Taking into account the fact that his baby-faced features would make him look younger than he probably was, I estimated him to be somewhere around my age when he’d passed. He didn’t even look like a drug addict, so I couldn’t tell why he’d died at such a young age. No missing limbs or tire tracks across his face. His cause of death was not immediately apparent. Add to that a faded blue T-shirt and loosely ripped jeans and he could’ve been a skater, a computer geek, or a backwoods moonshiner. He wore round-rimmed glasses and a tattered baseball cap that sat backwards on top of muddy brown hair.
I figured him for the runt of the litter. He’d finally worked up the courage to approach and I got a better view. The fact that he could’ve been meeting someone in particular kept me glued to my barstool. Marvin Tidwell, that it would seem her husband was not cheating on her. At least I could tell my client, aka Mrs. Even with all that going for me, this investigation was firmly wedged between the cracks of no and where. I sat at the bar, sipping a margarita, lamenting the sad turn my life had taken. Marvin Tidwell, blond real estate broker and suspected adulterer, actually turned down the drink I’d tried to buy him.
But the truly disturbing part of my evening was the fact that my mark, one Mr. Or, at the very least, the eight-and-a-halves. No one else was even taking a second look and I’d dressed to the nines. The dead guy at the end of the bar kept trying to buy me a drink. T-SHIRT OFTEN SEEN ON CHARLEY DAVIDSON, A GRIM REAPER OF QUESTIONABLE MORALS
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