Shady Shenanigans in Iowa

by Wendy Byrne

  "He doesn't want to involve you."

  "But his ex seems to be around a lot all of a sudden." Hey, as long as I had the ear of a psychic who read my aura, I might as well take advantage.

  Cleo closed her eyes. "There's nothing there except some kind of project they're working on together. I'm not sure what it is, but she's spending a lot of time with him."

  Just as I'd suspected. "Exactly my point."

  "No, there's another man she likes in a romantic way. But he's kind of a jerk." She shrugged. "Then again, so is she."

  "Does he by chance occasionally dress as a homeless person?" I said in jest, but apparently she took me seriously.

  Her gaze narrowed as she stared at me. "I picture him looking scruffy, but that's far from what he normally looks like. But whatever he's doing, it's dangerous."

  I figured drug dealing was pretty dangerous. But nobody thought I was on the right track with regard to Madman Charlie. Still, her comments gave me some vindication that I wasn't being prejudice against Mel. It only confirmed my suspicion that pretty much nobody liked Mel. On the bad-news side, it probably also confirmed Cleo was a genuine psychic.

  "Nobody will tell me why she's suddenly hanging around Iowa. She lives in Manhattan."

  "She's a bit of a mystery. She didn't want Gabe, but then she did when he got famous."

  Now we were getting somewhere. "What is he famous for?"

  She scrunched her face. "It had something to do with his prior career, but he managed to keep it out of the paper. Whatever it was, it did make him famous in certain circles, and that knowledge is tapped into occasionally."

  "Is it dangerous in any way?" I thought about the bruises and black eye I'd spotted on him as of late. Believing that it was a construction accident was no longer feasible.

  "It can be. But he's careful about what he decides to do."

  "But what is it that he does? That's the question that keeps me up at night. And why won't he tell me about it?"

  "I'm a little cloudy on that, but it's something mysterious."

  "He's had a lot of weird injuries lately."

  "He takes risks sometimes." She drew in a deep breath and cupped my face with her hands. "Why haven't you asked him?"

  Good question. While I could applaud the fact she wasn't talking in rhymes, she wasn't clarifying the situation either. On top of that, she was calling me out for not asking Gabe directly.

  "But I have." In a roundabout way.

  She shook her head. "You can't fool me, dear. You need to be direct with him and then make your decision."

  "Wh—" I didn't get the words when Mason and Jefferson rushed over.

  "He's here, and I think he's with Gabe's ex," Jefferson said.

  "Ohhh, this is so juicy." Mason grabbed my arm. Jefferson linked my arm on the other side and then Cleo's arm.

  Because now the four us were in a bunch, we not-so-subtly moved ourselves in that direction. And there was Mel, playing lovey-dovey to Charlie Evans, the Madman. I closed my eyes and tried to remember her with the homeless person. I'd thought he'd looked familiar, but he'd had that knit hat pulled over his eyebrows, covering his scar. It only confirmed what I'd suspected all along. She was cozying up to the guy who was trying to destroy Nate.

  I whispered, "But why? Except for a vendetta against Nate that I don't really understand. I can't believe even she would be that vindictive to conspire with Evans." Then again, what if he was Moochie and she didn't know it? Did that mean she was in danger as well?

  "It means something to her. I'm not sure what, but something," Cleo said.

  While I was pondering the idea, a second man walked up to them. From my angle and with his back to me, he was impossible to identify, but something about the way he carried himself seemed familiar. Just as I was about to make some adjustments to ensure I got a good look, he disappeared without a trace, leaving me high and dry.

  The only thing I could definitively say about the evening was I'd confirmed Mel's relationship with Charlie Evans. Other than that, the night had wielded a big fat zero.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  If it weren't for desperation, I would have wondered why I was here. But Nate would be charged in a matter of days, so I needed to soldier on.

  "Do we have to go to Purdy's tonight?" There were a million things I could consider doing—like laundry and binge-watching some shows on HGTV, stress-eating—but no, I had to be smack dab in senior citizens' hell.

  "Don't be a stick in the mud. It will be so much fun," Alice said.

  "But the last time I was there I almost ended up dead. It's not exactly a happy memory." Yes, I was both whining and being a wuss and double-downing on the guilt card too.

  "Make new memories there," Dolly suggested while I gritted my teeth in response. What if I didn't want to make memories?

  Okay, I was officially crabby. "I hate to be a whiner, but I don't see the point." Yet here I was whining. Again.

  "We have to believe there's a clue there. And where there's a clue, there's a potential murderer," Ramona added.

  "And it will be fun as well," Viola said.

  I rolled my eyes. "Besides, why would a bar with a main clientele of senior citizens have a disco night? It doesn't make sense. Why wouldn't they have a Sock Hop or something?" I wouldn't want to go to a sock hop either. My obstinance wouldn't let go. I had a bad feeling about this evening. Maybe it had more to do with my brush with death last time I was there. Or maybe I was being overly dramatic. Or maybe a little R&R would help me figure out the clues. Right now my brain hurt.

  The ladies were dressed in glitter and sequins from head to toe. They had their hair in a frizzy perm style. Granted, that wasn't much different from their usual style, but they'd taken pains to make it wilder than usual. Where they found their go-go boots I couldn't imagine, but they all sported white ones.

  If I wasn't in such a cranky mood, I might have gotten a huge charge out of it. They looked adorably weird in a way only the Qs could pull off. I had to give them kudos for that. I'd kept my look simple with a pair of bell-bottoms, sandals, and a tie-dyed T-shirt.

  "Is Barney going to be here?" I figured I'd ask a noncontroversial question and would go from there.

  "Naw, he's still with his family. He'll get back in town later in the week, although he really hated to miss all the action tonight."

  I could only dream about missing this kind of action. Nothing like a room full of 70-, 80-, and 90-year-olds wearing disco attire. Speaking of which, a man dressed like John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever winked at me as he passed. The man looked to be at least ninety and wore a dark black wig to compliment the remainder of his white outfit. I closed my eyes and shuddered.

  And that looked like Daniel Opps in a pair of white pants and a silky purple shirt. It was pretty hard to disguise a handlebar mustache, so it had to be him. What the heck was a bounty hunter doing here? Like a bad penny, that guy kept turning up.

  All that, and I hadn't yet made it ten feet inside the door. It was definitely going to be a long night. Remind me again why I didn't make up a good excuse not to be here?

  Before I could think too long on that, the Qs rushed up. "Your twin is here. We spotted her, but as soon as we got close, she skedaddled away," Alice said, sounding out of breath.

  "What was she wearing?"

  "Almost the same thing as you. Jeans with a rainbow T-shirt instead of a tie-dyed one like yours," Dolly offered.

  "Same colors though. And I think she might have on platform shoes," Ramona said.

  "Maybe we should split up and see if she's still around somewhere," I suggested.

  "Sounds good. Let's meet back here in thirty minutes," Viola said.

  We split off in different directions while the crowd inside grew. Older people seemed to move slower than molasses—but I persevered and pushed my way through. In my peripheral vision, I spotted a woman with long dark hair and instinctively moved in that direction. It could very well have been someone in a Cher wig, but I
was going full-on search and destroy mode. I needed to get this darn mystery over with—especially the part about my twin committing crimes and pointing the finger at me. As the saying went, I'm mad as hell, and I'm not going to take it anymore.

  But she'd disappeared, there one minute and gone the next as a swell of seniors rushed to the dance floor for a round of "I Will Survive." It didn't sound like Gloria Gaynor, but I shrugged it off to a bad remake.

  I fought my way toward the back of Purdy's to get a breather from the zaniness inside. Too much disco music played havoc with my frayed nerves. Getting a breather would be a way to regain my sanity and banish my sour mood.

  I pushed through the door to the outside and sat on the back step. I plunked my head against the stair railing and dreamed of a simpler life. Then again, I guessed nothing could ever be truly simple. But why did Gabe remain so mum about what was going on with him? And why did I suspect it had something to do with Mel? And why was I feeling a little jealous despite the fact I had no reason to?

  What was I going to do? I liked him. A lot. No, I loved him. But I didn't want to make the same mistake that I had with Joseph. And I hadn't even loved Joseph. Even in the beginning. I'd kind of done what was expected of me, marrying into the lifestyle I'd become accustomed to. It had been a blessing in disguise when he'd asked for a divorce.

  Gabe kept implying I had trust issues. Heck, who wouldn't, just being a woman in general, let alone one who had the baggage I had? Still, I hated his reluctance to be straight with me. While my imagination tended to take me into the stratosphere of crazy when I envisioned his frequent bouts of being MIA had to do with him being a CIA operative, I suspected it was much less glamorous and dangerous than that.

  Maybe it was time I took a stand and pushed him to reveal the whole story. I deserved an explanation and couldn't understand why it seemed so difficult for me to ask him. That old "It's complicated" excuse of his was wearing thin. Worse yet, it was driving a wedge between us. He had to see that.

  Thinking about that only threw me into a deeper depression. I still hadn't saved Nate. Poor Emily had become a six-year-old bundle of nerves. Nate was on edge all the time, and I felt powerless.

  Oh woe is me.

  Instead of worrying about what was going on with Gabe, I concentrated on Nate's troubles, searching for answers to questions that so far had led me nowhere. Right then, Cleo's words surged to the front of my mind: My mind is spinning. There's no chance of winning unless you start at the beginning. If you plant the seed, you'll find who did the deed.

  But what did she mean by the beginning? Did that mean when things fell apart for Nate, or even before that? What was the precipitating event? Wait. Nate said he'd been sniffing around the area because of an uptick in drug activity. He mentioned he'd only scratched the surface when everything came crashing down on him.

  But how, where, or with whom could I plant a seed? That stumbling block loomed larger in my mind. In the end, I had to talk to Nate and get him to reveal when he started to get suspicious. Knowing him, I had no doubt that he'd taken precautions before he started snooping around. Or maybe I was crazy for thinking Cleo had the answer to all this.

  A woman strolled up and stopped before me. Her hands went to her hips as she glared. "What are you doing back here?"

  "Sorry, I didn't mean to block your path. It's just—" The words stopped inside my throat. That voice. Where had I heard it before? "I…ah…needed a breather, so I went through the emergency exit."

  "Well, you shouldn't block the fire exit, Tootsie."

  Tootsie? It might be a popular name with the senior set, but that voice was eerily familiar.

  Wait a minute—at the diner in Iowa City when we'd been waiting for Moochie to arrive. The woman had gone for a massage around the same time as Moochie's appointment. This whole time I'd been thinking Moochie was a man, but what if he was a she? Could Moochie be a 70-year-old woman? Could a woman near the Qs age be in charge of a dangerous drug ring? Certainly the Mafia had Dons who were her age or older. Implausible, yes, but still worth checking out.

  I followed her inside to see if she met with anyone who might be her partner. What if her partner was Mel? That would be one giant dollop of I told you so. As much as I would have loved throwing Mel under the bus because she was haughty, mean-spirited, and thought she was better than I, it didn't seem realistic. If this woman was Moochie, she had to have an accomplice, and I seriously doubted it was Mel.

  I slinked back inside and spotted the Qs shuffling around the tables, still looking for my twin. They seemed engrossed in their tasks, so I continued to try to find the croaky-voiced woman. She'd been wearing an off-the-shoulder lavender flowered dress and carrying a big white purse. Between her diminutive size and the rapidly growing crowd, I had a difficult time keeping her in my sights.

  Finally, I spotted her walking behind the bar. Wait. A. Minute. Patrons wouldn't be allowed behind there. Could this woman not only be Moochie but be Purdy as well? She walked up to one of the bartenders, reached into her bag, and handed him a thick envelope.

  To be honest, since all the bartenders looked alike and dressed identically in dark pants, white shirts, and black vests, it was nearly impossible to tell one from the other. I needed to get closer so I could pinpoint the guy, but they shifted their positions around like in a sleight-of-hand shell game. If I didn't know better, I'd swear they were quadruplets. But they weren't. And one of them might have received a wad of drug money from Moochie/Purdy.

  I traveled along the bar crowd and observed as best as I could, watching for a telltale sign that might help me distinguish one from the other. In the meantime, the woman who might have been Moochie/Purdy had disappeared.

  Since I was striking out here, I headed toward the back room and stationed myself by the kitchen door. I peeked through a sliver of an opening in the swing door when I heard some voices.

  I spotted a tall gentleman wearing jeans and a long corduroy coat. His back was to me, making it impossible to identify him, but his voice sounded familiar. That intrigued me even more, and I dared to open my field of vision a hair. I needed to see who he was talking to.

  Uh-oh. It was Moochie aka Purdy aka froggy-voice with the large white bag on her arm. They were arguing, but it was impossible to hear specifics, and I barely caught a word, what with the disco explosion of music making my eardrums hurt. Was this guy her grandson, Boris? By his agitated tone, it seemed like the guy was in charge. The fact I couldn't see him didn't help.

  As I contemplated how I might accidentally stumble into the back room, someone poked what felt like a gun in my back. Then I felt a prick. Oh no. I started to feel weak, like I might faint, and tried to grab on to the wall for support, but my hand kept slipping. I caught a glimpse of somebody I knew but at the same time felt like I didn't know as I went down for the count.

  * * *

  My head pounded as I shivered and tried to get my bearings. The metal beneath me creaked every time I moved. I finally got the courage to open my eyes and confirmed my worst nightmare.

  I activated the flashlight on my iWatch and surveyed the area, verifying my thoughts. A storage container. I looked around the interior and felt along the bottom. I wasn't tied up but couldn't remember what had happened or how I'd gotten here. My purse was missing, but I had my watch that I rarely wore, probably because it was a gift from Joseph. The one bar of signal strength didn't bode well for my predicament. I wasn't sure if it was because the metal structure blocked any cell signals or if we were in a cell tower desert area. It wouldn't hurt anything to try, so I engaged my SOS app and hoped for the best.

  Or I could break out of this joint on my own and didn't need no stinking distress call to help me. That surge of optimism lasted about ten seconds before I slumped to the bottom. Low energy times a thousand for me right now.

  Maybe a little nap first. I closed my eyes and drifted for an indeterminate amount of time.

  I startled awake and blinked to try to clear the fog i
nside my brain keeping me from…thinking… Wait. Duh. I glanced at my watch. Ten thirty. We'd arrived at Purdy's around eight, so I hadn't been missing that long but still long enough to ensure the Qs would be on the warpath by now. No way would they take my MIA status lightly. Those ladies had my back times a thousand. But what if something had happened to them? I closed my eyes and fought through tears.

  No. No. No. I forbade my thoughts from going there.

  Instead I concentrated on getting out. My watch had a text feature as well, but remembering how to do that was a problem for my foggy brain. After pushing at random buttons without success, a headache came out of nowhere with a vengeance and eclipsed my head.

  Clearly, I needed to rest some more. I closed my eyes for what felt like seconds, when I heard the sound of people talking outside the door.

  Oh crap. They were coming inside. I needed to prepare. I crawled toward the side and used it to bolster myself to a standing position, but I slumped back down almost as soon as I got upright. No time to wimp out. I struggled to a standing position once again and utilized my flashlight app.

  Nothing inside but a bunch of boxes, and those didn't seem like good weapons. Maybe there was something inside the boxes to arm myself with, but I didn't have the time, as they were right outside the door now.

  Yeah…I was screwed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The door opened slowly as a blast of sun trailed inside. That meant I'd lost twelve hours instead of a couple. I covered my watch behind me and hoped that the one bar signal strength would allow somebody to track me with the door peeking open.

  Instead of coming inside for a chat like I'd expected they would do, they tossed another woman inside. Judging by the plunk she made, she must have been out cold. Or dead. I really hoped she wasn't dead.