Death and Taxes

by Galen Surlak-Ramsey

  “Is there?” he asked. “Do you have some sort of grand idea I’m unaware of?”

  Clarice shook her head. “No, Mr. Conner.”

  “Perhaps then you simply think you are smarter than I am?”

  Again, Clarice shook her head. She’d certainly never claim that with anyone. Well, maybe she would if she were up against a Darwin Award winner, but that was about it. After all, she’d never think chewing on a blasting cap would ever be a good idea.

  “Do you like your job here, Ms. Clarice?” Ryan asked, cutting into her thoughts as he leaned forward and lowered his tone.

  “Yes, Mr. Conner,” she answered, even though at this point in time it was a resounding no.

  “Am I right to believe then that you wish to remain employed?”

  Clarice took a moment to reply. The position at the vet’s office hadn’t been filled yet, but it didn’t pay as well. And there would be cats. Lots and lots of cats. Shedding, meowing, clawing little need machines with an infinitely large god complex. “Yes, I’d like to keep my job, Mr. Conner,” she finally said.

  Ryan sat back in his chair. “Good,” he said. “Now stop arguing with me and do as you’re told. And since this endeavor is tied to your friend, I’m holding you personally responsible if anything goes wrong. Aiding and abetting tax evasion is a serious crime. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, Mr. Conner.”

  Ryan glanced at his wristwatch. “Now that we’re clear,” he said. “I want you to go home and pack your bags. Also, you need to learn your forms. I have a book that will help you in that regard. We leave promptly tomorrow at seven in the morning.”

  Chapter Two

  Clarice fishtailed her sky blue Datsun 260z around the last bend in the road before her condominium entrance. Edgar, the security guard posted at the gates, would undoubtedly shoot her a please- stop-doing-that look as she passed by, but she didn’t care. Her weekend was now ruined, and no rent-a-cop was going tell her what she could or could not do. She pressed the remote control that hung from her sun visor, and as the black iron gates of the complex swung open, she tightened her grip on the steering wheel.

  “I hate this place,” she muttered, pulling through the entrance. Her feelings for where she and her fiancé Nick currently lived were hardly a secret, despite the “great rate” they got on it. She hated the security posted and the six-foot walls that encircled the compound—a term she preferred to call it instead of home, and she usually had an expletive or two attached as well. She hated the neighbors who felt it necessary to enforce every jot and tittle of the association rules and was convinced they had their own SS brigade on patrol.

  Nick, on the other hand, would call it safe, peaceful, and affluent. But Clarice knew what it really was, upscale neighborhood or not. It was a prison that people paid to be in. And with that thought she whipped the car into her tiny, designated parking space, stepped out and slammed her door shut. It felt good. So when she had run up the stairs to her place and went inside, she made sure she slammed the front door as well.

  “You’re home early,” said Nick, who was seated in their living room, surrounded by two laptops and a disemboweled desktop whose electronic guts were strewn about the floor. He was wearing his usual business casual attire, khaki pants and a well-fitted, yellow polo shirt that accentuated his good physique. “And you’re in a good mood to boot.”

  “Not interested in your sarcasm,” Clarice said and tossed her denim purse on their couch. She headed for their one bedroom, flicked the light switch, and glanced down at the piles of clothes on the floor. She was reasonably sure what she wanted wasn’t in any of them and went through the oak drawers in the corner instead. “I’m going for a run,” she announced when she pulled her sports bra, white tank top, and blue running shorts free from the pile of socks they were smothered in. “I’ll be back in an hour or so.”

  “Today is rest day,” Nick called back. There was hesitation in his voice, and Clarice couldn’t help but mentally pat herself on the back. His training was almost complete, but there was still too much micromanaging for her likes. The perfect relationship needed to run smoothly. Hopefully, all the kinks would iron out before the wedding at the end of the year.

  “Tomorrow is your long run,” he added when she didn’t respond. “It’s not a good idea to mess with the schedule. That’s how injuries happen.”

  “Yes, I know that’s how injuries happen,” she said, putting a bite into her tone while changing clothes. “I was running long before I met you, you know.”

  Clarice trotted back to the living room and lightly bounced on the balls of her feet a few times in order to get her blood pumping. When she finally came to a rest, she crossed her arms and shot Nick a glare. “Well?”

  Nick looked up from what he was working on with confusion splashed across his face. “Well, what? You look fine.”

  “You’re not going to ask me why I’m home early?”

  “Should I?” he asked hesitantly.

  Clarice groaned and rolled her eyes. “Of course you should. What kind of insensitive fiancé are you?”

  Nick’s shoulders went up. “The kind that figured asking why you got canned would make you more upset?”

  “I wasn’t fired, thank you.” Clarice grabbed a pillow from the couch and beaned him in the head playfully. “You think I can’t hold a job for a day?”

  “No, no,” he replied, grinning with his hands in a defensive position mid-air. “It was just the first thing that came to mind as to why you’d be home early and pissed off is all. I mean, I thought this was a regular eight to five kind of deal.”

  “Yeah, a normal person might think that,” she said. “Apparently, it’s an eight to five kind of deal, except when you have to go away for the weekend and work some stupid claims case that even a lunatic wouldn’t chase.”

  “Away?” Nick’s arms fell, and his tone deepened. “What do you mean by away?”

  “Don’t even start with that overprotective crap,” Clarice said and headed for the kitchen.

  “I’m not being overprotective—”

  “Or the jealous crap,” she added. She grabbed a plastic Oakland Raiders cup from the cupboard and downed some water from the fridge. “I can take care of myself, thank you, and I’m not interested in some skinny old guy on a power trip.”

  “Concerned for your safety, is all,” Nick replied sincerely. “It’s not the same thing. It’s a good thing, really. You should like it.”

  “Whatever it is, I don’t. So please cut it out.”

  Nick closed his laptop and gave her his undivided attention. “Where are you going on this trip, exactly?”

  “Blue Ridge Mountains to hunt down non-existent tax evaders.” Clarice tossed the now empty cup into the sink before going on. “So since I’ll be away for the weekend, trapped with my boss doing errand after errand, I’ll be doing my run now since I can’t very well do it tomorrow.”

  Nick sat a moment and drummed his fingers on his thigh. “I really don’t like the idea of this.”

  Clarice began stretching her leg muscles, starting with her quads, one hand pulling her ankle to her buttocks and the other on the kitchen counter. “It’s not as if I have much of a choice, now do I?”

  “You could say no,” he suggested. “Or quit if you think that won’t fly. Something’s not right with this.”

  “One of us needs a real job,” she shot back, more forcefully than she intended. She took the edge off her voice as she continued. “That came out wrong. I’m sorry. Look, my student loans are due, and mortgage will be in a couple of weeks. We have to have a paycheck by then, no matter how close you are to finishing your software package. Almost working isn’t going to pay our bills.”

  “What about the vet office?”

  “There’s no guarantee I’d get it, and I don’t want to risk being out of work,” she said.

  “We can manage a bit.”

  Clarice shook her head. “No. I have to know we’ve got money coming in.
I’d rather be in a padded cell with a snuggly jacket than worry how we’re going to eat.”

  Nick, patient as ever, continued to spitball ideas calmly. “I’ll come with you then. I can finish this communication suite on the road. It’ll be fun.”

  “I can’t see that happening,” Clarice said. “Mr. Conner is obsessed with being professional and having my fiancé tag along is decidedly not so much.”

  “You could ask.”

  “Ask and get fired? No thanks,” she said as she headed for the door. “Look, you’re simply going to have to deal with the fact that I’m going by myself, and I’ll be fine.”

  “We’ll see,” he said with a grin.

  “Nick, I love you, but if we’re going to make this work, you’ve got to trust me to handle things. I got enough of the watchdog from dad growing up. It’s one trip.”

  “I’m not your dad.”

  “I know,” she said as she trotted over and kissed him. “I’m trying to keep it that way.”

  * * *

  An hour and a half later, Clarice returned from her run, hot, sweaty, and pumped with endorphins. Her muscles ached, and her stomach growled in hunger, the latter being accentuated by the sight of a Rueben sandwich and sliced apples waiting for her on the kitchen counter.

  “Thought you might like something to eat when you got back,” Nick said, seated on the floor in the same spot as he was earlier.

  Clarice studied the food-laden platter and gave a wary smile. “Thanks.”

  “Thought we might make some sushi tonight too,” he added, trying to manage a poker face. “Spider rolls, maybe?”

  Clarice smacked her lips, and despite the growing deluge in her mouth, she did not reach for the sandwich. Instead, she folded her arms and leaned against the wall, smiling as she did. “You fight dirty.”

  “Love you, too.”

  Clarice’s eyes met his, melted, and surrendered—partially at least. She pushed off from the wall with her shoulder and made for the telephone hanging on the wall. “Okay, okay,” she said. “I’ll call and ask. But I’m just asking. I’m not pushing this one bit.”

  “Never said you had to.”

  “And either way, you owe me a massage when I get out of the shower,” she said, drawing the corner of her mouth back.

  “Oh, I do, do I?”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “You’re really going to milk this, aren’t you?”

  Clarice went over and kissed him softly. “I am,” she said. “But I’m worth it.”

  “Sometimes,” Nick replied with a wink. “Truth is, I just can’t resist a redhead. Other than that, you’re not all that.”

  Clarice playfully punched him in the arm before heading back to the kitchen, grabbing the phone, and dialing the office. “Mr. Conner?” she said once the line was answered. “It’s Clarice. I have a question.” She stopped and listened intently as her boss took the conversation over.

  “Yes but—” she tried to get in, but was quickly drowned out.

  “I’m sorry it’s not—” Clarice put the phone down, ran her fingers through her hair, and rolled her eyes before picking it up once more. “Mr. Conner!” she shouted.

  When the conversation had come to a definitive pause, she took a deep breath and continued in a more civil, hopefully still employed, manner. “Mr. Conner, I know someone who can fix your laptop faster than anyone else in the world. But if you want it ready for tomorrow, he’ll have to come with us.”

  Five minutes and fourteen praises later, Clarice hung up the phone.

  Chapter Three

  Colmera Springs had but one dirt road that led out of town. It ran a short stint south but eventually turned east for the view. Due to years of neglect, the road had become overgrown with all manner of vegetation and was little more than a weed-infested footpath that limped its way down the mountainside. At the end of its run was the small town of Seraville, which sat on the side of a county road. According to the most recent census data, Seraville consisted of four people, three buildings and one car. There was at this time, however, at least one change: the recent addition of a black and brown Blazer from Kentucky.

  Clarice was sitting in the back seat going over her notes when Ryan Conner, Tax Collector, pulled his Pathfinder alongside this new addition. Her mind was still trying to catalog the myriad of forms and procedures Ryan had been rattling off for the past hour, and as such, she was surprised when their journey came to an end. Part of her was grateful to be free from such a long car ride, but another part dreaded the day to come. With a little luck, she prayed, her boss would realize the wild goose chase they were on and they could return home posthaste.

  “Let’s get to work,” Ryan said, eagerly stepping from his vehicle. “There’s much to do and little time to do it.”

  Clarice, with less pizzazz than her employer, exited from a rear passenger door and stretched her limbs, ignoring his continued ramblings. At the start of the trip, she had remained attentive to her employer’s needs. The long drive, however, had taken its toll. Her mood had changed, and she was now as amicable as a stomach pump. Fortunately for the future of her employment status, Ryan was too excited to take note.

  “Just imagine, a gold mine of taxes mere miles away, and these poor sods won’t even collect on it,” Ryan said, taking in a deep breath. He took a pause from his self-induced ecstasy and studied the buildings. They all needed tending to, the rusted boathouse especially. The tax collector slumped and shook his head. “Property values around here must be atrocious.”

  “God, I hope this doesn’t take long,” said Clarice. “I still say we could’ve just sent them a letter. Or a phone call.”

  “First, it would take too long, and second, as you, Ms. Clarice, pointed out earlier, who would sign for it?” Ryan said, turning back toward her. “Besides, I want to be able to tell the judge later that we personally ensured its delivery. Going the extra mile like that can make a big difference in the courtroom, not to mention solidify our claim for a whistleblower’s reward.”

  Nick, only a step behind Clarice at this point, slung his laptop bag over his shoulder before weighing in on the conversation. “Fed Ex does overnight, and you can track it every step of the way.” When Ryan shot a glare toward him, he quickly amended, “But I’m stating the obvious, aren’t I?”

  Clarice sent him a disapproving look of her own. His job was to fix a laptop, no more, no less. The less he talked, the less he rocked the boat, and the greater the chance she might survive this weekend with her job intact.

  “Yes, you are,” Ryan said, apparently ignoring his secretary’s reaction. He looked around again, and his eyes drifted from the town proper to where someone had arranged countless small, carved rocks into long rows that extended down the hillside. “Now where do you suppose Mr. Whittam went?”

  “We could ask,” Clarice offered. She motioned toward an aged man sitting on a nearby porch, whittling in his rocker. “I’m sure he knows.”

  “Come again?” Ryan said, eyes scanning. “Oh, yes!”

  Quick in step, the three approached the town’s reigning whittling champion. His skin looked like the piece of basswood he had in his hands, and his overalls looked like they had been under one too many leaky engine blocks. His smile was warm, but his eyes looked lifeless, as if the tenant behind them stepped out for frequent vacations.

  “You the guy who uses stamps for the phone?” the old man said once they reached the foot of his porch. “You look like the sort that might.”

  “I’m the man you mistakenly thought was trying to use stamps for the phone, yes,” Ryan corrected. “I am Mr. Ryan Conner, Tax Collector. This is my assistant, Ms. Clarice, and her computer technician, Nicholas.”

  The man gave a friendly wave to all three. “Name’s Martin. Ma is upstairs, taking a nap. Everyone else ran to the store. Have yourself a seat if you like.”

  “I don’t mean to be rude, but we haven’t the time,” Clarice cut in before anyone could take him up on the offer. “We n
eed to deliver a notice and get moving.”

  “Good to be productive,” Martin said and returned to his woodwork.

  “So, if you could point us to where Mr. Whittam ran off to, we’d appreciate it,” Nick chimed in after a lull in the conversation.

  “Won’t do you no good,” Martin replied. He pointed toward the mountain with his pocketknife and gave it a wiggle. “No one lives there, and if your friend ain’t back by now, he ain’t ever coming back. You might as well go home now while it’s still light out. Lot safer that way, too.”

  Ryan cleared his throat and squared himself in front of Martin. “I’m here to collect, Mr. Martin, and no one will stop me, not even death. The best one can hope for is an extension, but payment will be made in the end. And I think it’s safe to say these people have already been granted quite the extension, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Martin blew sharply on his piece of basswood and continued whittling. “I ain’t here to argue with you. But my conscience wouldn’t be clear if I didn’t at least say something.”

  “Well, thank you,” Clarice cut in. “But could you please just tell us where we need to go?”

  For the moment, Martin ignored her request. “If you’d like, you can borrow one of my shotguns,” he offered the three. “All sorts of things run around the mountains. Some ain’t too friendly.”

  “Thank you, but no,” Ryan said.

  “Rifle then?” he offered. “Old Betsy kicks like a mule, but I got a couple of others that ought to be okay for folks like you. I even have one for the pretty little lady. Won’t put down a bear or nothing, but that ain’t your worry here. Folks up that way ain’t right in the head. They like to eat, if you understand me.”

  “I’m not interested in their eating habits,” Ryan stated. “And more importantly, I don’t want the responsibility of caring for someone else’s possessions.”

  “We only want directions,” Clarice tacked on. “And if there aren’t any lions or bears or crazy people trying to shoot us, I think we’ll be fine.”