Nearly Dead in Iowa Page 15

  "I think we're done here." He grabbed my arm, but I shook it off. "Don't worry. I'm going to stay next door so no need to walk me home. I told the ladies I'd spend the night there so as to not wake Viola when I came home." I'm sure they suspected I'd planned to stay overnight with Gabe.

  Fat chance.

  "Let me—" I held a shaky finger to his lips.

  "Do not. I repeat do not say you are going to walk me there and make sure I'm okay. You can watch me from the porch if it will make your chauvinistic heart feel any better."

  I grabbed my purse and the remainder of the bottle of wine and flounced out the door. The wine was a backup in case I had trouble getting to sleep in that house that held so many memories.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  It was all about creating a façade. That's what I convinced myself as I held my back straight, my head high, and used my key to unlock the front door. It wasn't as if I didn't know he was watching me from his porch. I could practically feel the glare coming from his eyes along my back. But I wouldn't back down. And I wouldn't show fear as I went inside.

  I turned on the light. Once again I avoided looking at the spot where I found the body. That was being smart and prudent and justifying this really stupid idea. At nearly one, I didn't have much time before the sun started to rise and the boogey men and/or women that inhabited this place would once again go back into their hidey hole.

  I went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, not because I was hungry, but stress eating had become my go-to since hitting the streets of Inez. Those five pounds I'd always wanted to lose had quickly become ten in the last couple of weeks.

  To my disappointment, there was nothing inside but a jar of pickles and some olives. Instead, I chugged back a swig of wine. I needed something to occupy my mind and decided that maybe a trip upstairs would be the ticket to distraction.

  It couldn't hurt.

  I bounded up the stairs, bringing the bottle along. Duh? Why wouldn't I? I went through the door to the bedroom, keeping the light off so I could spy outside. Yes, I was checking on Gabe and wanted to make sure he wasn't slinking around the perimeter, or worse yet, calling up his BFF to send a squad car to keep me from smuggling in my father and perpetrating all manner of mayhem.

  I closed the blinds and turned on the overhead light shortly afterward. It was my own thumbing my nose at his interference in my life. Still too jittery to do anything but pace, I decided I'd venture back into the closet to my father's treasure trove of memories.

  I ran my hand along his clothing as if I could pick up some kind of vibration from the process. But nothing came to mind beside the fine fabric of the clothing. It appeared my father might be living beyond his means if his wardrobe was any indication. A bottle of Tom Ford Special Blend men's cologne sat on a shelf inside the closet. Being one of Joseph's favorites, I knew it cost three hundred and fifty dollars for that size bottle. However, it looked like the bottle had never been opened. The fact that he had his lights turned out recently for non-payment validated his priorities, only solidifying what had been said about him.

  I shuffled absently through the box of pictures the ladies had left on the floor of the bedroom. Unable to focus on the one that had sent my emotions into overdrive, I shuffled through the remainder to see if I could glean what or who my father had been.

  Bored after a minute or two, I rummaged through the pockets of his clothes to see if there was anything—a note or message—absolutely anything to give me a clue as to where he might be hiding. But I came up empty after my fruitless search.

  I drained the wine bottle to further prove my descent into desperation. The move made me a bit woozy, and I staggered, catching myself in a strangle of suits.

  When I brushed against the wall in back, I felt something that needed a little more exploration. Trying not to get too anxious about what I might have found, I ran my finger along the edge to confirm the wine wasn't playing tricks on me.

  It appeared way too symmetrical to be an old age crack in the drywall. Instead of thinking too much about it, I probed with the tips of my fingernails into the crack. There was a little popping sound that led to a small fissure that opened.

  I buried my hand inside the small space and scooped the contents into the bottom of my sweater. After I dumped everything onto the bed, I surveyed my bounty: a large box and three stacks of hundred dollar bills rubber banded together.

  I tried to reconcile the idea of why he'd have stacks of money hidden but at the same time allow his lights to be turned off, and I came up empty. I pushed back thoughts of ill-gotten gains and refused to recognize the obvious. It was a good place to be sometimes.

  I started with the box and shuffled through various newspaper postings that seemed unrelated before landing on the notice of my mother's obituary in the New York Times. I breathed in the validation of what that meant—the connection obvious. Much to my disappointment, there were no love letters or anything else to prove one way or another what happened between my parents or why they might have separated after my birth. I felt like I'd uncovered either the mummy's curse or something magical, but I hadn't yet put together the pieces to figure out which.

  Another shuffle through the papers revealed a piece of paper folded into quarters. Old and worn like it had been touched a million times, my fingers trembled as I opened it. Isaac Anthony Gallione, father. Amanda Lewis, mother. Tears sprung to my eyes.

  Confirmation after all these years.

  Why?

  Just like the documents I'd found with the Qs, this piece of paper proved the truth behind my birth. Born in Iowa to Isaac Anthony Gallione and Amanda Lewis July 19. Isaac? That meant my father's first name wasn't Tony like everyone believed.

  Why? The question circled my brain until I thought I might go mad from it.

  Did this bring validity to the idea that my grandparents had somehow done something to cover up the circumstances of my birth? And paid off my father. The thought made a lump form in the middle of my stomach. Or was there more than the obvious?

  How they'd done it or if they were behind it wasn't even an issue any longer. Right now it didn't matter so much as everything else that happened since I'd gotten here. I needed to focus. And for the first time I wished I hadn't overindulged. Clearheaded thinking would help navigate my way through this.

  I drew in a breath and tried to calm my erratic pulse. I needed to get a grip and examine the evidence and see where it led me.

  With a firm commitment to explore that further, I kept reading through the bits and pieces of paper. If my father had hidden them away, they must mean something.

  Several pictures were stuffed inside a small envelope. They were of my father. Bloody and bruised with what looked like a broken nose and black eyes, his face was swollen and distorted nearly unrecognizably, but he wore that same gold chain around his neck. If I had to guess, the Polaroids were taken twenty or more years ago. I turned them over and spotted a date a couple of months after I was born.

  But what did they mean? Was this one of the times when he'd tried to pull a scam on the wrong people? Why keep a picture?

  Frustrated by non-answers, I dug further in the closet and retrieved a purple wooden box with a carved heart. When I opened the top, music began to play. My heart raced. The melody…was so familiar…

  The doorman delivered a package marked with my name. I tore it open and found a small purple box. When I opened the lid, the music tinkled while a little ballerina twirled around to the music.

  My mother came into the room. She looked unhappy when she spotted my new toy. She said there was a much prettier one she'd seen at a store nearby. But I wanted to keep the one I had and wouldn't let it go. I even brought it to bed with me at night.

  My special music box disappeared and was replaced by a fancy one with gems across the top. But I'd cried and cried and cried. I wanted my old one back.

  The memories were so fresh I felt the bubble of tears rush to the surface. Why would my mother have sen
t my father's gift back—except to eradicate any trace of him from my life? I wrestled with the emotions brought up by the memory. More importantly, it meant my father might not have abandoned me all those years ago—or at least in the way I'd suspected.

  I relooked through the closet where I'd found the other treasures and then went back and looked again. But nothing. Finding my original birth certificate had made me thirst for more information as I set out to explore each and every room until I got more answers than questions. I walked down the hall and peeked inside the next room on the left. The second room was empty, not even a scrap of clothing in the closet. The following room the same thing.

  The door at the end of the hall seemed to be calling my name. While shivers raced down by back—but that might have been the wine along with everything I'd just uncovered—I kept going. I could have sworn I heard the music from Jaws playing as I got to the door. My fingers grasped the doorknob and twisted, not quite sure what to expect. Granted, Nate was thorough to the max, so I expected the house had been gone over with a fine-toothed comb so any creepy stuff would be long gone, but that didn't mean I wasn't nervous.

  I drew in a deep breath and yanked open the door. A blast of cool air assaulted me while a set of stairs appeared in front of me.

  I flipped the switch and tiptoed up the steps. Before I reached the top a familiar smell confronted me, and I increased my pace.

  Scents of art supplies overcame me in a rush. Canvases in various states of completion lined the entire room, each with a signature that I should have known. Realization tunneled through my body until I thought my knees might give out.

  My father was Ike T.

  Everything fell into place. The smell I'd encountered each time I'd come that was both familiar and elusive. Through years of art school, the aroma of oil paints and turpentine had been a part of who I was. How had I dismissed it so easily?

  Why hadn't I figured this out before? And what, if anything, did it have to do with Stan's death and my father's disappearance?

  The money that came to Tony at random times could easily be attributable to sale of his works rather than the get-rich schemes and shady dealings. He could have perpetrated the myth to keep his identity secret. Could I also have been wrong in my assumption that my grandparents had paid him off when they'd learned of my birth?

  If I wanted to know what truly happened that night, I had to follow the leads I'd been given. I had no doubt Nate had found these paintings in the attic, but he hadn't understood the connection. If I wanted answers, I needed to revisit Henri and get a description of who brokered the deals for Ike T.

  I was no closer to figuring out who killed Stan, even if my suspect pool was narrowing. The sooner I got to the bottom of it, the sooner I could figure out what happened to my father.

  I walked down the stairs on shaky legs and went into the bedroom. Lying on the bed, I gave into the overwhelming urge to feel sorry for myself. My mother loved me unconditionally. But that didn't mean she was perfect. She made decisions that I might not agree with now, but I believed with my heart they were well intended at the time.

  Overwhelmed, I closed my eyes as memories sifted through and sleep tugged at me. Tears welled and my nose began to run. Lost in that twilight between wakefulness and sleep, the song from my music box played in my head as memories washed over me.

  My father stood in front of me with his arms open wide as if waiting to envelope me in a hug. He was saying something, but I couldn't quite understand the words. My muddled mind couldn't seem to comprehend what he said.

  It looked like my father, but the sinister smile seemed in contrast to what I'd seen in the pictures. Was this dream trying to tell me something about the real Tony Gallione?

  * * *

  When the doorbell rang the following morning, my wine-induced coma hit me like I'd been run over by an eighteen-wheeler. My head throbbed, my stomach gurgled like a geyser, and my limbs felt shaky.

  Someone held down the doorbell, and I forced myself out of bed. Still fully clothed in what I wore last night, I trudged down the stairs and opened the door.

  The ladies stood outside, peering around my shoulder. Dolly held out her hand, "Time to pay up ladies." Ramona, Alice, and Viola handed her what looked to be five-dollar bills as they grumbled something about Gabe and me.

  I rolled my eyes as they wandered inside. "Tell me you did not bet on me and Gabe…" I waved my hands in the air, unable to articulate the thought.

  "I thought Gabe had gotten over…" Viola's voice trailed off as she sniffed.

  "Nonsense. The boy has just plain lost his mojo. He's not as young as he used to be," Ramona added.

  While my curiosity was officially piqued, I had much bigger fish to fry. "I need to get to Stan's house."

  Alice rubbed her hands together. "That sounds like fun."

  Between everything that had gone on in the last few days, along with Gabe's preoccupation with the issue, I felt guilty about involving them in any way, shape, or form. "I don't know what I'll be walking into, and I can't very well ask you to go on a breaking and entering expedition with me. That would be wrong."

  "Things were boring around here until you moved to town," Alice said.

  "You can't deny us all the fun," Dolly added.

  I wasn't going to win an argument with the Qs. I knew it. They knew it. More than likely the whole world knew it.

  Instead, I did the opposite. Besides, I needed somebody to think I wasn't crazy—or at least tell me to my face if I was. "Before we settle all that, I'm going to tell you something, and you have to promise not to breathe a word of this, especially to Nate or Gabe."

  "If it's juicy I'd like to tell Hank. He doesn't remember much of what I tell him, but I'm sure he'll enjoy a story or two until he forgets it five minutes later," Ramona said.

  A collective gasp from the group and excited chatter followed. They lobbed question after question at such a pace, I held up my hand to stop them. "Come upstairs, and I'll explain."

  Ramona, of course, noticed the empty wine bottle on the bed and my purse scattered across the cover. "Definitely looks like you passed out. Did Gabe try to get frisky at least?"

  "Gabe wasn't here. We had a fight, and I came here to sleep like I said I would." I pointed to everything scattered across the bed. "I found pictures in a hidden spot in his closet, my original birth certificate, and a whole lot of money. I also found some paintings in the attic that I think are my father's that I need to show you too." I went down the hall and up the stairs, and the ladies followed me like little ducklings.

  "It stinks up here," Alice commented.

  "That's the oil paint and the turpentine that's used to clean the brushes." I walked to the side and showed them the paintings.

  "But these say Ike T," Dolly said.

  "I forgot to tell you, my father's first name is Isaac. It's on the birth certificate I found."

  "That means I should probably have my friend do another property search under the name Isaac Gallione as well," Viola said.

  "Great idea."

  "What happened after you came up here?" Alice asked.

  "I went back down to the bedroom and had this weird dream…about my father—"

  "Are you sure it was a dream? Maybe he was a ghost?" Ramona asked.

  "I don't think so. But I think he snuck in here since Stan's murder at least once. I don't know why or if he took something or brought something, but he was here for a reason. I can feel it somehow." I sucked in a breath and hoped for the best while expecting the worst detailing my outlandish theory.

  They were quiet for what felt like hours before Ramona startled to giggle. It wasn't too long before the others joined in. Their laugh was infectious, especially as I thought about how ridiculous my story sounded. But it had to be true. Nothing else made any sense.

  "It's too crazy not to be true," Ramona added through giggles.

  "You can't make that kind of stuff up," Dolly concluded.

  "I know it sounds r
idiculous, but I have to check out Stan's house for clues. But while I do that, I need you ladies to go through the rest of the stuff here and see if I'm missing anything."

  "Something might happen if you go to Stan's, and we'll miss out. Besides, I borrowed my nephew's stun gun. We'll be good," Alice said.

  "No stun gun. It's illegal." The idea of any of them with a stun gun terrified me more than I could say.

  "Nonsense. Who's going to charge a bunch of old ladies? We'll plead ignorance," Ramona said.

  "Just bring your pepper spray, and we're armed and dangerous. Nobody's going to mess with us," Alice added.

  "Somehow I don't think Nate or Gabe are going to see it that way." Someone had to be the voice of reason. Ironically, it was me.

  "They'll get over it," Viola said.

  "Besides, we'll just tell them we made you take us. They know how persuasive we can be, so I'm sure they won't blame you," Dolly said.

  I'd have to give them kudos for persistence. There was no way I was going to get out of here without them following me one way or another. At least if they were under my supervision, I could keep them corralled. If I left them, I had little doubt they'd jump into Viola's car and who knew what craziness would ensue.

  I gave them a withering sigh possibly more for effect than anything else. "Let's see if we can figure out some more information before we take off."

  While Alice looked into the cabinets and drawers of the dresser, Dolly scoped out the kitchen, Ramona went to work on the stuff I'd brought out of the closet to see if I missed anything, and Viola and I counted the money.

  We kept at the task for about an hour and found nothing more of interest except for the ten thousand dollars in cash. As we made our way out the door, I spotted a business card wedged at the bottom of the outside doorframe. It said Paul's Pawn Shop across the front. But it was what was scrawled across the back that piqued my interest—Tony Gallione—written in bold dark letters.