Nearly Dead in Iowa Page 17

  After he put the pizza into the outdoor oven, he sat next to me on the chaise and took a gulp of water. Music brought another level of relaxation to the evening.

  "Just so we're clear, my father is not a murderer." He looked at me like I was delusional. And maybe I was—sort of like continuing to believe in the Tooth Fairy and Santa Claus.

  "I never thought he was." He sounded the tiniest bit skeptical.

  That left the answer behind door two. "You think he's dead?" The idea surfaced, bringing with it a prickly sensation. I didn't want to believe or accept anything that I'd learned today.

  "I think something happened to him." He didn't say the D word, but he might as well have.

  "The pawnshop we were at had a necklace in the window that was like the one my father always wore. I'm not sure what it means, but I mentioned it to Nate."

  "I know the one you're talking about."

  "After what everyone has told me, I can't imagine he'd pawn it." What I'd uttered didn't match the feeling I had in my heart.

  "We don't know what happened to Tony, but we have to assume the worst."

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  "I'll be fine, Gabe. You don't need to follow me to Iowa City." I kissed him on the cheek as he stood near the front door.

  "Are you sure? I can sleep on the couch if you want to stay the night." Gabe grasped my elbow and stared at me as if he wanted me to change my mind nearly as much as I wanted me to.

  "Stop mothering me. I see the resemblance to your grandmother suddenly," I teased him, and he smiled. "Fat chance the murderer will follow me to Iowa City." At least I hoped not.

  "Nothing about this makes sense."

  "Exactly. Which is why I'll be fine. There is no such thing as predictable in this whole situation." He had that pathetic look in his eye that made me think my death might very well be imminent.

  "Promise to call me as soon as you get there?"

  "Yes. I pinky swear I will not be murdered during the night. And if somebody dares to try, I have my pepper spray that's going to be next to me while I sleep."

  "But the pawnshop guy didn't fare—"

  I put my fingers against his lips. "Don't try to spook me. I'm sure there are a lot of unsavory characters that hang around places like that, so it was our bad luck that we turned up on the day where something happened. It could be totally unrelated."

  He blew out a breath and shook his head. "I'm not changing your mind, am I?"

  "Nope. I'm stubborn that way."

  To my surprise, he wrapped his arm around my back and pulled me close and kissed me. This time it wasn't a peck, but a slow lingering kiss that ignited all my girly parts. Way too soon, he broke away and gazed into my eyes. "I'm holding you to your promise about not getting dead." He forced a smile. It was kind of cute that he was so worried about me.

  "Promise. Although I do think being a ghost and haunting you sounds like a bit of fun." I wrapped my arms around his neck and kissed him back. And took my time about it too. Don't judge, I've been in a drought for a while now. Besides, I liked kissing him. My lips lingered just outside his and the thrumming inside me told me to back away before I did something colossally stupid.

  * * *

  I got to the hotel around ten, called Gabe, and then spent way more time talking to him than I'd intended. After that, I stayed up half the night writing down lists. On one side was what I knew. On the other, what I didn't know. Unfortunately, the "didn't know" side was way longer. By morning, I intended to remedy that situation.

  Despite my lack of sleep, I was raring to go after a large cup of coffee. I stopped in Anton first and visited the café bright and early and was surprised to see Sally on duty. Irene remembered me from the other day and greeted me with a hug. I sat at the counter and ordered a coffee and a piece of the apple pie. Apparently the road to indulgent eating was not a passing fancy. It had become an ingrained habit.

  While I dug in with my fork, I kept an eye out for Sally. Like her husband, she must be a smoker as I spotted her frequent visits out the back door. If I timed it right, I could be waiting outside when she took her next smoke break. I finished my pie and coffee and walked out the door. Sally eyed me as I left.

  I got into my car and circled the block before parking behind the building. Within minutes of my departure, she slipped out the back door. I got out of the car and strolled over.

  "Good morning, Sally. I meant to talk to you inside, but you were busy." I shrugged as nonchalantly as possible.

  "What do you want?" She snarled. "I already talked to your sheriff boyfriend. I don't know anything about Stan or your father."

  First—sheriff boyfriend? Where had that come from? Once she'd said that, my mind vacated for a second or two.

  Focus.

  "Did your husband know about the affair with my father?" I gulped back the next thought before I asked and served it with a giant dollop of revulsion. "Were you also having an affair with Stan?"

  "That's none of your business."

  "But it is my business since Stan's dead and my father's missing and presumed either dead or a murderer, depending on who you talk to. So, yes, it's definitely my business."

  "Bull. You're not the law. I don't need to talk to you." She threw away her cigarette and started to walk away, but I grabbed her arm.

  Probably not the best idea in the world, but I couldn't let her go back inside without giving me some answers. "I'm not trying to get you or your husband in trouble. All I want to know is what happened to my father." She hesitated for a second, so I continued. "Can you imagine not knowing who your father is? Other girls had their fathers at ballet recitals, or went to father/daughter dinners, but I never had that luxury. My chance to get to know him was stolen from me."

  I was embellishing, but not by much. Since coming here, I'd learned a lot about myself. And now that I had a smidgen of information about him, I craved for more. I wasn't quite sure what that said about my new evolving self, but I couldn't see a downside to seeking the truth.

  "My father was a drunk who flitted in and out of my life. Believe me, you're not missing much."

  "Don't I deserve to figure that out on my own? It's the not knowing that's my undoing." I finally spoke the truth. It felt freeing for all sorts of reasons I couldn't quite comprehend. That old adage of "the truth shall set you free" gonged inside my chest.

  "I don't know what happened to your father, but he was a good guy. Nothing like what people say about him." She gave me a quick smile and turned to walk inside the building.

  I wiped an errant tear from my eye and got inside my car. Had I scratched her and her husband—my number one suspect—off my suspect list?

  Maybe.

  I couldn't see her killing Stan. And her husband had an alibi—until proven otherwise. But there was no disputing that Stan's death and my father's disappearance were interlinked in a way I didn't understand.

  But I still needed to explore the possibility of Phil getting released early on the night Stan was killed. I went to the police station next where I could get to the bottom of all this—one way or another. Arrests were public records, but that didn't mean I wouldn't have to work to get the information.

  The woman behind the desk eyed me with a disinterested stare. If I could have read her mind it would have been something like—don't even think about asking me any questions—I'm happy doing absolutely nothing and playing Candy Crush.

  "I need to know if a person was arrested for disorderly conduct on Tuesday, September twenty-third."

  "You a newspaper reporter or something?"

  I toyed with the idea of lying, but she looked like the type who might ask for credentials. I shook my head. "No, but I am a concerned citizen." I have no idea why I said that because it sounded kind of ridiculous, but I was on a roll. And all this time I'd thought sugar and coffee weren't good for me. Instead, they gave me clarity—or made me act like a fool—take your pick.

  "Concerned about what?" She placed her beefy arms on the de
sk and did everything but give me an eye roll.

  "Concerned about my safety."

  "Have you filed a restraining order on somebody?" Her gaze swept from my head to my feet.

  "No, but Phil Reed was arrested for disorderly conduct on the night of Tuesday, September twenty-third, and I need to know if he was released early."

  Her jaw locked tight and her lips made an O before she smirked. "You must be delusional. My Phil wouldn't be interested in a scrawny thing like you."

  "I'm sorry, but isn't your Phil married to Sally? And didn't he just get out of prison?"

  I'd lost any pretense of being cordial and had leapt head first into combative. Scrawny? Mental head slap. Did I really want to be considered attractive to Phil Reed?

  "Please…the woman's been cheating on him with Tony Gallione and who knows who else the whole time he was locked up." A patrol officer walked by and looked over the woman's shoulder. She didn't say a word but seemed to sit a little straighter. Before I knew it, she typed something into the computer before rolling her eyes at me. "Looks like the man in question was arrested." She glanced over her shoulder. The officer still stood behind her. After a long, loud sigh, she continued. "He was arrested at five p.m. but was released two hours later after he sobered up." She crossed her arms over her chest. "Are you happy now?"

  I walked out the door as tears peppered my lashes. Why was I crying? Fear, frustration, anger, and a whopping case of impotence doubled down with a case of not-enough-sleep might be the culprit.

  I needed to pull myself together pronto. It only meant that Phil was poised to take the lead in my suspect list. I wondered if Nate had found out yet that Phil was released early. He could have but not have shared the information with me. Not that he had to, but it would have been nice if he'd had.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  After my excursion this morning, I needed some distraction and called Henri and told him I'd be by within a half hour to drop off the rest of my paintings. I took a quick shower, dressed in a pair of leggings and long green sweater, and headed toward the gallery. He was waiting for me when I arrived.

  "Thank you for bringing me these, dear. I'll be sure to find some space for them." He gave me a kiss on both cheeks.

  I knew I had to find out more about Dr. Hunter without piquing his interest as to why. "Do you need some help in getting ready for the show tomorrow?" My get-out-of-town had actually turned into perfect timing for a multitude of reasons. "I'd be more than happy to help you out." Volunteering would not only get on his good side, but it might very well put me in a position to sniff out Dr. Hunter, his wife, and all the other possible suspects in the area.

  "That would be super, darling."

  "Have you gotten anything new from Ike T?" I watched for any sign of shock, surprise, or any speck of emotion at all. But nothing showed on his face, even though I was getting to be quite an expert in reading people. I'm not sure how well that would serve me outside of a murder investigation, but I'd use my newfound skill for the time being.

  "I haven't heard from his rep in probably more than a month."

  "You've never met him personally?" I kind of knew the answer to this already, but that didn't mean I wouldn't probe further.

  "He has his agent bring his stuff by. Well…he did until a couple of years ago, and then I started to get the shipments sent locally. The money from the sales has always been wired to a bank in New York."

  "New York? Do you have a card for his rep?" He looked at me quizzically, so I felt compelled to make up a reason why. "I've been trying to find an agent myself since I've relocated." I smiled to reinforce the helpless-don't-know-what-I'm-doing quotient.

  He must have bought it since he relaxed his shoulders and went through a card file on his desk. "Here it is. Now that I think of it, it was a woman who represented him. Exquisite Art Services. Like I said, she hasn't come by personally in a very long time. Then again, she didn't really have to since she knows I'm interested in anything Ike T submits. Those paintings sell like hot cakes."

  I gulped and thought through the many women my father had been linked to that I'd learned about over the course of the last few weeks. Yes, the list was long. But there was only one I knew about who had a connection to New York. Even while the thought popped into my head, I forced it back. It couldn't be. That still didn't explain the wire transfer to a bank in New York. I was almost afraid to ask the question, but did anyway. "What did the woman look like?"

  He rubbed his forehead as if that might prompt the memory. "Dark hair, late forties or early fifties. Looked classy. But I would have expected as much. I'm pretty sure she came from New York."

  "New York? You're sure?" My voice squeaked at the end as the words stuck inside my throat. Validity wound around my brain, but I refused to confirm its existence.

  "I don't know for sure, but since the bank is there, that made sense. Now I get emails from her telling me to expect a shipment."

  That didn't describe Dr. Hunter's wife, or Sally, or any of the other women my father had been linked to. But it described my mother perfectly, down to the time of her death and her last trip here two years ago. Chills raced down my arms.

  Why? The question reverberated inside my head without an answer. Nothing about what happened in the last several weeks seemed logical in terms of how I thought my life had been.

  At this point, I was way too preoccupied trying to absorb the information to offer up anything useful as I fingered the card I held within my hand and stared at the email address for Exquisite Art Services. I fought through a war of emotions and tried to keep my tears in check. I drew in a deep breath and straightened my stance. Focus. "Now what do you need help with?"

  "Anything and everything. I need someone with an artist's eye to help me arrange things."

  Four hours later, I was hungry, tired, and anxious to find an excuse to sneak back to the hotel and rest up for tomorrow, when Dr. Hunter's wife walked inside. While I pretended to dust off some of the frames, she and Henri chatted about twenty feet away and I listened in.

  "Derek insists on buying more of Ike T's stuff before the event starts tomorrow. What do you have?"

  "I only have a few left. Let me show you."

  They walked together towards the back of the gallery. But I couldn't think of an excuse to follow them without being obvious. When I thought of all the works I'd uncovered just last night, I couldn't help but wonder why my father wouldn't sell them. What would be his reasoning since more sales meant more money? That's one of the many parts of this whole thing that didn't make sense. The ebb and flow of money based on sales made me think he'd be anxious for any sale. So why did I find fifteen to twenty finished pieces waiting to be sold? And why did I find three stacks of money?

  There had to be something I was missing. I'd be the first to admit my father had a unique style with a blending of colors and abstracts that made him stand apart from the rest. He had a different approach to how he accomplished his finished product than I had seen before and couldn't help but admire.

  All of this brought me back to questions of what might have happened to him. And, more importantly, if my mother had been acting as his agent for years, why hadn't she told me anything about him?

  I needed to stop thinking about this before I went mad.

  They both emerged from the back room. Henri toted two canvases and a sculpture piece to the front of the shop on a cart while Mrs. Dr. Hunter led. "I'm so glad you found the sculpture. That's what Derek's been wild to get. What are the damages? And make sure you give me the pre-sale pricing and multiple discount."

  "I'll give you all three pieces for nine grand. That's a thousand off the original prices." Henri looked like he was salivating as he keyed the amount in the register.

  Why didn't my father tell people about what he did for a living? Why did he go on letting them believe he was a scam artist? Or did he do both?

  Before I could ponder that too long, I knew I had to do something to get some more dirt on Mr
s. Derek Hunter and threw caution to the wind and grabbed the rolling cart. "I'm on my way out, Henri. I'd be happy to help."

  "Thanks, Isabella. This is Claire Hunter, and right now I'm up to my ears in stuff I still need to get done." He scurried into the back.

  "Derek likes to drive his Mercedes convertible during the summer and fall so I have his Lexus SUV. You should have no trouble loading the pieces inside." She scrutinized me before giving me a tight smile. "Are you Henri's assistant? You look so familiar."

  "I'm one of the artists."

  Her eyebrows rose as she examined me more closely while an indecipherable noise that resembled a cross between a harrumph and a sigh spilled through her lips. "My husband Dr. Derek Hunter and I are avid collectors of art." As long as I seemed to be doing the heavy lifting, she seemed completely comfortable letting me do it.

  "I see you're both big fans of Ike T." In terms of an opening, it was the best I could come up with. I watched her expression to see if I spotted anything noteworthy in the way she answered.

  "He's unique stylistically. I wish he produced works a little faster, however. Not sure why he's so slow, but I gobble up every piece he does as soon as I can. My husband is wild about his paintings."

  "You must have a pretty big house for all that artwork." Yes, I was grasping at straws, but I wanted to keep her talking.

  "Unlike children, there's always room for more. Besides, Derek likes to rotate the paintings." She left it at that and walked toward her car clicking on the remote when we got close. Her phone started ringing. "I need to get this. Fold the back seats down to give you more room."

  I flipped down the seats of her enormous SUV without her assistance—not that she offered. Nope. She was too busy talking in hushed tones into her cell phone. Every once in a while she'd emit a flirtatious giggle. By the sound of things she'd probably found a new man.

  As I shifted the artwork into the back, the lingering smell inside reminded me of Joseph's cologne—Tom Ford Special Blend. Had she bought the same cologne for my father?