Nearly Dead in Iowa

by Wendy Byrne

  His voice yanked me out of investigative mode. It took me a couple of beats to re-establish my rhythm. "Thought it was the least I could do."

  "You wouldn't be snooping around and doing your own investigation, right?"

  "Why would you think that?" I tried not to fidget and give myself away.

  "Gabe told me you were at Otis's asking questions and flirting with Jeremy."

  "I was being friendly. Nothing more. I didn't realize that was some kind of crime in Inez."

  "It is if you're interfering with an investigation."

  "You've made it clear that I need to butt out, so far be it for me to go against direct orders from an official of the government."

  He smiled and shook his head. "What is it you said your ex did in New York?"

  "Real estate development. Is that a crime too?"

  "Rumor has it your divorce was pretty messy and he screwed you out of money. Seems like you might be pretty desperate for cash if that's true."

  "Let's see where you're headed with this. My husband was such a jerk I came to Inez to kill Stan for a father who I never met and am now somehow protecting." I nodded my head. "Oh yeah, that makes perfect sense."

  "I'm trying to come up with a legitimate reason why you're here. And why you're hanging out with a bunch of old ladies."

  "I like them. They're fun, and besides, they're showing me all about…quilting. So if you have a problem with that, you're even more desperate than I thought you were."

  His eyebrow rose. "What do you mean by desperate?"

  "You're trying to find something wrong with me so I can be labeled as the bad guy—the stranger in town who's up to no good. But I assure you that's not the case. I don't…" I started to say "I have no place else to go" but held back. "I'm going to hang around until my father returns."

  "That might be a while now that the heat's turned up." He looked at me like he wanted to find a chink in my armor that he could capitalize on. I refused to let him see even a hint of vulnerability as I stared back at him. "In case he does contact you, make sure to let me know."

  "You'll be the first on my list." Sarcasm dripped from each word I spoke. "And if you could let me know when you've cleared the house, I'd love to have a chance to look inside."

  "What would you be looking for?" Even his expressionless face couldn't hide the fact that he was curious.

  "Mementos, pictures, letters, anything to help me get to know my father, not the one you or anyone else is going out of their way to portray."

  "Shouldn't be long before it's cleared. Once we're done you can snoop all you want." Without another word he walked away. Despite my flippant words, I couldn't help but wonder what I might find at my father's home.

  During my conversation with Sheriff Crowder, the service had finished, the ladies had gathered by the tree we'd designated, and I had developed an overwhelming need to head back to Viola's and sort through my feelings.

  Right now I was tired and cranky and wanted to revert back to my old life. Pronto. This whole mess of Inez was not in my wheelhouse, and I wanted out. But the part that kept me there—besides the living-on-a-shoestring thing—was discovering the mystery of my father.

  I walked towards the ladies, feeling sadder by the step. They seemed to be having a good time laughing at something that Alice had said.

  "Anybody find out anything?"

  Viola spoke first. "I learned that Sally was wearing sunglasses because her husband Phil beat her up last night. I saw evidence of the shiner when she wiped away a tear. Shows he's got a temper."

  "Didn't see Otis hanging around, but I overheard one of his friends say that Tony and Stan sucked Otis into investing money into an oil field that turned dry. Said he lost fifty grand," Ramona said.

  "I heard Bud, from the bowling alley in Prince, talk about how Stan and Tony caught him in a pyramid scheme a while ago," Dolly added.

  "And a woman who said that Tony was the love of her life, but then he stopped calling and hooked up with somebody else. She didn't sound very happy. I don't know her name, but she's on a bowling league in Prince," Alice said.

  I thought through the possibilities in my head. We had Phil, Otis, Bud, Sally, an unnamed bowling league lady, and could probably throw in Dr. Derek Hunter and his wife and the two ladies fighting over Stan. And this was only a couple of days into the investigation.

  "Are you joining us at the KC Hall?" Alice asked.

  I shook my head. "I'm going to head back to Viola's. I have a killer headache. You ladies let me know if you sniff out any more gossip."

  As I trudged through the grass to the parking lot, I trailed behind a well-dressed, gray-haired man in a suit arguing with another man. My ears perked up when I heard one of them say the name Tony and then let out a string of expletives before grumbling something about finding him and stringing him up.

  The muscles in my stomach clenched as I hurried to catch up. While I wasn't sure what I'd do once I got close, I figured I'd play it by ear. I tapped one of them on the shoulder.

  "I'm sorry. Do either of you know where the Knights of Columbus Hall is? I'm from out of town and want to pay my respects to Stan."

  Their agitation dissipated when they turned around. The well-dressed one smiled before grasping my elbow. "Well, honey, it's easy enough to find. Drive two blocks and then turn right at the first stop sign. Then turn left. You'll see it about a block down on the left."

  "Maybe I could follow you two gentlemen. I'm a klutz when it comes to following directions."

  "I don't know about M.C., but I have to do rounds, so I won't be attending." He did a visual sweep of my body from my ankles to my chest.

  I covered my revulsion with a tight smile. "Oh you're a doctor?" I tried for a flirty voice and hoped he didn't notice my clenched teeth.

  "Dr. Derek Hunter." The man gripped my hand and did another body perusal.

  "I'll catch up with you later about that issue, Derek. And nice to meet you, young lady." The other man named M.C. got into a black pickup truck with darkened windows. I tried to recall the stalker man's voice from the other night to see if it matched but couldn't say for sure.

  "Thanks for the directions." The last thing I wanted to do was give either man my name, so instead I waved good-bye and headed towards my car. I didn't think it was my imagination that I could feel Dr. Hunter's glare following me the entire way.

  By the time I got to my car, my hands were shaking even though I felt a kind of vindication at my new lists of suspects as well as the fact that my father wasn't the top on that list. That sense of euphoria lasted only seconds because I spotted a piece of paper stuck under the windshield wiper on the driver's side. Go back home. The message was written crudely with red magic marker. Even while the message wasn't threatening, I was glad Viola or the others weren't around to see it.

  But it validated I might be on the right track after all.

  CHAPTER SIX

  "I'm going for a run," I called to Viola the following morning as I hit the front steps. I had some serious thinking to do, and sitting around with the ladies for an hour or more drinking coffee and eating was not being productive as far as I could tell—except for the deliciousness part of it.

  Gabe had mentioned the trail by the high school the other day, and getting lost in the task of feet to pavement sounded like music to my ears right now. After yesterday and the day before, I wasn't sure I even wanted to find my father, let alone get to know him better. At this point, I wondered if I would cry if he ended up dead like his friend Stan. I immediately brushed away the thought that had been brought on no doubt by too much gossip and nosy sheriffs. I needed to refresh and recharge and make a decision one way or another.

  While I enjoyed Viola's company, residing there too long didn't seem healthy, even if she was charging me dirt-cheap rent. I jumped off the front porch and bounded down the street, my running shoes pounding on the uneven pavement. Curiosity had me circling past my father's house on the off chance he might make an appear
ance, but of course he was nowhere to be found.

  However, Gabe was raking leaves and gave me a less-than-heartfelt wave as I jogged past. No doubt he was still angry about the day before yesterday at Otis's Bar. But it served him right for being such a know-it-all even if he later saved me from unknown peril. If it was that M.C. guy following me the other night in his black pickup, I could have handled that guy with my pepper spray easily—no Gabe-to-the-rescue necessary.

  As I found the trail we'd driven past yesterday, a feeling of triumph surged through me. I welcomed that runner's high in my current world where I didn't know which fork I should choose in the road ahead—trying to find my father and clear his name or choosing the path of least resistance by finding a nice quiet town to hunker down in and figure out what to do with the rest of my life. After all the landmines I'd uncovered over the last couple of days about my father, I wasn't too sure staying around would be the right option. Even if he wasn't dead, he might be a murderer—not exactly a winning proposition either way.

  But then there was that weird note left on my car yesterday at the funeral. I couldn't help but be a little curious.

  Since Joseph was due to give me the last part of the settlement in a month or so, I had a big decision to make. While the settlement was a drop in the vast bucket that comprised the Joseph Fleming Empire, it would be the only money I had to survive until I could get a job. Considering I had no work history besides my charitable endeavors and an art degree, I wasn't sure who would hire me.

  I trudged up a hill where the path wore thin and the trees grew thick, but I continued on while my legs as well as my lungs burned. Considering I'd participated in the New York City Marathon last year, I expected to finish the trail easily but hadn't factored in a couple of months of feeling sorry for myself followed by sugar overload and these killer hills. And here I thought Iowa was flat—who knew?

  My labored breath told me to take a break, but my stubbornness shooed away the thought. Finally, I hit the top and sucked in a deep breath as I let my heart rate return to less than heart-attack zone. I bent over and stretched my legs to eliminate the cramping that had set in. But that caused a head rush and dizziness. Despite my newfound urge to get back to healthy eating, I'd wished I'd snagged a piece of coffee cake on the way out the door. The sugar buzz would have counteracted all this exertion.

  When somebody grabbed me from behind and stuck what felt like a gun in my back, fear overcame the dizziness quotient. "Do not turn around." The gruff voice kicked my depleting adrenaline rush up into the stratosphere. "Give up asking questions about what happened to Stan. Your father's dead." He shoved me hard as an explanation point to his threat.

  I tumbled to the ground scraping my palms and knees raw. My forehead and chin bounced off the gravel sprinkling them both with a whopping dose of road rash. I came up sputtering with a mouth full of dirt and crushed stone.

  Shock, followed by disbelief followed by terror, galloped up my back before a semblance of sanity returned. Panic settled in—alone on a desolate hillside, no one within screaming distance. I was pretty sure my attacker had run away after pushing me, but I didn't know for sure.

  Run, run, run, my brain chanted, and I obeyed.

  Not only was the trip down faster going downhill, but fear pushed me along. Was my father really dead? And if so, what would I do? Where would I find the answers to those burning questions deep inside my soul? Okay, I'd never thought that hard about the biological connection, but buried deep in a get-out-of-dodge mode, rational concepts flew out the window and primal instinct took over.

  I reached the entrance to the trail in record time, even while every muscle in my body trembled. Something oozed down my shin that felt suspiciously like blood, but I didn't look down. My first instinct was to do the smart thing and leave town as quickly as possible, but then that stubborn thing reared its ugly head. If I hadn't let Joseph dictate my life—except for the prenup he'd talked me into signing under duress the day before our wedding—I surely wouldn't allow a stranger to do it.

  Any ambivalence I might have felt about digging into what happened to Stan or my father disappeared, and renewed commitment to get this done surged to the forefront of my mind. Nobody puts Baby in the corner. And nobody tells me what to do.

  And that was that.

  I breezed past Gabe who was digging up a dead bush in his front yard. Even though he gave me a look that conveyed his inner thoughts—I suspected something like what-in-the-hell-happened-to-you—I trudged on. I wanted to get back home. I wobbled, then stutter-stepped. Why was I suddenly thinking of Viola's place as home?

  As quickly as the thought surfaced, I dismissed it. Now was not the time to examine the whys or wheres of anything but safety.

  "Izzy, stop," Gabe shouted. I continued to run even while tears slipped down my cheeks, and I mumbled something about getting to Viola's. When I stepped up the pace, my knee gave out, and I started to stumble. Before I hit the ground again, he grabbed my arm.

  I pushed him away, but he forced me upright and looked me in the eyes. "Blood is running down your leg. You need to take the pressure off." Without another word, he lifted me up and carried me to his truck. "I'll bring you to Viola's. She can take a look at it and see if you need a doctor."

  My body had dialed back the trembling, but my teeth had started to chatter. I could barely get a word out. "Fine." It came out more like one drawn out moan than a word.

  Moments later, we pulled in front of Viola's. He turned off the truck and put a hand on my arm when I started to open the door. "You're white as a ghost and your knee is pumping out blood. I know you're stubborn, but let me carry you inside."

  "I can walk." Do not look down. The mantra kept circling my brain. If there was as much blood as it felt like, I might do something girly once again in front of Gabe and faint.

  "I've got a clean bag of rags I can wrap around your knee before you try to move again." He reached behind the front seat to his toolbox and yanked out a multi-pack bag of rags. After ripping it open, he came to my side of the truck.

  "Wait." He prodded my knee with his fingers, and a tingle shot up and down my leg. "You've got a piece of glass stuck below your knee. I'm afraid if I take it out you'll start bleeding even more. I should take you to Doc. He'll clean it out and give you a couple of stitches."

  "It can't be that bad." When all else fails, minimize and procrastinate was my go-to motto. The idea of getting stitches seemed overkill. Then again, if there was glass involved, that meant germs and all manner of dirt along with it.

  "Here's the deal. Either you let me carry you, or I'll take you to the ER." He had his fingers on my arms and forced me to look at him.

  "That's blackmail." I tried to huff, but with all his talk about blood, I was feeling a little light-headed. "Besides, I'll be fine." I took a tentative step and felt the blood spurt from my knee. "Oww."

  He bent down to put one arm under my knees and the other arm across the middle of my back.

  "I'm tougher than I look right now. Honestly." Was I trying to convince him or myself? I couldn't be sure. Before he had time to make a comment, the front door burst open and the Qs rushed toward us. They did a whole lot of clucking around me as Gabe carried me inside.

  "What on earth happened?" they fussed as they examined my face, arms, and knees. That's when my forehead and chin dueled with my knee for attention. I felt like a little kid who didn't realize they were hurt until her mother started to panic. And I had four of them hovering around me while Gabe called someone on the phone.

  In many ways it felt good. My mother had never been the motherly type. Their clucking noises and looks of concern brought a rush of emotion causing my eyes to well. That kind of display would never have been tolerated with my mom when I'd been growing up, so the permission to indulge in my own little pity party over a few scrapes made me feel warm and tingly inside.

  "I took a little tumble." It was at that exact moment I realized that any decision I might make would p
otentially put them in danger as well. If I wanted to continue with this investigation, I needed to do it on my own and not involve them. I didn't know how I could accomplish that without piquing their interest or getting their feelings hurt, but I had to figure out a way.

  Somehow over the course of the last few days, I'd grown fond of these women. No doubt some psychologist would have a field day with my quick attachment, but right now I didn't care. They felt safe. But I needed to make sure they weren't impacted by my behavior.

  Viola's left eyebrow rose as she inspected the damage. With each prod and poke, I got a little more aware of the bruises and cuts I'd gained along the way. The idea of a nice long soak in the tub with the music on to obliterate the white noise going on inside my head sounded like heaven. Maybe then I would examine the lunacy of tackling this kind of thing on my own.

  "Are you sure? I noticed a dirty handprint on the back of your T-shirt like somebody pushed you."

  "Ahh…ahh…" Just like a little kid trying to come up with a plausible explanation, my hands started to flap like I might take off any second. Apparently my propensity toward over-sharing had tumbled into crazy hand gestures as well. "A man kind of pushed me after he told me to back off trying to find out who murdered Stan." I bit my lip as she gave me that look that conveyed I know there's more to this than you're saying. I chose to ignore it.

  There was yet another collective intake of breath as they related the information they'd just heard to Gabe. "We have to call Nate." The consensus decided by the ladies came through loud and clear. Without hesitating a second or asking my permission, Gabe made the call.

  * * *

  I sat on the examining table at the doctor's office with an audience composed of Gabe as well as a fussing Viola. Luckily the Qs couldn't fit in the truck and had to stay home. But the place was crowded enough. Weren't there some kind of privacy laws being broken by this invasion of well…privacy? Hadn't anyone heard of HIPAA laws?