Nearly Dead in Iowa

by Wendy Byrne

  "You don't know what happened to him?" Irene asked.

  "I was hoping you or someone in Anton might have some ideas."

  "I'm not going to lie. Stan and Tony hung out here a lot. And they had quite a few female admirers in the area. I can't imagine what Stan's funeral's going to be like tomorrow."

  She was right. The funeral would be an excellent place to sniff out more suspects. I had to figure out a way to show up to the affair without it being obvious that I was there to snoop around. No doubt Sheriff Crowder and Gabe would be in attendance, and they'd both be keeping an eye on my every move. But if I was with Viola and the other ladies, maybe I could escape most of their scrutiny.

  "Someone there might know something." And maybe I'd spot the guy in the black truck.

  "Could be a cat fight if what I've seen in the past is any indication. I had to break up a brawl between two women when they found out they both were dating Stan or Tony, I forget which. Stopped one of the ladies from busting through the front window." She shook her head.

  Ramona tsked. "I would have liked to have seen that."

  "Not a man alive that's worth fighting for, in my opinion," Alice said.

  "They also liked to hit the craps and poker games in town. Word is they owed some money. Not sure to who." Irene shrugged. "You hear a lot around here. People tell you stuff like you're their therapist. Sometimes it's hard not to overhear people talking."

  "Where are these games at?" "Owed people money" sounded a lot like a motive for murder, especially if they could pin it on the other guy and get away scot-free. I had to wonder why the sheriff wasn't looking into this possibility. Although, to be honest, he might be but didn't report to me his comings and goings, so I might give him a pass on that one.

  This all sounded like I might be on the right track. I had to wonder if Sheriff Crowder had questioned Irene and if she'd been as forthcoming. Then again, I'd imagine there might be some mumbo jumbo around hearsay or something like that he'd be up against, unlike me.

  "Frank's Hardware Store down the street." She stopped and pointed toward the door. "There's Sally coming in for her shift. She used to go out with Tony."

  The woman had dyed poofy black hair and way too much makeup for this early in the morning in my opinion. That was my father's type? Considering she was the polar opposite of my mother, Amanda, I had to wonder if Irene might be mistaken. My mother had her hair cut at New York's finest salon so it always looked flawlessly natural rather than styled. With her make-up she'd always taken the less-is-more approach.

  "When did they stop seeing each other?" I resisted the urge to say what I was thinking—that Sally resembled a hooker—and not of the high-priced variety.

  "When her husband got out of prison." Irene chuckled. "Seems like he didn't much care for her cheating on him while he was locked away for assault and battery."

  "Are you saying that maybe her husband killed Stan in a case of mistaken identity?"

  "Naw, I don't think he knew about Tony. Besides, there'd be no mistaking Stan for Tony, even in the dark. But I can have her assigned to your table and maybe you can ask her a few questions."

  "Do you think my dad killed Stan?" Okay, I had to plow ahead and ask the question I should have asked from the beginning. I either needed to make a clear break and leave my father hanging in the wind or take the initiative and find out what happened to him.

  "Can't say for sure. They hung around a lot, but they also fought a lot. Nothing big, although I hear they came to blows the other night at Otis's Bar in Inez."

  And here I thought I got the dirt before anyone else. Flirting with Jeremy hadn't gotten me much besides Gabe's accusing me of being a cradle robber. Maybe if Gabe hadn't intruded, I might have been able to find out more.

  "Do you have any idea where my father might run to if he was afraid?" Of being either arrested or murdered? I left off the latter part of the question, unwilling to expose the possibility.

  "Can't say for sure. But I heard he had a cabin somewhere in the state. Don't have an address though."

  "What did he do for a living?" And maybe if I asked this question enough times, I'd get the answer I wanted.

  Apparently that was a ridiculous question as all the ladies at the table snickered. Sure I knew that a lot of people considered him a grifter, but he had to have had a real job at some point in his life.

  "Your daddy was a bit of a rolling stone." Irene shrugged and got up from the table.

  "Thanks so much for your time." Maybe I needed to toughen up and accept the fact that my dad was imperfect. But I wanted to see that for myself. Since he'd contacted me, I had this fantasy that my father would be similar to all the great dads portrayed in films and TV—Spencer Tracy/Steve Martin in Father of the Bride, Will Smith in Pursuit of Happyness. Heck, I'd even settle for Chevy Chase in Vacation. Little by little I was finding out that was probably not the case, even if there was a part of me holding onto that hope.

  At this point, I wasn't even sure I wanted to meet my father. The idea of pursuing this crusade any further was making me nauseous. Before I could think too long or hard about it, Sally came over to fill our coffee cups.

  Alice was the first to speak. "Thanks for the refill. Irene mentioned you might know Tony Gallione." Leave it to her to be the proverbial bull in the china shop.

  Sally's face turned ashen before she regained her composure and a fake smile appeared. "We go way back, but I haven't seen him much lately."

  "Is that because your husband just got out of prison?" Subtlety was not Ramona's best asset either.

  "Did Irene tell you that?" She glared at the diner matriarch, but the woman gave her a smile in return.

  "We thought you might know where Tony could be hiding. We heard he has a cabin somewhere," I said.

  "I'm not sure who you are or what your beef is with Tony, but I don't know anything about a cabin," she quipped. "And for all I know, the scumbag might and should be dead."

  "You have a beef with him?" Ramona asked.

  "Everybody has had a beef with Tony and/or Stan at one time or another. If that's your criteria, you'll come up with a list of suspects a mile long." Without saying anything further, she rushed away.

  "We pushed a few buttons with that one, don't you think?" Viola whispered to me.

  Still trying to fit together all that I'd learned, I could only nod in response. This whole investigation thing was turning out more complicated than I'd originally thought.

  * * *

  I don't exactly know why, but it surprised me when we got to Frank's Hardware Store and there really was a craps game going on. Right there in nowhere Iowa—I expected any moment someone would start singing, "We got trouble. Right here in River City" from The Music Man.

  Nobody seemed to care about the illegality nor did they try to hide their exuberance. Hoots and hollers coming from the back could be heard the minute we walked inside the door. All we had to do was listen for the sound of testosterone bonding, and we'd have stumbled upon it without the heads up from Irene.

  The men didn't notice our entry until Ramona shouted "snake eyes" when somebody rolled the dice. I wasn't even sure what that meant until Ramona whispered in a way that sounded like screaming, "Shooter loses."

  The men glanced in our direction and stared. One of the guys asked, "Are you ladies playing or gawking?"

  "Playing." I had no idea why I spoke up, but it was one of those curious ways my mouth engaged before my brain.

  "Five dollar in. You got it?" the man who looked like he could be a hair's breadth away from a nursing home or a psyche ward asked.

  Far be it for me to back down from anything, especially now that I was on a mission for justice. That had a nice ring to it even if I did say so myself. I dug into my purse, but Viola handed me a five-dollar bill for my stake. While I had no idea what I was doing, I figured it couldn't be that hard.

  I rolled the dice, and it came out a seven. The men swore, Ramona clapped, and I had no idea how to respond.
Well, at least until they gave me my winnings—forty dollars. When I rolled again and it came out eleven, the men groaned and Ramona squealed. And I had even more money pushed my way. I took a sudden liking to craps—no skill involved, no complex mathematical stuff to keep track of—I definitely could get into this.

  Mental head slap. I needed to get information, not find a way to supplement my income.

  "Let me see those dice." One of the men scooped them from in front of me. He rolled them, producing a three and a two before grumbling something and handing them back to me.

  I tried to give the dice to one of the others, but they wanted me to keep rolling. Bets were made for and against me, the tide shifting to against me. I tried not to take it personally. And then I rolled another seven, and the crowd erupted and pushed more money my way. I surveyed the group and tried to justify this process as a means to an end, but I kind of liked the thrill of it. It was like a runner's high, except there was money involved.

  Giant mental head slap. This was about getting information about my father. And while the money might come in handy, I couldn't take it from a group of men who were no doubt living off social security. It didn't feel right.

  I stopped mid dice-shake and pushed the money back at them. "I don't want your money. I want to know about my father." The words were a stream of consciousness as I continued. "I never met him, and now he's missing…and his friend is dead. And I'm afraid…" Tears bubbled to the surface. Where had those come from? "And I only want to know he's alive and safe. Could any of you help me find Tony Gallione?"

  The looks of compassion I'd spotted on their faces vanished once I mentioned the name. Grumbling ensued before one of them took the lead and responded.

  "Tony G would come around when he wanted some fast cash. Guys in this circle didn't have much use for him as he always seemed to have his own agenda."

  "What do you mean?" I asked.

  "One time he'd have some fake Rolexes to sell. Another time he'd be looking for some investors for the best new thing he'd found. Or, he'd tell us about some great company that we should buy stock in. The list went on and on. He seemed like a nice enough guy if you could discount the fact he was always trying to screw you over." While one man took the lead, the others nodded in unison.

  The list of suspects seemed to be growing by leaps and bounds.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  While I had the best of intentions of going out for a run the following morning, I slept like the dead and didn't wake up until eleven. Then again, I also spent a whole lot of time tossing and turning and thinking about all that I'd learned yesterday. None of it warmed the cockles of my heart, that's for darn sure.

  I hated the idea that my father seemed to be a person I was better off not knowing. That wasn't a feel-good moment for anyone regardless of the circumstances.

  Nothing good could come of this endeavor, but at the same time, I felt compelled to see this through. I took a quick shower and dressed in a navy blue skirt and print short-sleeved cotton shirt. Flat sandals and some lipstick were as far as I'd take this funeral debacle.

  While I tried to be optimistic, it was difficult to muster the enthusiasm. Should I really try to find a deadbeat dad who was possibly a murderer? The whole idea would be funny if it weren't so pathetic.

  I trudged down the stairs feeling the weight of the world strapped across my shoulders. But as I smelled something delicious emanating from the kitchen, my nose and curiosity perked up. Since moving from New York, I'd found my inner food whore.

  And I was A-okay with that.

  Maybe it was years of watching every calorie I ingested that had sent my taste buds over the edge into enjoying things that were bad for me. But until my clothes stopped fitting, I refused to worry about it.

  When I walked into the kitchen, Viola was at the stove cooking but turned and gave me a smile. "I've made potato pancakes."

  My stomach growled on cue. "With sour cream and applesauce?" I sniffed the air like some kind of rabid dog anxious for the taste of what was perilously close to complete and total indulgence. Clearly potato pancakes had no nutritional value, but that didn't mean I wouldn't partake. The old me would have watched every calorie I'd put inside me and updated it continuously on My Fitness Pal. But that woman had disappeared once I'd crossed the New York state line. Thankfully.

  "Of course." She set a plate in front of me. "You need a little bit of fat on those bones."

  "You won't have to worry about that for too long."

  Viola sat down next to me and brought us both some coffee. Sitting with her like this brought up images of an indulgent grandmother that I'd never had. She patted my hand. "I wanted to let you know I've been asking around about your dad's old high school girlfriend—Marcy Hennings—and speculation about a possible pregnancy. Heard she's moved to the other side of the state but has a son who's a couple of years older than you." She smiled. "After we've figured this mess out and your dad's home safe and sound, we'll investigate whether or not you have a sibling."

  Tears prickled behind my eyelids. I mumbled, "Thank you," before digging into brunch to avoid an emotional outburst.

  Viola cleared her throat. "What's our strategy for today?"

  "Take note of people who act suspicious. Maybe try to eavesdrop on some conversations that might give us leads." And still somehow fly under the radar of Sheriff Crowder.

  Viola nodded and took a sip of coffee. "Between the four of us, we know most everyone in town, so we can help you narrow down the suspects. There's bound to be more than one person acting suspiciously."

  I finished off my first pancake and plopped a second onto my plate. "I've been thinking more about the guys at the craps game yesterday. They hated that Tony and Stan hung out there to make a fast buck, but their dislike wasn't about vengeance. None of them looked angry enough to kill. What vibe did you get?"

  "I thought the same thing. Sally is a different story. I spotted sparks of passion when Tony's name was mentioned. That leads me to think there's more to what she said. And I have to wonder if her jailbird husband played any part in what happened. But if she cared about Tony, why would she go after Stan? That's the part that doesn't make sense."

  "But death by poisoning would lead me to believe the murderer is a female. She wouldn't have had to overpower Stan, just slip something into his drink and shift the blame to my father."

  She nodded her agreement and finished off her coffee. "In Monk and Murder She Wrote, the murderer always shows up at the funeral, so that's what the Qs and I are counting on." I wasn't sure if I should be happy or scared at her observation.

  "Do you know how we can go about finding out if my father did own a cabin somewhere?"

  "I have a friend who might be able to help us do a search through the records."

  "That would be great. If there's a cabin somewhere, I'm sure the sheriff has already checked it out. But I'd like to know either way."

  I gobbled down the rest of my food before we walked outside and got into my car. Once we arrived, we split up to cover more ground as planned.

  There had to be at least fifty people at the cemetery, which surprised me unless I considered the nosiness factor. Well, that and the early dinner promised for the mourners at the Knights of Columbus Hall in town.

  I spotted Sheriff Crowder standing with Gabe. Paranoia made me believe they might be talking about me, but I brushed away the thought and continued with my plan. I circled the crowd, zoning in on folks that were in Stan's age range since I suspected they would be my most likely suspects. That made my target age somewhere between forty-five and sixty-five if I went ten years both ways. I spotted Sally walking in wearing her wait staff uniform and shades despite the overcast sky. She noticed me as well and gave me the finger before heading in the opposite direction.

  I ignored her for the time being and gravitated toward a group of women arguing. Squabbling at a funeral broke all the rules, which meant they had to be dishing the dirt.

  A woman sniffed.
"I don't understand. He was a good man. He loved me." The woman shook her head while another glared at her.

  "I saw him first and you moved in on him. That's breaking girl code, Andrea."

  "You can't lose what you don't have to begin with, Sandy." The first woman had suddenly lost her sniffles, placed her hands on her hips, and gave Sandy a visual throw down.

  Andrea moved closer, and Sandy grabbed her hair and yanked. People began to notice, especially when Andrea didn't do much to disguise the squeal of pain. That's when another woman came between the pair, separating the two with a shove coupled by a glare. "This is not the time nor the place. The man's dead. Have a little respect."

  After the initial rebuke wore off, Sandy's back went ramrod straight as she sent eye daggers toward the third woman. "You're one to talk. You and Tony have been thick as thieves for months. For all we know, you two might have killed Stan." A look of triumph whispered along the lines of her face as she smiled. "Just because you're married to Dr. Derek Hunter doesn't mean you're going to get away with murder."

  "Really? What possible reason would I have to murder Stan?" Mrs. Dr. Hunter asked.

  "Maybe he threatened to tell your husband about you and Tony." Andrea suddenly decided to get in on the discussion.

  "You both know Derek and I have an arrangement. He does his thing. I do mine. Our affairs are of no consequence."

  Even as Mrs. Dr. Hunter said the words, I spotted some concern in her expression—or at least I thought so. It was difficult to discern, considering her Botoxed skin didn't move much. The women became aware of my close proximity, gathered a sense of decorum, and headed toward the gravesite. I couldn't believe how fruitful that eavesdropping expedition had become.

  As I was thinking about where to meander next, Sheriff Crowder strolled next to me. "Didn't expect you'd come to Stan's service."