I nodded to Drew, a silent plea, to ask them if they knew if Oscar was being threatened.
He nodded back, his face somber and looking so much older than twenty.
Tyler Rigby stood like his suit was made of metal and his body was slack inside, held up only by the wrinkle-free fabric. He stared at the closed casket, but his eyes looked unfocused. He looked like a man contemplating his own death. And maybe he was. Still, it was nice of him to come, to pay respects, to honor Oscar’s memory. Maybe now, given time and the reality of Oscar’s death, Tyler might be willing to answer my questions about his clients. But not today.
Sixty people crowded around a pit, covered by a large awning to keep it from becoming a mud hole. Two men in forest green jumpsuits lowered the casket using winches. I broke, sobs wracking my body. Joe held me tight, held me together.
My kids silently wept, a young person they’d known for years was gone, and there was no reason for it. Anger festered deep inside my bones, making them brittle, and making it hard to walk back to the car.
I would find out why Oscar was murdered.
Friends showed up at my house afterwards bringing covered dishes, drinks, and stories of Oscar’s benevolence and good humor. Drew put a jar out for donations toward a bench in memory of Oscar at the soccer field. It filled quickly, and peace settled in my heart knowing Oscar would be remembered.
No one cared he was gay.
Discarded by his parents. They never deserved him.
My thoughts ran to my own parents, the strange coldness that permeated the air between them, and always seemed to be about me. But every kid at one point thinks they don’t belong, or believes they’re adopted. Except, I knew I was right.
When my oldest daughter, Jess did a high school biology project on blood types I realized that my O positive blood type meant my biological father couldn’t be AB. I wasn’t my father’s child.
Mom had an affair.
She’d gotten pregnant.
I’d become the glue of their dysfunctional relationship.
I asked my mother and she begged me to keep her secret. So, I did. And every visit home I felt like a rat in a trap, stuck in the lie, and wishing I could rip off my own skin and be free.
I set out more napkins on the kitchen island. Ray strolled into the kitchen, holding his mother’s elbow, and beelined to me. His mom turned her walker toward the dining room and shuffled toward the lunch meat, rolls, and drinks.
Joe helped her make a plate.
“Hey.” Ray leaned against the counter.
“Hi.”
He patted my shoulder, his big hand weighed too heavy and he pulled my hair when he withdrew. The inept sympathy was heartfelt and touching. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled.
“Thank you.” I stepped away.
“Ma wanted to pay her respects. We didn’t make it to the funeral because of the rain.”
“I understand. It was really nice of you to come.”
He shrugged and then rolled his eyes. “Yeah, see the thing is I don’t do this stuff, and I feel like I’ve made it more awkward by showing up.” He shifted on his feet and wiped his hands on his pants. Actual pants, with a belt. I noticed his shirt was cleaned and pressed.
“You clean up nice.” I stepped closer and hugged him. “You came, which was kind, and that’s what friends do.”
His arms relaxed and he returned the hug. He stepped back and one side of his mouth quirked. “I try.”
I told him about Drew and Oscar playing poker, the fake IDs, the note, and the missing photo.
“Explains the casino business cards.” Ray stroked his beard like it was a skittish cat.
Tom sauntered into the kitchen. He looked hollow. He’d spent years coaching Drew and Oscar in soccer and donated hundreds of hours as their Boy Scout leader. He gave me a solemn nod. “I’m sorry, Charlie.”
I believed him, but it didn’t make me feel any better. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“Nah.” He slapped Ray’s shoulder. “Hey.”
“Tom.” Ray gave him a chin nod. “You get anything on the video I sent over?”
Tom shook his head. “Nope. I looked the place over from the outside and they didn’t leave tire tracks. Other than a dark GMC or Chevy SUV we’ve got nothing. We can’t even prove anyone went into the house. Hell, it could be someone checking out your driveway.” Tom side-eyed Ray and then faced me. “They left the TV and other stuff, right?”
I nodded.
“It could be someone just wanting to see where he died. They didn’t take anything of value. We questioned Oscar’s friends and none of them say they’ve been out there since he died.” He shrugged. “It’s a dead end.” He looked over his shoulder to Jenny who was now pointing her finger at Mrs. Clandenon. “Ray, your mom’s in the other room picking a fight with Mrs. Clandenon over crockpots from the last potluck.” Tom looked at me. “The thing is, I think she’s right and Mrs. Clandenon upgraded at the last bingo night. She took Mrs. Wright’s crockpot home, but Mrs. Wright said not to bother and she’d get it back at the next Knights of Columbus soup and salad night.”
Ray rubbed his neck. “Tom, did you ever think police work would include keeping the peace over slow-cooker thieving?”
Tom’s face softened. “Buddy, I’m glad that’s the most exciting thing for my week. I got kids, and I want to go home every night. But maybe you could talk to your mom? She’s having trouble changing the subject.”
“Sure.” Ray turned toward me. “I’ll probably take her back to Sunnyview. I think we should go to the casinos. You free on Monday?”
“I can go after three,” I said.
“Why are you two going to the casino, together?” Tom cocked his head
