Nearly Dead in Iowa

by Wendy Byrne

  "Yes." I blew out an exasperated breath. "I drove halfway across the country for the chance to get to know my father."

  "If your father was expecting you, why did you break in? And why wasn't he here to greet you?"

  Before I could respond, the nosy next-door neighbor spoke. "I haven't seen Tony since yesterday morning when the utility company came to shut off the power. I was outside working on my fence and heard Tony arguing with the guy saying he'd already paid the bill, but they shut off the power anyway."

  Talk about jumping from the frying pan into the fire—I'd sure stepped into it—a missing father with money issues to boot. In terms of warning signs, tonight's experience should have been labeled with one of those orange Danger: Hazardous Material stickers.

  Maybe I was a bit tired and cranky, but really, first accusing me of murder and now breaking and entering? "The door was unlocked." I folded my arms across my chest. "I emailed him the day before yesterday and told him I'd be here sometime after seven but didn't get here until after nine so thought he might have given up on me and had run to the store or maybe had gone to bed."

  "Okay," the sheriff said. But the one simple word response came out in a drab monotone like he didn't believe me. "But I still have some questions about what you might have seen."

  I shook my head even while thoughts of my old life flittered through. I wanted to worry about what to wear to dinner instead of dead bodies. "Except I didn't see anything. It was pitch black in here."

  "Did you hear anything? Smell anything unusual?"

  I forced myself to think back from the minute I pulled in front of the house until I tripped over the body. My brain refused to cooperate. "I'm not sure what the protocol is with this kind of thing, but I'm completely exhausted after driving all day. Would it be possible to re-visit this discussion in the morning?" I was hoping he'd give in if I asked nicely, but I wouldn't place a bet on that. "Maybe there's a nice hotel nearby I could stay at for the evening. I promise to be back at your office bright and early tomorrow morning." Maybe I was laying it on a little thick, but his skeptical expression forced me into desperation mode. I just wanted to get out of this house ASAP, and he held the golden ticket right now.

  I hadn't planned on forking over money for a hotel, but the thought of staying here was too horrific to contemplate—with or without electricity—and the distinct possibility of crime scene tape across the threshold.

  "The nearest good hotel is about sixty miles away, and I'd like you to stay close until this investigation is over," the sheriff said.

  "She could stay at Viola's, don't you think?" Gabe offered as he looked at the sheriff rather than me.

  Why was the police guy still looking at me like I was guilty as hell? And why couldn't this whole thing be a nightmare?

  "Viola's rooming house is a block over."

  "Sort of like a bed and breakfast?" A bed and breakfast brought back wonderful memories of trips to Vermont with Joseph. Rooming houses were seedy, scary places in New York. Besides, the proximity seemed too close for comfort. I could still feel the cold clammy skin of the dead person against my fingertips. I wondered if either of them had some hand sanitizer until I could get those Brillo pads.

  "Great idea, Gabe. I'll give her a call." Without waiting for me to respond, the sheriff opened his cell and began to talk.

  I felt a little like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz. I'd been catapulted into a world where there were rooming houses, cold, clammy dead bodies, and a missing father—well, more missing than he'd been for the first thirty years of my life. And all without my magic ruby slippers.

  What had I gotten myself into?

  CHAPTER TWO

  I followed Sheriff Crowder to a sprawling Victorian home. With gingerbread trim and a wide and welcoming front porch, it looked like something taken from a postcard. A slightly plump woman with curly white hair and a housecoat opened the front door while the sheriff made introductions. No doubt grappling with hunger for the last two states had brought about olfactory hallucinations because I could swear the aroma of apple pie filled my nostrils as soon as I walked inside.

  Viola had a glistening of tears in her eyes when she brought me into a hug that felt equal parts uncomfortable and comforting. "Izzy, you're the spitting image of Tony when he was your age." I hadn't been called Izzy—well, ever—but I didn't want to correct her.

  The validation of my lineage made me want to give the sheriff a childish na na told you so, but I resisted. "You know my father?" While the woman released me from her embrace, she kept her hand on my arm as if readying me for something awful. Then again, maybe latent paranoia hung in the air around me, signaling to her that fortification might be necessary at any moment.

  "Everybody knows Tony." She glanced to the sheriff before continuing. "Nate tells me you traveled all the way from New York, so I'm sure you're tired and hungry. I warmed up some pie and tea."

  My stomach growled involuntarily at the mention of food. When I had stopped for gas two states ago, I'd picked up some peanuts and Diet Pepsi to tide me over. But the nutritional value of the peanuts had quickly been overrun by the fake-sugar buzz and caffeine from the Pepsi, which had faded a couple of hours ago.

  The promise of comfort food made me giddy. No foods with high caloric content and no nutritional value had passed my lips in a very long time. Personal trainers and hot yoga marathons followed by spin classes had been the name of the game in my social circle.

  Not for the first time tonight, I felt like I'd stepped into an alternate universe. In fact, Viola appeared to be the reincarnation of Aunt Bee from Mayberry. Under the circumstances, I did the only thing I could and nodded my agreement. Besides, saying no to Aunt Bee's homemade apple pie had never happened on the TV show.

  "I'll be back around ten tomorrow." Sheriff Crowder gave Viola a hug before he sauntered out the door.

  As soon as he was out of earshot, she tsked. "Poor Nate still isn't over his wife. The foolish girl left him a couple of years back claiming she wasn't ready to be a mother." She shook her head to further illustrate her disappointment. "How she could ever have left Emily is beyond me. But Nate stepped up to the plate and left a job with the FBI in Washington to come back to his hometown and raise his little girl. He's a good man."

  Considering it appeared I'd hit gossip central at Viola's, it was on the tip of my tongue to ask more about my father, but the revelation about the sheriff gave me a moment of pause. Besides, I spotted the cautionary look that passed between Sheriff Crowder and Viola and wanted to tread lightly more than anything else. I'd already stepped into it with the sheriff and didn't dare risk getting into his crosshairs.

  I stopped at the kitchen sink and liberally used the liquid soap to erase any trace of where my fingers had been not that long ago. She invited me to sit at the table and served me a large helping of pie and a cup of steaming tea.

  "Nate never said how much you charged for staying here."

  She patted my hand. "I really like company. You're welcome to stay as long as you need to."

  While that fit into my budget perfectly, it didn't feel right. "I couldn't impose like that. You need to let me pay you something."

  "Will charging you ten dollars a week make you feel better?"

  I used to pay more than that for coffee in Manhattan. "I'd feel better about a hundred, and even that's a steal."

  "Oh that's way too much. How about twenty a week." Without waiting for me to agree, she scooted towards the freezer. "Do you want some ice cream with that?"

  Thoughts of the indulgence danced in my head while I fought the urge to give in. Habit had me calculating the calories and number of miles I'd have to run to keep the weight from going straight to my hips.

  But I wrestled against the ideal of perfection Joseph had tattooed into my psyche. "I'd love a scoop." As soon as Viola plopped the vanilla deliciousness on top of the flaky crust, I dug in like a person who'd gone without food for a week. Politeness won out after a few spoonfuls, and I
slowed down. "This is amazing. Do you roll the crust yourself?"

  I'd never had anything home baked in my entire life. My mother hadn't met a takeout menu she hadn't liked, and my grandmother hadn't been the type—not that I'd seen her often enough to know for sure.

  "Let me tell you a secret." She moved her chair closer to mine. "I buy the pies at the grocery store and put them in the oven to warm them up. But everyone assumes because I'm a little old lady I've got nothing better to do than roll out pie dough."

  I nearly spewed the pie I'd just inhaled. I couldn't help but admire a woman who took advantage of other people's stereotypical views. I think I was going to like Viola after all. Not only that, I think she might be able to teach me a thing or two.

  * * *

  When I woke up the next morning, I felt like the mice from Cinderella had visited during the night, sprinkling a bit of their magic on me. For the first night in a very long time I'd managed to sleep through until morning.

  Lying in an old-fashioned four-poster bed, I stretched, reveling in the crisp coolness of sheets. A fireplace lined the wall across from the bed along with an antique highboy dresser. Since Viola stayed on the first floor near the kitchen, I had the upstairs to myself.

  The quaint opulence of the 1930s bath adjoining the room reflected its history with a pedestal sink, a claw-foot tub, and a black and white marble tile floor. I couldn't help but trail my hand along the detailed wainscoting on the walls and faded rose-print wallpaper along the top.

  After washing my face and brushing my teeth, I glanced longingly at the tub. With the sheriff arriving in less than ten minutes, I didn't have time for that indulgence right now. Instead, I wove my dark hair into a braid and trudged down the stairs.

  After my meeting with Sheriff Crowder this morning, I needed to find out more about the man who fathered me and why there was a dead body in his home. Where was my father? That was the million-dollar question. I could only hope he had nothing to do with the dead guy in his house.

  I walked through the doorway and into the kitchen. "Good morning, Sheriff." Based on last night, I knew I had to keep my guard up around the man despite what Viola had revealed about his vulnerabilities.

  "I made some fresh cinnamon rolls and coffee." Viola gave me a conspiratorial wink as she served up breakfast.

  "I swear, Vi, you must be in the kitchen all day." Nate sipped his coffee and broke off a piece of the roll and popped it in his mouth.

  Queasiness set in as I thought about what he might ask. Would he pick up where he'd left off last night and be a good cop to Gabe's wannabe bad cop? Or would he step it up and go all bad cop on me? Only one way to find out…

  I folded my hands in front of me on the table and sipped at the coffee as I fought to keep my hands from shaking. Taking a deep breath remained challenging as nerves orchestrated a vice-like grip on my lungs, making it difficult to draw in a full breath.

  "Did you remember anything else from last night? Any unusual smells? Cigarette smoke? Food aromas?"

  His eyebrows rose ever so slightly as he leaned back in his chair. He wanted me to give him something to go on, and I racked my brain to satisfy the good sheriff. Well, that and get him off my butt for at least for the time being.

  I closed my eyes and tried to recreate last night from the beginning. At the time I'd been so caught up in the meeting-the-father-I'd-never-known thing, I'd bypassed my senses in the process.

  When I opened my eyes, the sheriff's brow had furrowed and he had a strange look on his face. I speculated he might have been having another one of those this-broad-is-crazy moments about me.

  I ignored his skepticism and brought forth the nearly forgotten memory. "Not cigarettes, or cigars, but maybe cologne or aftershave, but nothing overpowering, just a hint. And something else…I just can't put my finger on it."

  He nodded. Based on his dour expression, he was fighting with himself about believing me. "Would you say the scent was more prone to be male or female?"

  "My first instinct would be male. But it might have been the scent of my father's cologne lingering in the house because it wasn't strong." And something else that was indecipherable but familiar somehow.

  He pondered that for a few moments before leaning closer like he might reveal a secret. "How about sounds? Anything distinctive?"

  I eked out a smile and tried to convey a sense of normalcy—just two people shooting the breeze, not talking about dead bodies. "Compared to what I'm used to, this place is deadly quiet…" I winced at my word choice. "You know what I mean. It's hard to hear anything with the chatter of those darn crickets."

  "I'm sure you don't hear many crickets in New York." He gave me a tight smile. "Did you pass any cars on your way to the house? Did you see anyone walking?"

  I shook my head. "Not that I can recall. To be honest, I was so nervous about meeting my father I didn't pay much attention to anything. I'm sorry I can't be more helpful." I gulped and tried to read his expressionless cop face. "Do you know who the man was?"

  "A friend of your father's by the name of Stan Weitzel. He was a grifter like your dad."

  "Grifter?" The word couldn't be misinterpreted, especially when accompanied by the narrowed focus of his gaze as if examining me for the same kind of qualities. I couldn't believe I'd come all this way only to discover my father had a less-than-stellar reputation. "Are you saying what I think you are?"

  He sighed. "Your father wasn't known for being honest or forthright in most circles."

  "You're saying my father was a two-bit con man, right?" Despite the fact I'd never met the man, defending him seemed to come naturally.

  "Let's say he stayed a shade too close to breaking the law to my way of thinking."

  "Was he ever convicted of a crime?" The hackles on my neck were in full bloom as a war waged inside me. Was my father's unsavory reputation the reason my mother never told me about him? Was she afraid he'd con me too? A horrible thought surfaced. What if his sudden desire to get to know me was an elaborate ruse to fleece me as well? Tears pinged along the back of my eyelids. The idea of leaving this place and never coming back surged to the forefront of my thoughts. I didn't want to stay here. Nothing good had happened since I'd crossed over the Iowa state line.

  Nate shook his head. "Nope, but that doesn't mean he didn't commit any."

  Getting off this train wreck of a subject seemed to be the right course of action if I wanted to prevent a breakdown on my part. I straightened in my seat and took a long draw of coffee. "Do you know how the man died?"

  "No obvious signs on the body. No stab wounds, no gunshot wounds, no ligature marks on the neck."

  "Natural causes?" The idea made me feel the tiniest bit better.

  "I doubt it but won't know for sure until I hear from the coroner."

  "Do you know where my father is?" I decided to ask the elephant-in-the-room question.

  He shook his head. "I tried all his usual hangouts as well as jails, but came up empty."

  I couldn't decide if I should be happy or not about his revelation. Based on his grim expression, he wasn't pleased about coming up empty. I got the impression the man didn't like loose ends, and I figured my father and I personified the label "loose ends" to the sheriff's way of thinking.

  "Anything else I can help you with, Sheriff?" The desire to run upstairs and soak in that glorious tub seduced me. The cocoon of the serenity the bedroom had brought earlier had imploded during the course of the short conversation. I wondered if I could or should bolt from the sleepy town that had more drama going on than a bad soap opera. But every time the thought of leaving popped into my head, I was confronted with the reality of my current state of affairs. Not to be melodramatic, but I felt like I was drifting in the ocean and waiting for the tide to take me to a destination as yet to be determined.

  After he stared at me for a few more seconds he pushed back his chair and shook his head. "Not that I can think of." After grabbing a last sip of coffee and putting his cup in the sink
, he stopped and turned towards me. "But you shouldn't leave town just yet." Without another word, he walked through the door.

  Viola came into the room as soon as the door closed. Immediately, she pulled me into a hug. "I know Nate comes off a little gruff, but it's the nature of the job. Your dad is a good man."

  "You don't think he's dead, or a murderer?"

  "Of course not."

  Even though I suspected somebody would have to be pretty hardcore for Viola to give up on them, I welcomed the validation that I wasn't the spawn of Satan.

  There was a knock at the door, and she shuffled in that direction. "That's just the Qs." Before she got to the door, a steady stream of women who could only be described as clones of Viola entered: some were taller or skinnier, but they all wore almost identical outfits of pull-on jeans and flowery sweaters and had pure white hair. One by one she introduced me to the Qs—Alice, Ramona, and Dolly.

  "Did you say the Qs?" Curiosity had gotten the better of me as they filed inside.

  "We call ourselves the Qs because we do quilts," Viola responded. "We have one in the back room for show, but most times we do a whole lot more movie watching and gossiping than anything else."

  I nodded because I didn't want to say what I'd been thinking—which basically had to do with the sensation I'd been thrown into an episode of the Golden Girls.

  "I heard you had a bit of trouble yesterday," one of the women said.

  Another said, "Dead bodies give me the heebie jeebies. That's why I never want to go into a nursing home. You've got people dying in those places left and right." They all nodded in agreement to her assessment.

  "Sheriff Crowder's on the case, so I'm sure he'll be solving that thing before you can say murder," another—I think it might have been Alice—added.