Nearly Dead in Iowa

by Wendy Byrne

  I channeled that frustration into gritting my teeth and ignoring the pain emanating from my knee as the doc who looked to be as old as Viola or older prodded around the perimeter of the wound. I absently wondered if he should still be practicing medicine. Then again, I shouldn't complain as it beat going to an ER and waiting hours to be seen, especially when I'd foregone insurance for the time being.

  "Bad luck on your part, young lady," the doctor said as he held a magnifying glass over the wound and picked at the tissue surrounding it. "I don't think you've nicked an artery or anything else vital, but I'm preparing for the worst in case you did."

  "I've been on a bad streak lately." I shrugged and tried not to wince when he probed again. Had I been alone I probably would have been crying by now. Show no weakness—I think that was from a movie I'd seen before—but for the life of me I couldn't remember which one.

  "Walter, you need to give this poor girl something for the pain," Viola, my surrogate mother lion, interjected. "She's gone pale."

  He placed his fingers on my wrist and nodded. "Heart rate is steady. I want to see what we're dealing with first. Then I'll numb it up before I stitch it up." He glanced at me. "Is that okay with you, young lady?"

  Was there an option two that hadn't been explained to me? Not for the new warrior princess, otherwise known as Isabella Lewis. On second thought, I might be a little woozy from blood loss. Instead of responding, I nodded.

  He poked around some more, and I squeezed somebody's fingers. I didn't much care whose. It kept me from bawling like a baby or passing out like a total wuss. A low threshold for pain had always been my sticking point.

  "Got it as clean as I could get it. I'm going to take out the glass and hope for the best." The doctor, who looked a little like the TV version of Santa Claus, smiled at me. Before I knew it, he'd picked out the offending piece of glass and plunked it onto a metal tray. The doctor glanced at me over his glasses. "It's bleeding, so I'm going to keep the pressure on it until it slows. I'm guessing it's going to need about four to five stitches."

  I'm pretty sure it was my imagination, but I felt a little faint. Then again, it might be the blood soaked wad of gauze sitting on my knee. After he finished, Viola went to work on the scrapes on my chin and forehead.

  "Vi, where do I keep those needles?" It wasn't really a question, more of an expectation like they'd done this type of thing before. I didn't know all that much about Viola except that she was Gabe's grandmother.

  "The second drawer," Viola said. She shook her head. "He never can find his stitching supplies."

  "I'll go see if I can help him," Gabe volunteered before leaving to go to the other room.

  "Did you work for him?"

  "I was a nurse but never worked for him. We were married for nearly thirty years though." She smiled. "He's a fine man. We just had different paths."

  I suspected my eyes went wide at the revelation. All this time I assumed Viola was a widower, not a divorcee.

  "I don't understand. You two clearly have a connection. Why would you divorce?"

  "He wanted something I couldn't go along with. Our marriage fell apart when he couldn't save our son William. But I couldn't run away and pretend we hadn't seen the signs. I had Gabe to raise."

  Wow. This new revelation had me reeling. I couldn't imagine what would drive these two people apart. They seemed perfect for each other based on the way they communicated non-verbally with a simple look or touch. They were in sync like people who knew each other inside and out and for a very long time. Love practically bubbled in the air between them. Maybe I should make it my mission to get these two back together after I got the whole Stan-Tony mystery solved.

  "We found it," Doc announced as he walked back into the room.

  "I'm going to numb the area with Novocain. We'll give it a few minutes to take effect and then do the stitching." He placed a friendly hand on my knee. "Before you know it, you'll be good to go."

  After the initial jolt of pain—I did mention I was a wuss, so don't judge—he administered five stitches just under my kneecap. Right now I didn't feel much discomfort, but the Novocain hadn't worn off yet. This time I realized it was Gabe who'd offered his hand for me to squeeze during the ordeal. That was probably a good thing because, judging by the wincing look on his face, I probably would have hurt Viola.

  A supply room full of gauze wrapped around my knee later, and I was ready to be on my way. Just when I thought I could go back to Viola's and feel sorry for myself for the remainder of the day, Nate showed up, interrupting the promise of peace and serenity. "If you all don't mind, I'd like to talk to Izzy alone for a few minutes and get her statement."

  The room cleared, leaving me with the sheriff. He pulled out his iPad and made some notes. "How are you feeling?"

  "Nothing a nice warm bath can't help." I wanted to avoid the whole this-is-going-to-get-ugly moment when he asked me a question I couldn't skirt around.

  "Gabe told me you were threatened and then pushed to the ground." He walked to the other side of the exam table and looked at the back of my T-shirt. I could practically feel the glare scorching my back. He gingerly lifted my T-shirt away from body. "Not going to get any prints off this."

  "I didn't think you could. You can't go around arresting guys with dirty hands carrying a gun." My attempt at humor was lost on the sheriff because, when I turned to face him, he steeled his gaze.

  "I heard nothing about a gun from Gabe." He made more notes on his iPad.

  I sucked in my bottom lip. "I might not have told him. I didn't want anyone to worry or think I needed a bodyguard during my morning run."

  "Why would someone threaten you?"

  "I have no idea. Maybe it was a local who didn't like me being on the trail."

  "Or maybe he heard you were asking a lot of questions yesterday." He let the statement hang in the air. "Or maybe you know more about what happened to Stan than you're saying."

  "I told you everything I know about Stan." I should have anticipated he'd take this tactic and turn it around on me. "Besides, it was no big deal. If I reported this in New York, I'd be laughed out of the police station."

  "I doubt that, but that's beside the point. You're avoiding my questions. Maybe what happened had something to do with the fact you were at Otis's Bar causing a scene. Or maybe when you went to Anton asking questions. Sally Perkins called this morning to file a complaint stating you were harassing her about her husband."

  "I'm not surprised that your BFF Gabe would fill you in on my run-in with him. Contrary to what you heard, I did not cause a scene. And as for Sally, you would think she'd be more offended at having a man with a history of violence living in her home and showing up at Stan's funeral with a shiner. It seems to me her husband should be number one on your suspect list."

  "If you're talking about Phil Reed, I already looked into that. He was arrested for disorderly conduct on the night of Stan's death and was sitting in a jail cell. I'm thinking that's a pretty solid alibi."

  "Then how about Otis? I heard he was pretty ticked off at Stan and Tony."

  "I have no obligation to fill you in on the specifics of my investigation, but since you seem to think I don't know what I'm doing, I'll tell you that Otis has been out of the country for the last month."

  While I wanted to say something polite, my mouth refused to cooperate. My most hopeful leads had just evaporated. I tried not to let my disappointment show, especially since Nate had a cat-just-ate-the-canary look on his face with me being the canary. "I'm not doing anything illegal." I couldn't help the whiney sound in my voice.

  He sighed so loud the sound seemed to echo around the room. "I told you before to stay out of this investigation, and now you've brought the town's senior citizens into the mix. What's going to happen if one of them gets hurt by whatever you're mixed up in?"

  "I—" While I wanted to respond, I couldn't articulate how to circumvent the possibility of the ladies getting caught up in my drama. And I hadn't even ment
ioned the note on my car after the funeral. Probably just as well.

  "These are defenseless seniors you're putting in jeopardy by your actions. Assuming this attack on you has something to do with the questions you're asking, you need to stop this charade."

  I gulped back the condescension he threw my way. "I appreciate the dress down you're giving me, Sheriff, but I fully intend to back off the investigating on my end." Did it count if I crossed my fingers behind my back? Capitulation was not, nor would it ever be, part of my mindset, but that didn't mean I had to announce it to Nate or anyone else. I did have to figure out a way to shake Viola and the others, but that would take some serious contemplation.

  "I'm not sure I believe you."

  "Must be due to your skeptical mind. If you're done with your questions…"

  "Your father's house has been cleared and the crime tape removed. The electricity was turned back on after your father's check cleared. I left the key with Viola in case you want to stay there." The part he didn't say was: "Hint. Hint."

  Without another word, I eased off the examining table with as much dignity as my poor aching body could muster. I was in serious need of a steaming hot bath with a chaser of Advil.

  Pronto.

  And there was only one place I was going to get either of those two things.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  After my soak, I was feeling less achy and more ticked, but the smell of something delicious wafted upstairs, drawing me to the kitchen to check it out. I couldn't identify the smell, but whatever it was, my stomach had already decided it wanted a piece of it. And I had no intention of stopping it from achieving what it wanted.

  I slipped on my canvas gym shoes and designer sweats—my normal laying-around-the-house attire—and walked gingerly down the stairs. Maybe I should think about doing something a little less risky for the next day or so to gear myself up for the next round of craziness headed my way.

  "Hi, ladies. I'm feeling so much better after my soak in the tub."

  "We figured a nice pot of chicken soup and some fresh bread would do you a world of good."

  "And I helped," a young girl announced as she sat at the countertop bar in the kitchen. "I'm Emily. My dad is the sheriff, and he had to do some stuff, so I'm staying for a while. Ms. V said you were an artist. Do you want to see some pictures I drew?"

  "I'd love that."

  She jumped off the stool and grabbed my hand, leading me to the back porch. Viola had put up a child-sized easel and gotten out a smock and some paints. Various creations were already taped along the walls.

  Emily was a mini-me of her father, with blonde hair and blue eyes—except that she smiled a whole lot more. She placed her hands on her non-existent hips. "What do you think?"

  "They're amazing. I love your use of color, blending the red into blue."

  "I wanted purple, so I squished the two together in the middle." She studied me. "I don't have a mom, you know."

  "I'm sorry to hear that. I don't have a mom either."

  "Really?" She stared at me for a few long moments. "Maybe you could be my mommy."

  I shook my head but couldn't resist the smile, thinking about Nate's reaction to his daughter's proposal. "I'm not so sure your dad would agree with that." No doubt had her father been here, even the big old tough sheriff would have cringed. That thought made me suppress a laugh.

  Her brows furrowed. "He might like you even if he doesn't pull your braid when he sees you."

  "Pull my braid?"

  "My daddy says that Sean likes me because he always pulls my braid when he sees me."

  "Your dad might be right about that." I was lost in this conversation but couldn't seem to find a way out. My exposure to small children had been fairly limited. For a while I fantasized about having a child of my own with Joseph, but that dream went up in a puff of smoke pretty quickly.

  She blew out a sigh. "If you're in trouble, my dad is really good at fixing trouble. My chain fell off my bike yesterday, and Dad put it back on so I could keep riding. His hands were all dirty when he finished though, so I told him he needed to go inside and wash them. Since I don't have a mommy, I have to tell him those kinds of things."

  I didn't like the direction of this whole thing—mainly interviewing me for the job of mommy or trying to sell me on her father—so decided to take a new tactic. "How about if I show you how to draw a bear and paint some balloons for your next picture?"

  She occupied herself for what felt like five minutes before she encouraged me to draw something on a fresh piece of artist's paper. Once I started, I couldn't seem to stop. It had been a long time since I'd picked up a brush and paints. Since I had no idea where I might eventually land, I'd had my canvases shipped to my father's address in the interim.

  Joseph's disdain for what he'd considered my indulgence had put a damper on things. I had to wonder why or how I could have stayed married to him for as long as I did. But that was not on my mind right now. No, this was all about getting swept into the creative process and getting invigorated once again.

  I had always enjoyed going to Central Park to sketch the outline of my former residence. For the first time my townhome didn't feel like home anymore. Having spent several days at Viola's, the difference became clear. Our townhome had been a residence. This old structure was a home, with creaky floors and worn woodwork, a hundred-year-old claw-foot tub that was so inviting I could have slept in it.

  I don't know how long I'd been sketching when the ladies bustled inside the screened-in porch.

  "Amazing. We need to take you to some of our street fairs. You could make some money at this," Alice said as she clapped.

  Validation for a gift I'd long since abandoned felt like a good finish to a craptastick day.

  * * *

  Like a spoiled brat, I allowed Viola to wait on me for the whole next day before I called a timeout to my pity party. With renewed vigor and much less pain in my knee, I limped down the stairs the following morning. Going to my father's house seemed like the right thing to do. And in order to get to the bottom of everything, I needed to start there. I had no doubt Nate had searched the premises, but once again my Spidey sense told me to do more digging.

  "Do any of you ladies know somebody who goes by the name M.C.?" I asked as I got into the kitchen. Sure, I was procrastinating, but this information was integral to the investigation—and I was sticking to that excuse. Besides, all the good suspects were disappearing faster than twenties at a strip bar.

  There was a collective headshake. Okay, procrastination over. "After breakfast I'm going to my father's," I announced. The expectant chatter followed from the ladies. Nobody wanted to get into the thick of things more than these ladies, so I wasn't surprised by their response.

  "Are you sure that's a good idea with your knee and all?" While I loved their constant need to pamper me, I had to pull up my big girl panties and get on with the task at hand. I couldn't wallow in self-pity over a few stitches indefinitely. Besides, there were only so many books I could read and movies I could watch before I turned into a mouth-breathing sloth. The time had come for action. And the most non-threatening place to start would be my father's house.

  "Yep, I'm sure. My leg's never going to get better if I sit around all day and let you ladies fawn over me. I…I mean we…have a murder to solve." I had yet to figure out a way to keep them involved but out of harm's way.

  Viola decided she could drive us over. Between deciding who was going to sit where, helping me settle inside the car, and loading the bounty of treats they'd decided to bring along, it took eons to drive the three blocks. I leaned against the door and sucked in a deep breath. This sounded like such a great idea at the time—it would bring closure, help me solve the mystery—but now fear had resurfaced. The last time I'd been here, there'd been a body. I suppressed feelings of the creepy crawling sensation and opened the door.

  "Are you sure you're ready for this, Izzy?" Viola asked as she patted my hand.

  As usual,
she'd read my thoughts. This was more than the scene of a crime—it was the window to my father's life. Did I want to be privy to that?

  "Yes." While the word came out as a whisper, I felt the conviction rattle through. If I wanted to move forward, I needed to forge ahead and get answers to questions I'd never known I could ask.

  The chatter increased as I opened the door and we made our way inside. I avoided looking at the spot on the floor where I'd found Stan.

  "The cleanup crew did a good job getting rid of the dead body smell." Leave it to Ramona to bring it up. "I bet that's where the body was." She pointed to a vague spot in the living room.

  I wasn't sure why there was such a fascination with death for this group, but I plodded on. I needed to get through this, and I'd be big enough to admit I liked the company to wade through what might lie ahead.

  "Has anyone been in my father's house before?" When they shook their heads, I figured our mission was one of discovery.

  I finally gave myself permission to glance around rather than keeping my eyes averted. Daylight cast a different look on the interior. Comfortable but manly furnishings were housed in the living room—with an overstuffed couch and rocker recliner all in a brown color. A mix of pillows lined the sofa, and an eclectic blend of lamps sat on three tables across the room. The killer coffee table I'd stumbled into that fateful night nearly a week ago wasn't so killer or large as I'd envisioned.

  The ladies trailed after me as I made my way into the kitchen. Judging by the fact that the cabinet door fronts were missing and the stove had been pulled out, I had to suspect my father had been in the middle of remodeling. Gabe might have mentioned something about my dad asking for advice about something, but I couldn't remember for sure.

  "I suspect we'll find something more interesting when we head upstairs," Viola offered as she took command of the posse and trailed through the living room and up the stairs.

  Fidgeting overtook me once we reached the master bedroom. I didn't know where to look, or if I even wanted to look. Being in his bedroom felt strange, like I was violating his privacy. But I opened my eyes and took in the scene. A sense of neatness and orderliness permeated the room much like I'd seen downstairs.