Nearly Dead in Iowa

by Wendy Byrne

  "I'll think about it." I'd reached the limit of my patience with the slimy mayor. "Thanks for your time." I scurried back to the table and told the ladies what I'd learned as well as my sense that Mayor Charlie was hiding something.

  CHAPTER TEN

  I was still lying in bed the following morning, ticking off the options of what to do, when my phone signaled a text. While I was hoping it might be another clue, it was Gabe asking if I'd like to go for a run at 8:00. Since Viola had used her nursing skills to take out my stitches the other day, I no longer had an excuse.

  I texted him back. At least the guy was keeping me honest. I crawled out of bed and got ready to hit the trail. I couldn't help but wonder about Gabe's offer to be my running buddy. Had his grandmother suggested it? Or maybe he was sent by his BFF Nate to spy on me. But he did help me with the car the other day. Or was that a ploy as well?

  All this thinking was giving me a headache, so I laced up my shoes, popped into the kitchen to tell Viola of my intent, and charged out the door. If Gabe was using me for information, I think it would be only fair if I did the same.

  I turned the corner of Viola's block and headed toward Gabe's. He was outside doing wind sprints. Such a showoff.

  "You're late," he grumbled.

  "It took me a while to get going," I quipped as I jogged past and did a hurry-up signal with my arm. I didn't want to break momentum. "Think you can keep up, old man?" As proof of my words, I switched into high gear, knowing I'd regret it once the hills started.

  "Old man?" He met me stride for stride as we hit the trail at a clip. "I'm thirty-three. How old are you?"

  "Thirty, but don't look a day over twenty-eight." I gave him a cheeky smile and made the curve in the trail.

  "You're weird." He shook his head but smiled. His breath had become somewhat labored, but so had mine. We fought each other for the lead.

  "I'll take that as a compliment." I edged ahead of him just because…

  "It was meant to be." The next hill was a killer, and he caught up with me. We ran in tandem and remained silent until we reached a plateau.

  "You and Nate have known each other a long time, right?" In a town like this, a friendship simmers over time rather than forges in a couple of months.

  "Since grade school. Played on the football team together in high school—but in a town this size pretty much everyone played on the football team. We went our separate ways in college. I went to Iowa State. He headed for Georgetown on an academic scholarship. I'm sure my grandmother already told you he worked for the FBI before coming back home."

  I nodded because it saved me a breath or two. "She said something about his wife deserting him."

  "He came back from an assignment, and Sara had left Emily with the housekeeper for two days. She wrote him a note saying she didn't want to be married or be a mother anymore." We got to the top, and both of us bent over to suck in deep breaths. "Normally I wouldn't tell you all this, except I know Vi probably gave you the details."

  I nodded. At least my divorce didn't also include being a single parent as well. "Has she contacted Nate since then?"

  He shook his head and stretched his back. "I don't know what Nate would do if she did. When he first got back here, he was angry. He hadn't planned on being a single parent but knew, for Emily's sake, he had to give up his dream job to raise her."

  "Do you think he misses the excitement of Washington?"

  "He did for a while, but he's started to relax more in the last six months. Staying in Inez had never been part of his plan. Me too for that matter." He chuckled. "You're a good runner."

  "If you add for a girl to that statement, I might have to hurt you."

  He barked a laugh. For the first time since I'd met him he actually showed a teeth-revealing smile. "No way." He sucked in a breath as we started downhill. "I'm more of a solitary runner anyway. How about you?"

  "Me too. I would run in Central Park when I could or go to the gym if I couldn't." The ease of our conversation gave me a surge of optimism. "I ran the New York City Marathon last year and finished. I trained to beat my time this year, but got a little sidetracked with the divorce."

  "You never knew about your father before the note?" He finally asked the question he more than likely had wanted to ask since day one.

  "My mother kept mum about the subject, and I assumed he was dead, or something. When I was little, I would make up stories that he was a prince, or someone famous. But reality was much different."

  "I don't know about a prince, but he had a lot of female admirers."

  We'd gotten down to the bottom of the trail. "What do you mean?" And I kind of knew all this but was anxious to hear his version.

  "There were always women in and out of his house. When I first came back to town a couple of years back, I thought he might be running a brothel out of the place until I realized he had a very active—" he cleared his throat and smiled "—lifestyle."

  "If you had said 'sex life,' I might have thrown up on the spot."

  "I can't see through walls into his bedroom, but I had to break up a couple of fights in front of the house."

  "What kind of fights? Between women? Between men and women? Between my father and Stan?" I tried to avoid looking at him when I asked the question. I didn't want him to think I had ulterior motives even though I did.

  "All of the above."

  I stifled a groan. On the one hand, I didn't want to know this. But on the other hand, it only broadened my suspect pool.

  "Most times the fights were between drunken women who partied with Stan and Tony. Once, a guy named Lucky had a real hard time when he found out his wife was with Tony. As soon as I heard the sound of glass breaking, I called Nate."

  I wanted to put my hands over my ears, but didn't. "My father is quite a colorful character."

  "He's a good guy, just a little directionless. He didn't fit in anywhere, while at the same time he was like a chameleon." We stopped at the end of his driveway.

  "Does Lucky live in Inez?" There weren't enough hours in the day to look into all my father's enemies.

  He eyed me suspiciously so I put an I-don't-have-a-care-in-the-world smile on my face.

  "He owns a farm near Jonesboro. I heard he works part time at the hardware store in town. He and his wife were divorcing, and he didn't like the fact that Tony was giving her something she hadn't had in a while. But he's long over that now as far as I know."

  My face heated. "I'm feeling a little queasy." I rolled my eyes. "Can we change the subject to something other than my father's sex life?" When he chuckled, I took that as a yes. "Based on what you said earlier, my dad didn't have a steady job, or any job that anyone knew of." The likelihood of my father being a low-level criminal was increasing exponentially.

  "Your dad did a lot of odd jobs around town, but nothing that would sustain him long term. Most people thought he was living his life just outside the law."

  "Although I'm sure Nate would love to see him behind bars."

  "Cops are usually rule-following types."

  I shrugged, enjoying the tidbits of information I was gaining without too much trouble. Could it be that he was spoon-feeding me info to send me off on a wild goose chase? Completely possible. But I could deal with that because as they say, most lies have a grain of truth.

  "Did my father's electricity get turned off frequently?" I had to ask the question that had plagued me since day one.

  "It happened a couple of times since I moved in five years ago. Usually lasted a day or two before your dad would get an influx of cash and get things paid."

  I contemplated whether or not I wanted to know the answer to the next question. "How do you think he afforded the house in the first place?"

  "Lots of speculation, but as far as I know, no one ever asked."

  We stopped in front of the white picket fence outside his house "Thanks for joining me on my run." I shrugged. "Not that I couldn't have handled whatever came my way."

  Before he
could respond, a delivery truck pulled in front of my father's house. Curiosity had me rooted in place until I spotted the multiple large boxes. I ran towards the truck and watched as the guy loaded up a cart filled with my babies.

  Gabe stood next to me. "What is it?"

  "My art work." I felt like a kid who'd walked downstairs on Christmas morning as I retrieved the key I'd left in the pocket of my running shorts just in case I wanted to stop inside my father's house.

  "You really are an artist? I thought you were spewing BS."

  I shook my head and ignored his skepticism. The giddiness didn't leave me as I worked with Gabe to bring the packages from the front porch and into the house. Once we'd moved the last of the pieces and unwrapped them all, I surveyed the twelve works with a critical eye.

  "I haven't seen them in nearly five years." I walked around each one propped along the dining room walls.

  "This might be a stupid question, but where were they?"

  "In a storage unit. My husband didn't think being an artist was good enough for the wife of Joseph Fleming." The fact that I hadn't left the loser sooner astounded me.

  "He sounds like a dick," Gabe said. "These are amazing. In fact, I just read in the paper City Center Gallery in Iowa City is looking for new talent. You might want to give them a call."

  I glanced at him and smiled. "Thank you. I might just do that." For the first time in a long while, I had that quickness in my pulse that made me know I might be headed down the right path.

  * * *

  Gabe's suggestion quickly came to fruition after one short phone call. Being able to break away and get to Iowa City without a gaggle of seniors following along beside me was an additional boost. Maybe they had no interest in going to Iowa City, especially after I promised them I wouldn't do any investigating without them.

  I followed the directions on my built-in navigation system and headed to the City Center Art Gallery. I unloaded some pieces out of the back of my car and brought them inside. The ones I couldn't fit in the trunk, I'd taken photos of.

  Modern additions to the century old building gave the gallery both light and height to display more artwork than I would have envisioned from the outside. As I glanced at the eclectic display of renderings on the walls, a little of the nervous energy dissipated. Before I settled into full appreciation mode, the manager came from the back, looking like every other gallery manager I'd seen in New York. Frazzled, but still impeccably coiffed and dressed, he gave me a quick once-over and a tight smile.

  He held out his hand and introduced himself as Henri. "I'm Isabella Lewis. I called earlier about your new artists show."

  As he examined my paintings with a discerning eye, any trace of emotion remained elusive in his expression. My stomach began to tighten.

  His gaze met mine, and I felt myself flush. I couldn't decide if it was embarrassment or fear that had my cheeks hot. "These are good. Very good. They're similar to Ike T's." He waived his hands in the air but didn't finish his train of thought. "Do you know him?"

  I wasn't sure if he was accusing me of copying the guy or not. To confirm my not-guilty status, I vigorously shook my head. "I don't know any artists from around here."

  "Where did you study?"

  "The Art Institute of New York." I gulped back that itch that wanted me to smile. I didn't want to be premature, but his enthusiasm gave me hope. "I graduated several years ago but had a tough time breaking into the New York art scene. Now that I've relocated to Iowa, I thought I'd see if there was any interest."

  "Most definitely." He nodded again as if he was trying to decide whether or not he should reveal the remainder of his thoughts. "You've never brought works here before?"

  I couldn't be certain where he was headed with this. "It's my first time in Iowa." I wanted to add "cross my heart and hope to die" but thought that sounded a tad juvenile.

  He eyed me cautiously. "Do you have any more?"

  "Yes. There are some photos on my phone." I'd probably have to borrow Viola's van to get them there, but that seemed doable.

  "Bring all of them. We have a Gilded Lily Celebration coming up tomorrow evening. If you could attend and schmooze with the customers, it would pique their interest and get your name out there before the official show opening."

  "That sounds lovely." Even though I had no idea what exactly a Gilded Lily Celebration might look like, Google was my friend. I'd figure it out.

  "Most people dress for the period, or come in Mardi Gras themed costumes—the more outrageous, the better. It's more fun that way, don't you think?"

  I nodded. After getting the pertinent information from him, I walked back out the door. I couldn't help but feel I'd made a huge step in achieving my goal. While I wasn't any closer to solving the mystery about my father, I might be headed in the right direction to solve the mystery about my future.

  * * *

  I learned Gilded Lily was an alchemist known to wear a gold mask, gloves, and a fur coat. She sought immortality through the use of chemicals.

  When I came back, Viola was sitting in her rocker in the living room watching reruns of Murder She Wrote. She grinned. "I can tell by the look on your face it's good news."

  "I'm in. The City Center Gallery in Iowa City is going to display my work. They want me to go to their Gilded Lily Celebration tomorrow night in preparation for the showing next week."

  She jumped up from her rocker with a speed which would have made a thirty-year-old envious and wrapped me in a hug. "I told you your work was special. We'll all have to come to the showing. Oh my goodness, this is the best news I've had in a long time." She grasped my fingers. "So what's wrong?"

  Even while I couldn't pinpoint the nature of my reticence—everything from residual artistic self-esteem issues to the blatant subjective nature of art—I decided on the path of least resistance.

  "I have no idea what to wear. You don't happen to have any dresses from the twenties that might fit me, do you?"

  "I have something in mind. Follow me." She waved for me to follow her as she headed down the hall.

  Very rarely did Viola go upstairs, but apparently my question warranted a trip. I hadn't done any exploration of the second floor except for my own room, and didn't learn until she opened a door at the end of the hallway there was a third floor to the house as well. We walked up another flight of steps to an attic. The space covered the entire expanse of the house with two dormers and windows in both the front and back. Neatly organized, the place had several large trunks and a dozen or so boxes along with the largest cedar chest I'd ever seen.

  Viola opened it and revealed a treasure trove of old clothing. "This is my wedding dress, but towards the bottom there are some things of my mother's that might be perfect for what you have in mind."

  She proceeded to uncover lace dresses with silky underlays, V-necks, and high-collared long-sleeved dresses embellished with beads. The dresses epitomized the idea of classic elegance. The supply of clothing seemed endless as she dug through the well-preserved gems.

  "Here it is." She displayed a copper-colored sleeveless dress with a silk sheath overlaid with lace. The attention to detail revealed handiwork reminiscent of the time. "Rumor has it, my mother wore this the day she met my dad in an underground speakeasy."

  "Wearing that, I'm sure she met quite a few men that night. But it seems so fragile."

  She waved me off. "It's been sitting up here for nearly a hundred years. Be nice if somebody got a chance to wear it. Lord knows it never would have fit me." She chuckled. "I take after my father's side of the family. Luckily Gabe takes after his grandfather. I always thought I might have a granddaughter to pass this along to, but that never happened."

  "Maybe Gabe will get married and give you a great-granddaughter." Maybe I was fishing trying to find out more about Gabe's story. I knew nothing about him except that he tended to be grumpy at times and was fiercely protective of his grandmother. Oh, and he was kind of cute in a disaster-waiting-to-happen kind of way.
>
  "Gabe hasn't had too much luck in the love department. Married his high school sweetheart after college, but that turned into a big old mess when she was interested in riding onto his coattails more than anything else." When she shook her head and tsked, it became clear she wouldn't divulge any more information.

  I wanted to ask more pointed questions but didn't want her to get the idea I was interested. Snooping around about Gabe took the concept of delicate balance to a whole other level. Even if I still had no clue what the man did for a living and was itching to know. Riding on his coattails? What on earth did that mean? He was a handyman as far as I could tell.

  Instead of pursuing the matter and having her think I was in any way interested in her grandson—because I wasn't except in a plutonic kind of way, at least I thought so—I moved on to more pressing matters. "Do you mind if I try this on?" My fingers twitched as I touched the fabric. To my surprise, the dress smelled like a combination of linen and lemon rather than like mothballs or some other preservative.

  "I'd love to see it on you." I returned to my room and slipped into the sheath dress. The copper color made my hair look darker with reddish undertones. Right now I couldn't even remember what my life had been like a little over a week ago—nor did I want to.

  * * *

  Viola had gone to bed while I sat in the living room watching mindless TV. There were so many loose ends to this mystery I couldn't keep them straight. But at least it kept me from obsessing about tomorrow.

  I spotted a car pull up outside and peeked out the window. Nate. I hope that didn't mean bad news. He tapped on the window.

  I got off the couch and opened the door. His frown let me know I wasn't going to like whatever he said. He directed me back to the living room, and we sat on opposite sides of the couch.