by Wendy Byrne
"It might not be murder." Despite being a little shell-shocked due to the circumstances, I finally found my voice.
"Stan was a healthy guy. He got around with the ladies if you know what I mean," the same woman added. "Both he and your dad always had a woman on their arm."
"You look so much like your father, I can't believe it," another said.
"That's what I told her yesterday. She's a little worried Nate's going to jump to conclusions—if it turns out Stan was murdered," Viola said.
"Did you all know my father?" When they nodded, I continued, thirsty for answers to questions I hadn't thought about until the whole dead body thing. "How long has he lived here?"
"He moved here when he was in junior high with his mom. Rumor had it his dad died in the war."
"Didn't he move out just before he graduated high school?" I think it was Alice this time, but seriously, these ladies needed to wear nametags.
"The rumor was he got Marcy Henning pregnant and skipped town. Who knows if that was true?"
The idea I could possibly have a sibling made my chest hurt. As a little girl I would have loved to have a brother or sister. Now I wasn't sure. Getting adjusted to having a father was tough enough.
"When did he move back to town?" Asking these questions might be the only way I could learn something about my dad.
"About thirty years ago and bought his house. Paid cash as I understand."
"Somebody said he came into some money suddenly. The gossip around town was that one of his get-rich-quick schemes finally came through."
"Or got paid off by somebody, who knows for what…" When everyone looked the woman's way, she cleared her throat. "Not that it was something bad, necessarily."
"Thirty years?" My voice cracked when I asked the question. The pessimist in me couldn't help but wonder if it had something to do with my birth. Since nobody knew about me, it wasn't a stretch that he might have been paid off by my uptight grandparents. They'd died when I was twenty-five. They seemed to have no use for their wayward daughter, aka my mother, and had kept both of us at a distance. As I got older, I'd suspected it had something to do with my fatherless status.
"Oh, honey, everyone loves your father. He's charming and fun. Although I'll admit he keeps to himself a lot and is a bit mysterious." I couldn't even be sure which one of the four said the reassuring words as my mind had become preoccupied with my father's sudden influx of cash thirty years ago.
"But like Peter Pan, he never quite grew up," Viola added.
"If you don't mind ladies, I think I'll go upstairs. There's a beautiful claw-foot tub that's calling my name." Without another word, I walked up the stairs to my bathroom—kind of scary how quickly I'd adapted to Viola's home.
I turned on the water to a notch below scalding and shed my clothes. Unable to wait until it had filled, I sat inside and let the steaming water slowly fill the spaces around me. When I leaned back with my head against the rim, I could forget.
I had just closed my eyes and gotten the visions of the body that I now knew was Stan out of my head when there was a knock at the door. "I'm sorry to disturb you, but Nate's on the phone for you."
I figured this could be either good or bad. But did I really know the difference between the two nowadays? If he'd found my father, I'd more than likely be getting to know him behind prison bars. On the other hand, if they'd found his body…
"I'll be right there." I hurriedly dried off and slipped on my robe before I opened the door. All the ladies had lined up behind Viola, not making any pretense of hiding their eavesdropping. I picked up the phone. "Sheriff Crowder?"
"We have reason to believe Stan was poisoned as the substance in the glass retrieved at the scene tested positive for opioids. Since your dad was last seen at Otis's Bar having an argument with Stan, I'd like to talk to him. If you hear from your father, I need you to contact me immediately." He said the last sentence like he didn't trust me and then promptly hung up.
No doubt I was standing there with my mouth open because the ladies were all quietly staring when I glanced up. Viola placed a hand at my elbow. "Is everything alright? Do you need a chair, dear?"
If an eighty-plus-year-old woman looked at me like I was about to pass out, I knew I was in trouble.
CHAPTER THREE
The ladies huddled around me at the table with some tea and coffee cake. To be honest, I could use a stiff drink about now, but thought it might be rude to ask, especially since we barely knew each other and it wasn't even noon yet.
"They're pretty sure Stan was poisoned." Okay, I'd managed to spit out the first part of the revelation. Now the hard part. "Nate's practically tried and convicted my father because he and Stan had an argument at Otis's Bar." It was clear from the start they had a high opinion of Nate. The fact that I was questioning his conclusion more than likely wouldn't go over well. When I finally had the courage to look up, I saw sad expressions on their faces.
Not helping.
"Well dear, there's only one thing for us to do then—find the real guilty party." Viola glanced around at the others. "Don't you think, ladies?"
"I'm pretty good at solving mysteries. I love those Agatha Christie books," one of the ladies volunteered.
"And I've seen every Murder She Wrote several times. It's always the one you least expect," another added.
"And I love that Monk show. He always figures it out," the lady wearing tennis shoes remarked.
"It's never the obvious one like your dad," the first one said. "Nothing against Nate, but, as they say, sometimes you have to think outside the box. You know those police types. They don't always get things right the first time. Sometimes they need a little push in the right direction."
"Like the time—well, this was before Nate—that old codger Dwight was in charge of investigating stuff. I swear the man was blinder than a bat. Hit my mailbox every time he pulled out of my driveway. Anyway, he accused my nephew of stealing the stop sign by the school to use as a wall decoration in his room."
"What was Dwight doing in your driveway?" one asked while the others snickered.
I so didn't want the picture that flashed before my eyes, especially when it appeared that the guilty party blushed. What had I gotten myself into? Was this some kind of Peyton Place for seniors?
"Nate's been here less than six months, but he has a lot of experience, which is always a good thing," Viola said.
"And wait until you see that little girl of his, Emily. She is beyond precious." One took a sip of her tea. "Most times he has his neighbor Karen take care of her, but sometimes he brings her here, and we have such a great time."
"Let's get back to our point which is that the police don't always have all the answers. Sometimes it takes a type of objectivity gained through years of living in this place," Viola said.
"And let's not forget that old standby, women's intuition," tennis-shoe-wearing lady said.
This was way too much drama for me. Maybe I should leave. I have no allegiance to my father. More than likely he had abandoned me after being bought off by my grandparents. No doubt he needed money and probably thought I'd be some kind of cash cow. As long as Nate could contact me by phone, I should be fine.
Tears prickled my lashes, but I wasn't sure why. I heard a collective gasp from the ladies.
"Maybe I should put a little something in your tea," Viola suggested as she walked to one of the cabinets. "A little brandy can't hurt."
Without waiting for me to respond, she splashed a liberal amount in my cup before doing the same with her own and all the other ladies' as well. I was beginning to appreciate the way they rolled.
I wasn't sure if they were humoring me or not, but maybe I should do a little investigating like they suggested. It couldn't hurt, and maybe it would get my mind off my troubles and it might help me discover a little more about my father.
"Where do you think we should start?" I wanted to find my dad—at least I think I did—if for no other reason than to give him a piec
e of my mind. I'd never seen any of those shows, or read any of those books, but I'd seen Law & Order. I wondered if that would count with these ladies. They seemed kind of old school with their TV watching.
"I heard your father and Stan had some lady friends in Anton, so I think we should try there first."
"We need to get an early start, so I suggest we do some planning today and make our first trip tomorrow." The woman rubbed her hands doing a spot-on imitation of Dr. Evil from Austin Powers.
"Oh no." Viola glanced out the window and got up from her chair. "It's Gabe. Hurry up, let's get into the sewing room so he won't think we're up to something."
I trailed behind as they made their way to a room in the back of the house. A quilt with pieced fabric stretched over an old-fashioned frame dominated the room. Like in a fire-drill practice, the ladies got into their seats faster than lightning. Obviously, they'd pulled this ruse before.
"I think we should give this to the Ladies Auxiliary. What do you think?" Viola asked on cue as Gabe peeked inside the doorframe.
He walked over and kissed her on the cheek before doing the same to the others. When he got to me, he stopped and glared—not with the intensity of last night—but a glare all the same. I did the mature thing and glared back.
"Haven't you ladies been working on this same quilt for a while?" Based on the look on his face, he wasn't buying the fabrication they were selling.
"It takes time to create a work of art," Viola responded, bringing her needle through the fabric like a pro.
"What's your role here?" I couldn't be sure if it was some kind of accusation he hurled my way or if he was still cranky from last night.
"I'm an artist, so they asked for my input on the combination of colors—that kind of thing." For an impromptu answer I thought I did pretty well.
"I didn't know you were an artist." Just when I was giving myself a secret high-five for my quick response to his rude question, one of the ladies sold me down the river by outing the fact I hadn't revealed my artistic background.
Gabe's left eyebrow rose as he smirked at me. I gave him the evil eye.
"I have a degree in art. Mostly I work in charcoal, but have been known to do some work in oil as well." Joseph had never encouraged my artistic side, and I'd allowed him for many years to dictate what I should and shouldn't be doing as the wife of The Joseph Fleming, so I hadn't picked up a brush in years. But those days were over now. In fact, all the paintings I'd already finished were being shipped to Iowa at this very moment. My supplies were stashed in one of my suitcases.
"Maybe you could do a drawing of my granddaughter. They live in Anton. We could all take a day trip there tomorrow. Don't you think that would be an excellent idea, Viola?" The woman nodded her head vigorously, completely overselling the idea.
"Positively wonderful. It will give us a good chance to show Isabella our lovely countryside." I had the feeling they were orchestrating this for Gabe's benefit, but I wasn't sure why except that he and Nate were tight. What Gabe knew he'd share with Nate, so they were covering their collective butts about our plans for tomorrow.
Yes, they were definitely my kind of ladies.
"Don't take Viola's car. It's on the fritz." Either he didn't want the group to be set loose into the countryside, or he didn't want her to drive.
"I'll drive." I chewed on my fingernail and tried to decide whether or not to divulge my tire situation. In the end, safety won out. "But I'll need a new tire. I used Fix-a-Flat on the way here. Any gas stations in town?"
He huffed like I was putting him out by answering the question. "I'll have Ron pick it up and get it done for you. He'll have it back by morning."
"Thank you. That would be great." I gave him my sweetest smile.
"Can I talk to you for a minute, Grandma?"
Wait a freakin' minute.
Viola was Gabe's grandmother?
Thank goodness I hadn't talked smack about him earlier when the subject of last night had come up. That wouldn't have bode well for the remainder of my stay in Inez.
He helped Viola out of her chair and then ushered her out the door. While I couldn't hear what they were saying, it must not have been much since they returned a few minutes later.
"Do you still want me to look at that fence of yours, Dolly?" Gabe asked.
"Oh I nearly forgot. The darn dog keeps going over to the neighbors'. Who knows what kind of mischief that might start," Dolly responded.
"I meant to ask you when you might have a chance to hang that front door of mine?" one of the other ladies asked.
"How about the beginning of next week, Ramona?"
"Whenever you can fit me in. You know us old people, we have a lot of time on our hands."
"That's what I'm afraid of," Gabe grumbled before walking out the door.
"Such a nice grandson you have, Viola," Ramona said.
I didn't notice anything about him except the way he looked at me like I was a murderer. I couldn't help but wonder if he thought I had somehow conspired with my father—the same one I didn't even know—to murder Stan. Even to me, the idea sounded beyond ridiculous. But apparently Gabe thought anything was possible. Should I be suspicious of Viola as well?
She'd been nothing but kind to me. I felt the same way about her friends. But it wasn't like I was stellar in seeing the truth in people. Joseph had fooled me into complacency for quite some time until I figured out his agenda—which basically meant using me until he found the next perfect society woman to have on his arm at all his social events. It was when I got a little too assertive and voiced my own opinions that our marriage had soured. Which worked out fine for me—except for my near poverty status.
But I made it all this way on my own despite Joseph's commitment to screw me over.
I am woman. Hear me roar.
But I was taking the next step on my own. Besides, I didn't think what I had in mind would work too well with the senior citizen crowd.
* * *
I slipped out after Viola went to bed. Luckily for me she was one of those early-to-bed, early-to-rise types, so I made it out the door by ten. Just in case she got up, I left a note indicating I'd gone for a walk.
It didn't take me long to find the place. Then again, in this backward one-horse town at ten o'clock in the evening, all I needed to do was look for lights and a bit of noise. The night had brought a break from the steamy September temperatures, so I'd dressed in jeans and a sleeveless print top and sandals.
In the distance, the rumble of thunder broke through the quiet night. This mission for information had better happen quickly if I hoped to get home without getting drenched.
A crooked sign hung outside the place with the lights on the S burned out—OTI—looking like an advertisement for some kind of communicable disease. I put my game face on, opened the door, and walked inside.
The small confines had more patrons than I might have imagined. They sat at scarred wooden tables while a jukebox played in the background. Everyone seemed to eye me with glances ranging from unfriendly to accusatory as I strolled to the bar and plopped myself onto a stool.
Dig for information and head back to Viola's was the strategy for the evening. Two bartenders worked behind a massive bar that took up at least a third of the floor space. One appeared to be in his fifties or so. The other appeared to be in his early twenties. When the younger one smiled and came my way, I liked my odds of success in getting him to open up about what happened between my father and Stan the other night.
"Good evening. You Tony's daughter?"
As I suspected, word got around fast about the new woman in town. "Yep." I nodded and gave him a flirtatious smile. "I'd love a glass of whatever light beer you have on tap."
"Sure thing." He drew me a draft and set it down on a coaster in front of me. "On the house for the new lady in town."
"Thank you. I'm Isabella by the way." I held out my hand and he grasped it.
"Jeremy."
"If you're Jeremy, is that
Otis?" I pointed toward the other bartender before taking a gulp.
"Naw, that's my dad. He manages the place, and I help out. Otis is the guy who owns this place and a couple of others in the area. I think the name has something to do with an old TV show."
"In Andy of Mayberry, the town drunk was Otis." I started to giggle. This town was a cliché inside a cliché inside a cliché. But none of this was getting me to the reason I came here. I needed to figure out a way to break out the questions without being too obvious.
"Your dad and Stan were pretty much regulars here."
"So I hear." And suddenly the whole thing fell into my lap. I gulped the remainder of the beer to secretly celebrate. "Were you here the night my dad and Stan were fighting?" No doubt I was flirting with the law in some way shape or form, but I'd plead ignorance if need be.
He nodded and poured me another beer. "It started over a woman and escalated from there. I've never seen your dad so angry." His face took on a rosy flush. "We've got some hotheads in here, but Tony's normally not one of them. But that night…" He shook his head. "He took a swing at Stan, and Stan reciprocated. A couple of the guys here pulled them apart and kept it from going any further."
A temper tantrum didn't mean my dad was guilty. I doubted Sheriff Crowder saw it that way, however. Instead of dwelling on the negative and maybe because tossing down the beer had gone to my head a bit, I crooked my finger so that Jeremy inched closer. "I heard Stan was poisoned."
"Really? I hadn't heard that." He grabbed hold of my arm in an effort to get closer, or maybe he was flirting with me, or maybe I was flirting with him. "I don't see Tony poisoning his best friend no matter what."
His validation made me feel better. "Did you know my dad well?"
He nodded. "He hung around here a lot. Most times with Stan, but sometimes they had lady friends." He shook his head. "Shame about Stan. He was a nice guy."
"What do you know about my dad?" I sipped at the beer.
He eased into a smile. "Tony was a good guy. He got a bad rap because he had a tendency to mess with other men's women. That kind of thing is never going to end well." He shook his head.
