by Kelly, Diane
By that point, I’d done all I could do until my in-person meeting with Flo scheduled for the following afternoon, but I kept the KCSH stream playing while I worked on some of my other cases. Every time the programs paused for a commercial break, I jotted a quick note identifying the advertiser. Most of the commercials were bare-bones ads in which Flo merely chattered on about the benefits this or that business offered to its customers, but a few of the commercials were more extensive, including music, jingles, and a professional voice actor reading the lines.
By the end of the day, I had a list of seventy-three businesses that had been advertised on KCSH, including multiple restaurants, an exterminator, a mattress store, and even a masseuse. Wandering Hands—have table, will travel. With so many commercials, KCSH should be raking in the advertising revenue.
I pulled out the list of advertising clients Flo had provided to the auditor and compared it to the list I’d jotted down. Sure enough, the vast majority of the businesses mentioned on the air were not included in the station’s income records, their payments unaccounted for, a veritable smoking gun.
Flo Cash certainly had some explaining to do.
And I wasn’t about to take a shrug for an answer.
chapter two
A Little Somethin’-Somethin’
After work, I headed over to the downtown Neiman Marcus store to meet my best friend and roommate, Alicia, in the bridal department for her final fitting.
I smiled at another woman in her late twenties who was looking over the dresses with her mother, my gut feeling a small twinge of envy. Shopping for a wedding dress must be so much fun. It was like getting to play Cinderella. Not that I’d ever been much of the Cinderella type. At just five feet, two inches tall, I was closer in size to one of Snow White’s dwarves than a princess, and I would never put up with an evil stepmother bossing me around. You want the floors washed? Do it yourself, you old ninny. I also tended to frequent the clearance racks, which were generally devoid of fancy gowns and glass slippers. Still, what woman didn’t like getting all gussied up on occasion and being the belle of the ball?
I found Alicia standing in front of the three-way mirror in an oversized dressing room, turning side to side to examine herself from every angle. It was the same routine she’d done back when we’d been roommates in college, dressing for weekend dates, though this time she didn’t ask whether her outfit made her ass look big. These days, thanks to Kim Kardashian, having a big ass had become a good thing, rendering the question moot.
My eyes met Alicia’s in the mirror, and my hand went involuntarily to my heart. “You look absolutely gorgeous!” I meant it, too. She practically glowed.
Alicia stopped moving and smiled at herself in the mirror. “I do, don’t I?”
The seamstress smiled, too. “You’re a beautiful young lady,” she told Alicia.
Alicia’s dress was a sleek, strapless dress fitted tight through the bodice and hips and erupting in sequins around the hem. The contemporary style went perfectly with her thin figure and the short, asymmetrical cut of her platinum-blond hair.
Alicia and her fiancé, Daniel Blowitz, had planned a formal black-tie wedding for a Sunday near the end of the month. The event would be held at one of the area’s most beautiful wedding chapels, with dinner, dancing, drinks, and general revelry to follow in the ballroom. I could hardly wait. As hard as I worked, I could use some revelry.
I reached into my purse and pulled out the small box that held the pearl bracelet my favorite aunt had given me for my sixteenth birthday. I’d been thrilled! It had been my first piece of jewelry that hadn’t come from a gumball machine or been made of plastic. I wore the heirloom only to special events, but I remembered Alicia remarking on its beauty when I’d worn it years ago at our graduation ceremony from the University of Texas in Austin. Ironic how pearls were considered objects of beauty when they were the result of an oyster coating a parasite or other irritant that had invaded its shell. Pearls, in essence, were nothing more than shiny, shimmery squatters.
I held the box out to my friend. “If you don’t have a ‘something borrowed’ yet,” I told her, “I thought you might want to try this.”
Alicia took the box from me, opened it, and emitted a squeal of delight. “Oh, my gosh! This is the bracelet you wore to graduation!”
“You remember it?”
“Of course,” she said. “How could I forget something so pretty?”
She undid the clasp and I helped her fasten it to her wrist. She took another look at herself in the mirror and began to tear up. “It’s perfect, Tara. Thanks.”
It was indeed perfect, a subtle touch of traditional style to complement her modern dress. Warm tears welled up in my eyes, too. Alicia and I had been through a lot together. Tough accounting courses. A stream of bad boyfriends. Study breaks and heartbreaks. Our first real jobs at the accounting firm of Martin & McGee. Four grueling tax seasons, putting in eighty-hour workweeks. Even a few flu seasons and hangovers. We were as close as most sisters. And now she was moving on to the next phase of her life. I knew we’d continue to be important to each other, continue to be a big part of each other’s lives, but I also knew that things would change, too. As happy as I was for my friend, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of melancholy and loss.
She gave me a gentle hug and stepped back, her gaze meeting mine. “You’re the best, Tara.”
“Don’t you forget it,” I barely managed to choke out.
Her tears threatening to spill over her lids, she waved a frantic hand in front of her eyes. “I can’t cry! I can’t risk getting mascara on the dress!”
“Uh-oh.” The seamstress stepped forward, reaching for the zipper. “Let’s get you out of it.”
Twenty minutes later, Alicia was out of the dress, back into her everyday clothes, and walking beside me as we exited the store. “I’ve got my ‘something borrowed’ now,” she said, “thanks to you. My ‘something old’ is a lace handkerchief that every woman in my family has carried at their weddings since the dawn of time. But I still need something new and something blue.”
“Let’s hit The Galleria.” With nearly a hundred stores, surely the mall would offer many things new and blue to choose from.
“Good idea.”
After a quick dinner of soup and sandwiches at a café overlooking the ice-skating rink, we made our way to the Victoria’s Secret store.
I held up a pair of sheer red panties I found on a table near the entrance. “Here you go. Something new.”
Alicia eyed the tiny swatch of fabric in my fingers. “Those might be new, but they barely qualify as ‘something.’ There’s not enough material there to cover one butt cheek, let alone two.”
“That’s the idea. Duh.”
She snatched the panties from my hand and returned them to the pile, turning her attention to a white lace pair with tiny bows on the adjacent display. “These are pretty,” she said holding them up.
“Mm-hm,” I murmured in agreement. “Fit for virgin angels.”
I followed her to the checkout stand, sampling the colognes and lotions on the glass shelves near the counter as she purchased the pair to wear under her wedding dress. Reeking of fruit and flowers, I led the way back out into the mall.
She waved a hand to clear the air that trailed after me. “My God! How many different scents did you try?”
I raised a shoulder. “Seven? Eight?”
“You smell like a florist. But at least I can check ‘something new’ off my list now.”
I stopped and glanced left and right. “Where to?”
“I have no idea,” she said. “All I know is I need something blue.”
We headed right, meandering along, glancing in windows until we reached the Dallas Cowboys Pro Shop. I gestured into the store, which was filled with blue pendants, blue jerseys, blue sweatshirts, blue socks, and blue hats in knit, ball cap, bucket, and beanie varieties. “There you go,” I said. “It doesn’t get any bluer than that.”
“On we go, then.”
Despite wandering in and out of nearly every store in the mall, Alicia still hadn’t decided on her something blue by the time we were forced to leave at closing time.
“I know,” I said, “Let’s look at garters on Etsy when we get home. Surely they’ll have a blue one.”
Alicia’s face brightened. “Good idea, Tara.”
We headed back to my town house, where Alicia was shacking up with me until the big day. After shedding our work clothes, changing into our pajamas, and pouring ourselves glasses of peach sangria—Nick’s mother’s recipe—we took seats at my kitchen table, logged on to the Etsy site, and ran a search for “blue garter.” Dozens of options came up, the screen filled with photos of elastic, lace, sequins, beads, and ruffles.
My creamy cat, Anne, hopped up onto my lap, and I ran a hand over her back as I pointed to a polka-dot garter on the computer screen. “What about that one?”
Alicia crinkled her nose. “Too girlish. I’m getting married, not going to prom.”
As Anne purred on my lap, I gestured to another garter that was royal blue with black lace. “How’s that?”
Another nose crinkle. “Too sexy.”
“It’s a garter,” I said. “It’s supposed to be sexy.”
“I know,” she said, “but I don’t want to look like a tramp on my wedding day.”
“I bet Daniel will want you to act like a tramp on your wedding night.”
“That’s different,” she said. “My grandmother won’t be watching then.”
“Lord, I hope not!”
I eyed the screen. The garters could make fun party favors for the bachelorette party I’d be hosting in a couple of weeks. I’d order a dozen later as a surprise.
My other cat, a fluffy and enormous Maine coon named Henry, padded purposefully into the kitchen, giving me his usual look of disdain and a short, scratchy mrah. Translation: give me a treat or I’m pooping beside the box tonight.
I scooped Anne up in my arms and scurried over to the pantry to round up their treats. Do these cats have me wrapped around their furry little fingers or what?
A minute later, I was back at the table with my roommate, resuming my review of the garter selections. Just as Goldilocks wouldn’t settle for porridge that was too hot or too cold, Alicia declared another garter too itchy looking and a fourth too cheap looking before finding one she declared, “Just right.”
I took a look. It was just right. Light-blue satin with ruffled white lace trim and a beaded heart appliqué. “It’s perfect,” I agreed.
Alicia whipped out her credit card, input the information, and placed the order. Once she received the confirmation, she crossed the words “garter” and “something blue” off her wedding to-do list. “Now I just need to finalize the music list for the DJ.” She turned her attention back to her computer, clicked a few keys, and maneuvered the mouse before turning the laptop to face me. “What do you think?”
My eyes began to scan the list. “‘Unchained Melody’? Really?” I opened my mouth and stuck my index finger inside in a gagging motion.
Alicia narrowed her eyes. “It’s a classic. Besides, I like it and it’s my wedding.”
“Point taken.” My gaze continued down the screen. “‘Brick House.’ Always a good one. Ditto for ‘Play That Funky Music,’ though I’m not sure it’s politically correct to ask only a ‘white boy’ to play it and to do it till he dies.”
She groaned. “You’re overthinking it.”
The list included many must-play songs like Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive” and AC/DC’s “You Shook Me All Night Long,” but it was woefully lacking in my favorite genre. Not a single Luke Bryan or Brad Paisley song caught my eye.
When I reached the end of the list, I raised my palms in question. “Where’s Garth Brooks? Lady Antebellum? Willie, Waylon, and the boys?”
“Do I really have to go there?”
Unlike me, Alicia was not a big fan of country music, God save her soul.
“Yes,” I insisted. “You have to go there. This is a Texas wedding and the state statutes require at least three songs that guests can two-step to.”
She cut me a look. “I don’t think that’s true.”
“Okay,” I said. “Maybe it’s an unwritten Texas wedding law. But it ranks right up there with doing the Chicken Dance and offering the guests a choice between champagne and beer.”
“All right.” She flailed her hand at the screen. “Add some country to the mix if you must.”
“Mind if I add some swing for my parents?” Those two loved to “cut a rug.” Their words, not mine. But I had to admit that they knew their stuff. With their moves and energy, they put dancers half their age to shame.
“Of course,” Alicia said. “After everything your mother did for my bridal shower, I owe her.”
So did I. While my mother was an excellent cook and could bake like nobody’s business, I, on the other hand, had no business setting foot in a kitchen unless it was for a Pop-Tart. I’d served as the official hostess for Alicia’s recent shower, but my mother deserved all the credit for the tasty treats we’d served. I was lucky to have such a devoted, doting mother who was so skilled in household matters. My future children, however, were screwed. I hoped they’d like Pop-Tarts.
I typed in several song suggestions, already looking forward to slow dancing in Nick’s strong arms. As I perused the revised playlist, my mind wandered back to my first dance with Nick. We’d been working a case against a televangelist who’d been fleecing his flock, dipping his hand in the collection plate to pay for his fancy clothes, car, and house. After trailing the preacher to Louisiana, Nick and I had ended up at a roadside honky-tonk. One thing led to another and the next thing I knew Nick was twirling me around the dance floor. I’d been dating another guy at the time, but when my head kept spinning after the song ended I’d known it was over with Brett and that Nick was the one I belonged with.
When I turned the computer back to Alicia, she e-mailed the list to the DJ, sat back in her chair, and took a long swig of peach sangria. “That’s the last thing I had to do. I’m finally done with all of the wedding details.”
“I’ve got the plans made for the bachelorette party, too,” I told her.
She clapped her hands in glee. “Where are we going?”
I wagged a finger. “Nuh-uh-uh. It’s a surprise.”
A surprise that would involve a limo, champagne, lots of singles, and a male exotic dancer named Fiero.
chapter three
Cashing In, Cashing Out
It was a few minutes before two o’clock on Tuesday when I arrived at the KCSH building in my plain sedan, otherwise known as my G-ride. The building was basic, small, and square, its orange brick exterior sporting irregular masonry where bricks had been patched and replaced over the years. The call letters “KCSH” were mounted on the roof, the metal rusting in spots. There was only one window in the building, a small one next to the glass front door. In the parking lot sat a small pickup, a VW Beetle, and a 2015 Cadillac ATS Coupe. The Cadillac belonged to Flo. Per my research, the ATS was one of Cadillac’s least expensive models, starting just under forty grand, but still nothing to sneeze at. Her car was painted a shade called opulent blue metallic, ironic for someone who reported no taxable income, huh? The license plate frame bore the name and slogan of the dealership. Ledbetter Cadillac—Better Cars for the Best People.
I stepped up to the glass door, finding it locked. Putting a hand over my eyes to shield them from the sun, I peeked through the door. A young brown-skinned woman in a brightly striped knit dress sat at a desk inside. She looked up at me and called, “Are you the agent from the IRS?”
“Yes, that’s me!” I called, noticing her eyes narrowed slightly at my reply. I wondered what Flo had told her about me. Probably that I was some pushy bureaucratic tyrant or some other such nonsense.
The young woman r
eached over to a device on her desk. A moment later there was a click as the lock released, followed by a buzz that ended once I pulled the door open. Inside, a live feed from KCSH played through speakers mounted on the walls, a familiar male voice expounding on the student loan crisis. One of the syndicated shows.
The young woman gestured to a duo of faux-leather chairs situated along the wall next to the door, a magazine rack containing the latest issues of financial magazines standing between them. She lifted the receiver for her desk phone. “I’ll let Miss Cash know you’ve arrived.”
“Thanks,” I replied, taking a seat.
As she informed Flo of my arrival, I glanced around the tiny lobby. The walls were covered with photographs of famous people who’d been interviewed at the station, everyone from President Lyndon Baines Johnson to Alan Greenspan, former Chairman of the Federal Reserve. There were also several photos of men who’d played football for the Cowboys or basketball for the Mavericks. A snapshot of Mark Cuban, too. Flo Cash and her family had rubbed some pretty famous and influential elbows. The only elbows she’d be rubbing in the next few minutes would be mine, which were dry and in need of lotion.
A door opened in the back wall and there stood Florence Cash. She looked to be around fifty and sported dark curly hair and a turned-up nose. Her makeup was minimal, only a light coat of mascara and a soft sheen to her lips. ChapStick, if I had to hazard a guess. Though she wore stylish rectangular-framed glasses, her remaining attire could best be described as designed-for-comfort. A pair of stretchy leggings. An oversized T-shirt that hung to mid-thigh. A pair of those lightweight walking shoes that were half loafer, half sneaker. None of Suze Orman’s stylish business jackets for Flo Cash. You’d never know from looking at the woman that she was a wealthy media magnate who came from a long line of successful radio broadcasters and station owners.
