his toolbox.” Ray dug through the drawer.

I stepped behind him and leaned to the side to peek in. A small hammer, screwdrivers, and small drill were stuffed in there along with a measuring tape. “Oscar didn’t seem like a handy kind of guy. I mean, I knew he could change a light bulb, but why did he buy a drill?”

“Maybe it came as a set.” He closed the drawer and pushed back on the chair, hitting my thighs. “Sorry.”

“My fault.” I stepped back.

He opened the lap drawer. “Looks like a typical junk drawer.” Ray pushed the pens, pencils, staples, and paperclips to the side, stacked thirty dollars in casino chips, and handed me a thin spiral notebook stuffed in the back.

The pages contained math written in long hand. “This looks like homework from his statistics class.”

“Why would he save that?” Ray asked.

“Not sure.” I turned a few more pages filled with graphs and equations in Oscar’s handwriting. “He had statistics more than a year ago, hated it, and had to get a tutor. Maybe he saved his notes to remind himself he could do it?”

Ray gave me a weak eye-roll at my explanation.

I placed the notebook on the bed.

He handed me a marketing textbook from the desk. “Did he rent his textbooks? Not that you need to worry about Oscar’s credit rating at this point.” Ray searched through the top left drawer.

“There’s a sticker on the spine, so I think so. And not returning a loaned book would haunt me.” I admitted. I looked through the book and a folded piece of notebook paper fluttered toward me. The note was written in Oscar’s handwriting but cryptic.

“Whatcha got?” Ray asked.

“I’m not sure.” I gave him the note. “Numbers and initials, it looks like an accounting ledger, maybe?”

“Do you recognize any of the initials?”

“No. And what’s .7 net?”

Ray gave me back the note. “No idea. Save it.”

I read through the paper, but it didn’t make sense.

<12K SL>

2 PP

.2 IP

3 MG

.7 P

.15 DG

.7 Net

<6800>

I put the note in my purse and continued searching through the textbook for return information. “The sticker on the spine tells me who Oscar rented the book from, but there’s only a website listed. Remember when instructions were included instead of having to look it up online?”

“You’re whining,” Ray said in a patient tone.

“I’m complaining. It’s different. Have you found Oscar’s phone?” I leaned over and picked up the Business Communication textbook. “I’ll bring these home and figure out how to return them later.”

“Good idea. Why don’t you get a box for this stuff? Anything that looks important bring to your house.”

“Do you think Oscar was murdered?” Hope strained my voice, I needed help finding Oscar’s murderer, but guilt churned my gut. What was wrong with me that I wanted Ray to believe me more than worrying about if Oscar suffered?

Ray turned around, the chair squealed. “You heard about Hilda Collins?”

“Yes.” A sinking sensation started in my chest and dragged down to my knees.

Ray cocked his head to the side. “I talked to an old classmate of mine works in the ME’s office. She said Hilda’s death was insulin related.”

“Oh?” My voice sounded like a squeaky door. “That’s a weird coincidence, isn’t it?”

“It’s curious. And it makes me curious.” He paused, his dark brown eyes searched mine. “But the police aren’t curious.”

“Why not?” I asked.

He turned back to the desk and opened the top right-hand drawer. “Could be because the sheriff is running for re-election and if Hilda Collin’s death is related that makes two murders in a week. And that isn’t good press.” He lifted a USB charging cord. “Does Oscar have a charger on his bedside table?”

“Let me go check.” I left Ray and crossed the hall to Oscar’s bedroom. I called out, “That’s a pretty weak reason. You don’t think they’d investigate his death, even secretly?”

Oscar had rearranged the master bedroom, pushing the bed against the back wall under the window. The bedside tables were recycled from Joe’s sister, painted a denim blue to hide the nail polish accidents and water