by Wendy Byrne
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DOUBLE TROUBLE IN IOWA
an Izzy Lewis Mystery
by
WENDY BYRNE
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Copyright © 2017 by Wendy Byrne
Cover design by Estrella Designs
Gemma Halliday Publishing
http://www.gemmahallidaypublishing.com
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BOOKS BY WENDY BYRNE
SNEAK PEEK
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to Doward for his help about all things Iowa. You're the best! I can't wait to visit in person. And thank you to K'Tee for being the best cheerleader an author could ever have.
As always, thanks to Gemma for having such faith in me!
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CHAPTER ONE
My name is Isabella (Izzy) Lewis. I'm a full-time artist and part-time driver and wing-woman for the Qs—my surrogate grandmothers who channel Jessica Fletcher from Murder, She Wrote on a regular basis. Right now, however, I was about to go stark raving mad. Really. Seriously. Straight up, no-doubt-about-it crazy.
Why else would I have volunteered to come on a two-hour road trip with the Qs? So far, we'd been in the car ninety minutes that felt like nine hours. Their nervous chatter and excitement had reached maximum velocity within the first five minutes of our drive to Winterset from Inez, Iowa and had continued nonstop ever since.
I practiced some yoga breaths—in for four, hold for four, out for five—and tried to relax. While I loved these ladies to death, spending long periods of time with them in a confined space made me question my own judgment.
I'd turned up the radio to drown out some of the gossiping, but that just made them increase their volume. Diversion sometimes worked with them but not today. Not that I blamed them. It had been a long winter without their usual pastime of solving mysteries. We had a doozy of one to solve about six months ago when I first arrived in Inez from Manhattan. My search for my long-lost father had gotten off to a rocky start when I stumbled over a dead body.
But for right now, I wasn't asking for much. Just one or two minutes of blissful silence would help.
"I can't believe Maggie Hopkins is engaged," Alice said.
"She's been hot on Hank since high school. Geez, the guy's been married and divorced or widowed more times than I can count. But somehow, she thinks he'll be her Prince Charming," Ramona added.
"More like Prince Dud, if you ask me. That guy might be okay looking, but he couldn't hold an intelligent conversation with a two-year-old," Dolly said.
The ladies cackled at that remark, and I did as well. My phone rang, and the ladies settled down, more than likely so they could eavesdrop.
"Hi Gabe," I said as a murmur of satisfaction rustled through the group. It seemed not only Viola, Gabe's grandmother, was happy with the fact that he and I were still seeing each other, but other members of the Qs were likewise pleased.
Gabe and I had a disagreement last night about his lack of sharing pertinent information about his past, ending in a stalemate. What I knew about him could be verified in a simple Google search: Thirty-two years old, graduated law school, married and divorced. I still had no clue about his parents or the reason his grandparents had raised him. If I were the paranoid type, I'd say everything about him had been scrubbed like they do in the CIA. But that was my percolating imagination talking.
Why had he gone from being a lawyer to becoming a carpenter and all-around handyman? There was nothing wrong with being a carpenter, but that kind of role shift doesn't happen every day. Granted, John Grisham went from lawyer to author. That, I get. But I knew there was a whole lot Gabe wasn't saying. And that only made me more curious, especially since my own background was an open book. It seemed like people knew everything about me in Inez—even things I wished they didn't.
"The last of the fixtures you ordered came in, so I finished up your place about an hour ago." His words brought me out of a severe case of my imagination gone wild.
Oohs and aahs ensued, including my own. He'd been renovating the loft space I'd purchased in downtown Inez two months ago. Other than renderings from both an architect and Gabe, I had yet to see the work in progress. "Send pics. I've been dying for a sneak peek."
"I want the final results to be a surprise."
"That's torture."
"I can think of much more interesting ways of torturing you."
A flush rose from toes to my hairline. "You're on speaker, and your grandmother is listening."
He laughed, as did the Qs. "I'm sure it won't be the most embarrassing thing you'll be hearing over the next few days."
As much as I hated to admit it, and knowing the ladies, he had that right. "Can you give me a hint?"
"It looks spectacular. The workmanship is impeccable, and it has your stamp on it."
"You called to tease me, is that it?"
"Pretty much. Well that and let you know a certified letter was delivered to your dad's house for you. Josie brought it over, and I signed for it. I hope that's okay."
I nodded as unease settled inside. Since I was staying at my father's house while Gabe finished the renovation and my dad was out of town, that part wasn't all that surprising. But I had a feeling there was something much more ominous behind the delivery.
"Does it say anything on the envelope?" I worried the corner of my lip.
"Looks like a law firm in New York." He chuckled. "You in trouble?"
Ba boom.
I got that fluttering sensation in my chest but suppressed the bout of paranoia waiting in the wings. Even Joseph wouldn't be that petty to come after me over a few wine bottles, would he? "Probably residual divorce stuff. Or maybe Joseph decided he'd be magnanimous after all and open up his pocketbook. Stranger things have happened." Like me living in Iowa. Six months ago, I never would have predicted I'd be riding around with a group of senior citizens on a quilting/art expedition.
"I'll leave it on my counter. In
the meantime, you ladies behave yourselves."
"You'll be the first person I call if we get arrested." With these ladies, I never knew what trouble waited around the corner. Without another word, he hung up. Seconds later, when my phone rang again, I pushed the button on the steering wheel. "Sending me those pics after all?"
"Isabella?" OMG, it was my ex-husband, Joseph. I hadn't talked to him for nearly six months but couldn't forget that condescending tone.
I glanced at the number to confirm I wasn't hallucinating. First the letter from a law firm and now a phone call. This wasn't a coincidence. "What do you want?" Once again, the Qs were silent. In fact, I barely heard them breathe.
"I'm missing two dozen bottles of my best wine. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"
My impulsive theft hadn't been well thought out at the time. Rather, it had been a knee-jerk reaction to Joseph's chronic issues with monogamy as well as the shady prenup he had me sign.
Instead of confessing, I took the coward's way out. "I've been gone for over six months. They've probably been misfiled in your stash of over five thousand bottles. Try looking again." Maybe I should be worried by the way my voice remained steady and unwavering during my fib. I never considered myself a liar, but apparently when Joseph was involved, I'd perfected it to an art form. "Now if you don't mind, I'll let you go."
"Are you sure you don't know where they are?" Although he wasn't a lawyer, I felt like a criminal being cross-examined on the witness stand.
"As I told you before, I have no idea. Maybe your girlfriend took a fancy to them. Oh, that's right, I'm not sure she's twenty-one yet."
"Don't be catty," he said in that tone that used to make me feel small and inadequate. But that gal was gone forever.
"Who, me?" I pressed the end button, and the chatter inside the car began with a flourish.
"You took the wine, didn't you?" Alice cackled when I nodded.
"Bravo for you," Ramona added.
"How much do you think they're worth?" Dolly asked.
"Maybe a couple thousand a bottle." They were my ace in the hole when he screwed me over financially. "I figured he'd never miss them."
"Attagirl. The guy's a jerk," Viola said.
Leave it to the Qs to bring me back to normal. That and the fact we'd arrived at our destination, and their attention shifted to taking in the sites of the quaint town of Winterset, Iowa.
"This town is the setting for the book The Bridges of Madison County," Dolly said.
"I loved that movie. Clint Eastwood…ahh…" Alice sighed.
"I thought it was boring—both the book and the movie—and that hokey bathtub scene, yuk," Ramona added as she unbuckled.
"Let's focus, ladies." Thankfully Dolly, channeling her schoolteacher days, took control. "How about if we go inside and see what's going on, and Izzy checks on the unloading progress."
"Sounds great to me." After they got out of the car, I drove around the back and parked in an empty spot near the dock.
The place looked deserted except for a couple walking a few buildings down. I made my way up the ramp and peered into the back of the truck but didn't see a soul.
"Hello," I called as I glanced around. At ten minutes after twelve, I figured the workers must be at lunch.
Since I wasn't really hungry after nearly two hours of driving and munching on the Qs' sugar fixes, I figured a little physical exertion would do me good. Besides, the ladies had already decided we'd be dining at the famous Northside Cafe later and mentioned something about coconut cake for dessert, so color me there.
As I walked, I contemplated how best to set up displays—should I do so by color or by design motif or by time period? I wanted to do this right, even if it was the one and only time I ventured into this role as quilt show artistic director.
Curious, I eased toward the back of the truck to see if there was some kind of display structure to help me organize. I figured while the workers were still MIA, I could get a lot done without their help.
I located some rolling display racks behind one of the boxes, complete with padded hangers. Sifting through the array of quilts I'd found in the first few boxes, I hung them up one by one, not bothering to sort yet. But I'd already run out of display rack space.
There had to be more racks somewhere amongst all these boxes. I shifted some of the smaller boxes around until I spotted a large box against the back of the truck. Since the box was too heavy and cumbersome to move, I ripped open a corner, peered inside, and spotted what looked like a blue moving blanket.
It looked promising, but I needed a closer look. I hoisted myself onto the top and looked inside with my trusty cell phone flashlight app. The sides started to buckle from my weight, and the box bulged at the bottom as the load shifted. I started to tumble and grabbed on to the corner of the box. The box ripped open, sending me sprawling to the bottom of the truck.
A blue blanket landed with a thump next to me. A shot of reddish fur peeked out the top, causing a girlish squeal to erupt from me. Since the fur didn't move, I assumed the rodent was dead. But that didn't make it less creepy.
I scrambled to a standing position, but just as I was about to walk away and wait for the manly types to deal with a dead animal, I spotted what looked like a pair of stilettos sticking out of the other side of the quilt. Scenes of déjà vu poked behind my eyeballs.
Do. Not. Faint.
I kept repeating the mantra until I fell to the bottom of the truck in a heap. I mustn't have been out long because there was a guy standing in front of me when I opened my eyes.
"Lady, are you okay?"
A little drool had begun dribbling down my chin. As discretely as possible, I wiped the spot with the sleeve of my sweatshirt.
The man took a few steps back, his tall frame blocking out the little bit of sun filtering through. "I'm Gus, the guy in charge of the crew. Is there a problem?"
I shook my head and struggled to get up. "I'm fine…" But I was having trouble catching my breath.
He grasped my arm and helped steady me. "Look at me and follow my breaths before you pass out again. Slow down. One…" Forcing me to stare at him, he smiled as he coached my breaths in and out in a regular pattern.
"Thank you." The dizziness dissipated within a few minutes.
"Are you sure you're okay? You look really shaky." He scrutinized my face, a worried look reflected in the crease of his brow. "I'll call the paramedics, and they can check you out. Did you faint and hit your head? You could have a concussion."
I didn't want to go there even while I knew I had no choice. "It's just that… Well… I'm pretty sure there's a dead body in that box." I pointed toward the corner with a trembling finger. "I kind of fainted when I saw high heels connected to a pair of legs. That's as far as I got before, well…"
"Dead body?" His voice rose on the end like he was torn between bolting and staying. I can relate. In any event, he put some distance between us like I had the plague. Not that I blamed him.
"It didn't look like a mannequin, but the lighting isn't great, so maybe I am wrong." And wishful thinking seems like a great way to deal with the inevitable.
"I came back ahead of my guys and spotted the open truck. I'm pretty sure my guys locked it when we left. If you really think there's a dead body, you should call the police." He started to make a hasty exit, so I did what I do best in times of stress.
I kept rambling to get him to stay.
"I'm Izzy, and I came here from Inez with the Qs—they're ladies who quilt…well they kind of quilt. But they do appreciate the fabrics and watching Murder, She Wrote. They're a feisty bunch who like to…"
"Are you sure you're okay? I mean, are you really sure there's a body?" His voice cracked.
Time for me to calm down and take a breath. No way this could be happening to me again. Besides, my imagination sometimes got the best of me. "You're right. Maybe it was a mannequin. They could be using it for a prop for the show." It made perfect sense, and I
managed a smile at my silliness.
So I pulled up my big girl panties, and we both peeked over the edge of the box. My gaze travelled up the legs past the fur coat. Just as I'd convinced myself it was the most lifelike mannequin I'd ever seen, I spotted the giant bullet hole smack dab in the middle of the woman's forehead.
"Oh no. It's Lori." He started backing away, the dots of tears in his eyes.
"You know her?"
"You don't understand." He shook his head. "I just got out of jail, and they'll assume the worst if I stay here." Before I knew it, he'd jumped onto the dock. "You need to contact the police, lady. I'm sorry I can't stay. If I stick around, they'll arrest me for sure." He made that parting comment before he started running.
I didn't blame him. Most people didn't want to get involved in something like murder. Well neither did I, but it kept happening anyway.
I must have adapted to seeing dead bodies because rather than faint, I slumped to the floor and dialed 9-1-1.
Some things a gal had to do sitting down.
CHAPTER TWO
"Ma'am, are you alright?" The cop helped me to my feet despite my heebie-jeebies and a prevailing sense of déjà vu.
"Another dead body?" My voice seemed to croak out the half sentence, half statement of truth. "New York I could understand…" I shook my head, knowing I shouldn't divulge the depth of what my life had been like over the last couple of months. Besides, no one would believe it.
Boring Iowa? Ha, I beg to differ. This place was a hotbed of dead bodies in my experience.
"Is there more than one dead body in this trailer?" He drew his gun like the murderer might still be inside.
I shook my head so vigorously I gave myself an instant headache. What was it about Iowa? Was I some kind of dead-body magnet?
Living in New York all my life, I would have expected this kind of stuff to happen, but not in the middle of cornfields and quilt shows. It didn't seem fair. I wasn't prepared for all this drama, despite my ability to escape relatively unscathed the last time a body was involved. A couple of massive bruises around my neck, a few hours getting checked out in the hospital, hair that looked like I'd stuck my finger in an electrical socket, but besides all that, I'd fared pretty well.
