Nearly Dead in Iowa

by Wendy Byrne

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  NEARLY DEAD IN IOWA

  by

  WENDY BYRNE

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  Copyright © 2016 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.

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  CHAPTER ONE

  I chewed my lip. Maybe once I got this thing behind me, I'd be able to find a sense of peace.

  After parking the car in front of the old Victorian, I made my way toward the house. A cacophony of chirping crickets nearly deafened me as I followed the cracked sidewalk, walked up four steps, and knocked on the door.

  What did I call the father I'd never known? Dad, Daddy, Tony, Mr. Gallione? I pushed back thoughts of worry and self-doubt. He'd sounded nice enough in his letter and our subsequent emails. I'm sure it would all work out fine, even if he happened to be my last chance at figuring out what I wanted to do with the rest of my life after getting kicked out of my Manhattan townhome by my soon-to-be ex. No pressure there, dear old Dad.

  Darkness had come over the sleepy town of Inez, Iowa about an hour or so ago, and the porch light hadn't been left on for me. Should I take that as a sign? Then again, I hadn't given him an exact time in my last email. I'd said Tuesday sometime after seven—and we hadn't exchanged cell phone numbers for reasons that spoke more about our estrangement than anything else. Maybe he'd had something more pressing to attend to than meeting with his long-lost daughter. I fought away thoughts of defeat. I'd come too far to turn back now.

  Butterflies lit up my stomach as I listened for sounds of life emanating from the other side of the door. The shuffling of steps, a TV playing in the background, the flush of a toilet—I'd pretty much take anything at this point.

  But nothing except for the obnoxious cricket serenade.

  Maybe he'd gone to bed? I glanced at my watch. Five minutes after nine. I guess it was possible—old people went to bed early, didn't they?

  Or maybe I needed to knock a little louder. He might be hard of hearing for all I knew. Instead of using my knuckles, I made a fist and used the side of my hand to pound. The door creaked open, and I cautiously slipped inside.

  I wanted to call out his name, but couldn't decide if I should say Dad or Tony. Instead of either, I settled for the path of least resistance.

  "Is anybody home?"

  Silence.

  Even if I was two hours later than anticipated, I'd expected he'd wait around for me. Wasn't that what fathers did? Never having had one, I could only speculate.

  The place was dark as a cave and a little spooky. I could barely see a hand in front of my face. I rummaged through my purse to find my phone, but remembered I'd left it on the front passenger seat when I'd checked my email. Instead, I brushed my shoulder along the wall trying to feel my way to a light switch. I had a really bad feeling about this as what ifs tumbled through my brain.

  As serendipitous as his original letter had been, another ugly thought popped into my head: how did I know this guy was actually my father? I'd taken off on a trip to the middle of nowhere without even a scintilla of evidence the guy was really who he said he was. What if he was some kind of crazed serial killer preying on recently-screwed-over-and-soon-to-be-divorced females looking for…that's where my paranoia ran off the rails.

  Focus.

  "Ouch." I hit my shin on what felt like a coffee table. Who in the right mind would put a table near the wall? Apparently my father, who liked to live in the dark as well. I shook my head and soldiered on.

  Finally, I stumbled upon a light switch. Except when I flipped it on, nothing happened. I found a second one with the same result. What if someone had cut off the power and was lurking in the dark?

  Punch-drunk crazy from exhaustion and stress rather than alcohol, my imagination easily slid into overdrive. I wrestled it back under control with several deep yoga breaths—at least learning to turn myself into a human pretzel had some benefits.

  "It's me, Isabella." I figured I should announce myself just in case I was mistaken for an intruder and bullets started to fly. Who knew what manner of mayhem took place in Iowa? For a gal who hadn't been any further west than the upper west side of Manhattan in years, I could only conjecture.

  Still silence, except for the sound of my own breathing.

  All the courage I possessed started leaking out of me like a sieve, and the heebie jeebies took over. I headed toward what I guessed was the back of the house and tried to focus on why I'd made this trip in the first place. With my mother and grandparents dead, he was the only family I had left. It had sounded like a good idea at the time, but now I had some serious doubts. Not one to be dissuaded from something once I set my mind to it, stubbornness kicked into gear.

  "Hello. Anybody here?" The words came out in a shaky whisper.

  A strobe light broadcasting bad idea followed by what are you thinking? throbbed inside my brain. It felt like I was in my own version of a horror movie where I might scream at the main character, "Don't go down into the basement!" Of course the poor heroine always did, leading to all manner of bloody carnage. That was not going to be me. Yep. I definitely needed to reconsider this harebrained scheme or at least come back in the daylight hours where all those things that went bump in the night were no longer fueling my imagination.

  That was the first brilliant thought I'd had since I'd stumbled inside. I could check on dear old Dad in the morning. With my mind made up, I headed toward the front door and picked up my pace.

  Carefully, I avoided the killer coffee table that no doubt had left a bruise the size of Texas on my right shin. Since I didn't want a matching one on my left, I stayed at arm's length from the wall. I gingerly felt the way with my fingertips.

  Before I reached the safety of the front door, I tripped and went crashing to the floor. On my hands and knees and with my arms outstretched, I patted the floor and tried not to think about what I might not see, like mouse droppings and creepy crawly stuff.

  I swiped a wide arch with my right hand and encountered something solid. It felt like…skin. I sucked in a breath. It had to be my imagination. But then I touched what felt like fingers. Then a torso.

  And I let out a scream that might have knocked some plaster off the walls. And then I think I might have done something really girly and passed out.

  * * *

  "I've called the police," a male voice grumbled, while a flashlight blinded me from getting a good look at the man behind the voice.

  The fog inside my head cleared incrementally. My father. Dark house. "It's me, Isabella, your daughter. I know I'm later than I expected…ahem…don't you have any l
ights?" I blew out a breath, thankful that I wasn't alone, and I sat up and wrapped my arms around my knees before slowly getting to a standing position. "The craziest thing happened. I thought I tripped over a body." I giggled, confirming my gone-off-the-deep-end status.

  "I don't know who you think I am, but I guarantee you are not my daughter. I'll let the sheriff straighten it out when he comes here to arrest you for murder."

  "Murder?" I gulped, trying to dislodge a wad of sudden fear stuck in my throat. "There really is a dead guy here?" If this guy wasn't my father, I could only hope the dead guy wasn't him. After all these years of not knowing him, I would hate to think he died before we'd had a chance to annoy each other.

  Before the stranger could answer, the sound of sirens came to a halt in front of the house. Seconds later, the door opened wide, and a man in a uniform with an industrial-sized, battery-powered lantern peered inside. He would have looked large and in charge even without a uniform because he had a big honking gun and was aiming it at me. "I'm Sheriff Nate Crowder. Just stay where you are, and we won't have any trouble."

  Gulp.

  The closest I'd ever come to being arrested was when I'd had an Angela Bassett moment like in Waiting to Exhale. But rather than burn my soon-to-be ex-husband Joseph's clothes, I'd donated his collection of Hugo Boss suits to charity. Joseph had not been happy. Personally, I'd found the whole experience empowering even if his attorney had threatened to have me arrested.

  I held my shaky hands into the air and hoped for the best. "I swear to you I tripped over the body. I came here to meet with my father." Thankfully, he nodded and re-holstered his gun, and I could relax—at least a little.

  I glanced in the direction of the guy who'd blinded me with his menacing flashlight earlier. Now that I had a good look at him due to the sheriff's lantern, I saw he was much closer to my age of thirty than my father's age. Towering over my five feet seven inches, with dark hair and eyes and an intimidating stare, he glowered at me. Most people I knew in New York would rather run the other way than get involved with something as messy as murder, but still this guy had come out of nowhere and intervened. I couldn't help but wonder why or if he was the murderer trying to make me look guilty.

  "Tony Gallione doesn't have a daughter." The stranger didn't even try to hide his skepticism.

  "We…ah…haven't exactly met. I don't even know what…he looks like." I watched as a couple of officers came inside and snooped around the body with giant flashlights. I tried not to look but, like a train wreck, I couldn't help but spare a glance out of the corner of my eye. And it wasn't pretty—gray skin, lips with a bluish tinge, and a kind of grimace on his face—had me wishing I hadn't looked. "That's not him, is it?" Neither one responded since they were too busy chatting amongst themselves.

  I wanted to scream at both of them "Is it my father or not?" but refrained. Maybe they thought I might break down if they validated it was dear old Dad. How could I explain I wouldn't without sounding like I was making it all up?

  How could I tell them about the circumstances of my birth when I didn't really know them myself? The only thing I knew without question was that the timing of the letter my father had sent to me had been perfect. I'd needed to get out of Manhattan. Granted, I'd envisioned a nice sojourn in Paris to fill my wounded soul, but, given my limited funds, Iowa had been my only option. Besides, I'd thought it would be a wonderful opportunity to learn more about the man I'd never met—or that's what I'd kept reassuring myself. I'd never talked to or heard from him until now. For the longest time I'd thought I had been conceived through an anonymous sperm bank donor since my mother had never mentioned him and had avoided answering any questions I might have asked.

  Weird that he'd chosen now to decide to get to know me. But I wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth as they say. I just hadn't expected the gift horse to be in the middle of nowhere and possibly dead.

  Iowa.

  If I thought about it too long, it sounded like a death sentence. What could people do for fun here? Tractor pulls? Cow tipping? Corn mazes? Strangers and cops interrogating me like I was Lizzie Borden? Snapshots of the Manhattan skyline passed through my mind for a wistful moment. I really wished I could just click my heels together, except I didn't have those magic ruby slippers to transport me out of this hellhole.

  "What do you mean you never met him?" the stranger rather than the cop asked, jarring me out of my reverie. The cop gave him a what-do-you-think-you're-doing look out of the corner of his eye.

  "It's complicated. For the longest time I thought he'd died because my mother never mentioned him. But then he sent me a letter while I was going through a nasty divorce…and it seemed serendipitous to get to know him." I was rambling like a fool but couldn't seem to stop myself. Even though the cop had holstered his gun, he still was looking at me like I was a shade past bat-crap crazy.

  "Let's start at the beginning. What's your name?" He parked his lantern on the floor, illuminating the room more than I would have expected.

  Not only could I see the room, but I now had a good visual of the two men as well. Opposite ends of the spectrum in terms of coloring and temperament—one had dark hair and eyes and a broody demeanor, and the other had dusty blond hair and blue eyes with a hint of compassion in their depths. They seemed about the same age. And if I had to guess, they'd known each other a very long time based on the way the two of them seemed to communicate without saying anything out loud.

  "Isabella Lewis Fleming, but I've dropped the Fleming part because of my divorce from Joseph Fleming. He's a famous real estate developer in New York. Maybe you've heard of him." I shook my head to clear my thoughts, especially since they were both looking at me like I'd grown another head in the intervening minute or so. "Anyway, I've lived in Manhattan all my life, mostly near Central Park, upper east side in the most amazing townhome overlooking the…" My tendency to ramble when nervous once again reared its ugly head. Deep breath. Focus. "My mother died two years ago, and my father was the only family I had left. Before you ask, I have no idea why he chose to contact me at this particular time or why he wasn't here to greet me. Or why there was a dead guy when I got here. Or frankly how or when the guy died." I forced down the vision of the dead body along with the sensation of his clammy skin that made me want to scrape my fingertips raw with a Brillo pad.

  The stranger grumbled something under his breath, granting him a scowl from the sheriff. With very little legal experience, except for Law and Order reruns, the whole interrogation—if that's what this was—seemed odd. Maybe it was another thing about Iowa that I'd have to adjust to. Wait a red-hot minute. Hopefully this was the first and only dead body I'd ever come in contact with either in Iowa or anywhere else.

  I rolled my eyes and gave the stranger man a glare. "I'm sorry, who did you say you were?"

  He eyed me with a don't-mess-with-me snarl before he spoke. "Gabe Carnes, your father's next-door neighbor. You might remember me, I'm the one who came running when you screamed." He didn't offer his hand, and I didn't extend mine.

  I mimicked his snarl. "Or you were here when I came in and murdered the guy yourself." Feeling the tiniest bit of satisfaction at landing a fairly good zinger, I returned my attention to the sheriff. "As I was saying, my father sent me a note." I started digging in my purse, but the sheriff stopped me with a move towards his gun once again.

  "Why don't you hand that purse over to me?" He did a come-on sign with his fingers, and I gingerly handed over my prized Stella McCartney bag.

  "His letter is folded in the zippered pocket in front. He sent it to me about a month ago, sharing his email address as well as an offer to reconnect, although technically it's more like an introduction rather than a reconnection, but…" When I glanced at the men and spotted that familiar vacant expression on their faces once again, I hesitated. "That's neither here nor there now." I grimaced. "You're one hundred percent sure that dead guy isn't my father, right? I mean, you haven't told me either way."
<
br />   "This guy isn't Tony Gallione." The sheriff shook his head as he examined the letter.

  Despite my ambivalence about meeting my father to begin with, I felt relieved that the dead body wasn't him. At the same time, I couldn't help but wonder who the guy was but had no intention of asking either one of these two men as no doubt they'd take my curiosity as something sinister.

  "The letter looks legit, assuming you have emails to confirm the meeting tonight." Instead of waiting for a response, he pulled out my wallet and found my driver's license and looked confused.

  "I know it's a horrible picture. I was going through a tough time, and…well, the grumpy lady at the DMV refused to retake it. I think she might have…" I glanced up and spotted their strange expressions and stopped mid-sentence.

  He shook his head. "This your address?"

  Relieved he wasn't talking about my DMV photo mishap, I nearly missed the skeptical look he gave me. How did I convey that I technically didn't have an address at the moment without sounding pathetic?

  "It's where I lived with my ex-husband." Maybe that would suffice.

  "So what's your current address?"

  Somehow I knew he was going to get around to asking me that. "I don't have a permanent residence as of yet. I had planned on visiting with my father and then deciding on where to hang my hat so to speak." I smiled, hoping he'd lighten up.

  "That your fancy car outside with the New York plates?" He pointed in the vague direction of the street.

  I almost laughed. If he only knew the fancy car's engine had been making a knocking noise for the last five hundred miles and pretty much needed the constant attention of a mechanic. On top of that, I had to use the emergency Fix-a-Flat thing on a tire that had gone wonky. Of course Joseph would give me the POS car as part of his meager divorce settlement that had yet to be finalized. It was my own fault for signing that prenup that specified I'd get very little if the marriage lasted less than five years—which it did by less than nine months.