Death, Taxes, and a Satin Garter

by Kelly, Diane

chapter twenty-five

  Coyote Radio Host

  On Tuesday morning, I got up an hour earlier than usual. I had a busy morning planned.

  The first thing I did was swing by Doo-Wop Donuts to pick up a couple dozen for the office. As I’d done the time before, I bypassed the roller-skating carhops and went inside to speak directly with the owner.

  The woman looked up at me and froze, her fist reflexively tightening on the pastry bag in her hand, causing it to expel a long string of pink frosting that curled itself into a pile on top of the donut she’d been frosting.

  “That looks yummy.” I gestured to the gooey mess she’d made. “I’ll take that one.”

  She looked down. “Oh. Goodness.” She set the pastry bag aside and wiped her hands on her coveralls.

  “I need three dozen mixed,” I told her, “and I need to know whether you want to come clean voluntarily or whether I should stick it to you with a bunch of penalties.” I held the letter out to her.

  She took it from me, opened the envelope, and read it over before looking back up. “Bartering isn’t illegal.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “Bartering is perfectly legal. But what’s not legal is hiding it from the IRS and failing to pay taxes on any resulting net income.”

  Desperation clouded her face. “But I was assured that noncash transactions aren’t taxable!”

  “Assured by whom?”

  She said nothing.

  “An attorney?” I said. “A CPA?”

  No lawyer or accountant worth their salt would have advised a client to hide barter transactions from the IRS. Obviously, Flo Cash had encouraged those she exchanged with to refrain from reporting so that she wouldn’t be discovered.

  When the woman still said nothing, I said, “It was Flo Cash who told you that bartering was nontaxable. I know it and you know it.”

  She stood in silence for another moment, apparently thinking things over. “I’ll get your donuts,” she finally said, resignation in her voice. “And I’ll talk to my CPA.”

  “Good,” I said. “You’ll be doing us both a favor.”

  Three dozen donuts in hand, I made another quick stop before heading into the office.

  The Flo Cash Cash Flow Show was playing over the speakers as I entered the radio station with one of the boxes of donuts. The young woman at the desk looked up. The glower on her face said she wasn’t excited to see me, but the gleam in her eyes as she spotted the box in my hands said she was happy to see the donuts.

  “I need to speak with Flo,” I said.

  “She’s in the middle of her show.”

  I whipped out a pen and, using the donut box as an improvised writing surface, scribbled a note on the back of the notice I’d brought with me:

  Nice doing business with you! Hope you enjoyed the pad thai.

  XO,

  Special Agent Holloway, aka Pang Tidarat

  I handed the letter to the young woman, along with the box of donuts. “Enjoy them. It could be the last free donuts you ever get.”

  My work there done—my work being to give Flo Cash a big neener-neener—I returned to my car. I listened to her show as I drove. Within minutes it was clear she’d read both my handwritten note and official demand for information and documentation. She began to rant on the radio.

  “The IRS has attempted to entrap me,” she said, “by posing as a regular citizen online.” Her words were followed by a sound effect of a crowd expressing displeasure. Boooo!

  I visualized Flo in her glass booth, dunking one of the donuts I’d left into her mug of tea and ripping a bite from it.

  The rant continued. “Special Agent Holloway is like one of those catfish types who make up a false identity and prey on people on the Internet.”

  I was nothing like a catfisher. I was a government employee doing her job. And doing it well, I judged, given the rage my visit had sent Flo into.

  “Government entrapment should be illegal!” Flo cried.

  “Bite me,” I said back to my radio. “Better yet, if you feel trapped, chew your leg off, Flo.”

  I drove back to the IRS and carried the boxes up to our floor. Bringing two dozen donuts to the kitchen made me the office hero for the day. Government employees have limited perks. It’s not like we worked for Google and got free coffee and pastries and scooters to transport ourselves around the office. Heck, we collected contributions for coffee in an old can on the kitchen counter.

  Back in my digs, I checked my voice mails, logged on to my computer, and dealt with my e-mails, including one from Morgan Walker.

  Can’t wait to see you tonight!

  I was looking more forward to the sushi than I was the company. Nonetheless, I replied: Me, too!

  As long as I was on my computer, I figured I might as well take down the Grand Palace Grill Web site and remove the listing from TradingPost.com. No sense disappointing more people who were craving Thai food.

  I dialed Josh, because when I said I might as well take down the site I really meant him. I had no idea how to do it. “Can you take down the Grand Palace site for me?”

  “Mission accomplished?” he asked.

  “Yep.”

  I hung up the phone and entered “TradingPost.com” in my browser. Nothing came up. I squinted at the screen to check my spelling. I had it right. Hm-m …

  I sat back in my chair. Looked like Flo had taken down her bartering site, too. She might have thought that by taking it down she could hide the evidence. Not so. I’d already printed out every page.

  Broadcast that, Flo Cash.

  chapter twenty-six

  Double Date

  Given that Morgan Walker had continued to contact me, we were fairly certain he harbored no continuing suspicions that he’d been followed when he left Chili’s after his date with Hana. Nick thus insisted on being my backup inside the restaurant tonight. Like the catfishing Casanova, Nick took pains to disguise himself. He wore the white felt cowboy hat I’d bought for him. It would go a long way to keeping his face in shadow. He’d also pulled the collar of his Western shirt up around his face.

  By the time I arrived at the restaurant, Nick had been siting at the sushi bar for twenty minutes. Being raised on a farm and fed meat and potatoes his entire life, Nick had only recently tried sushi for the first time. I’d been the one to introduce him. He’d been surprised to learn how much he liked the stuff.

  I found Morgan in the lobby, dressed, as usual, in stylish designer clothes. The goatee he’d sported in his new head shots was gone, his face now clean-shaven, not even a five o’clock shadow to be seen. Not that I was surprised. He seemed to try a new identity with each set of victims. A smart move on his part. There was less chance of anyone recognizing him if he constantly changed his appearance. He was both a catfish and a chameleon. Either way, slimy and scaly.

  “Hi, Morgan.” Or should I say Bailey? I forced a broad smile to my mouth and opened my eyes wider, hoping they’d catch the light and sparkle. After all, I needed to make this guy think I was smitten with him. Of course I’d much rather smite him.

  He ran his eyes over me. “You look gorgeous.”

  I’d dressed to impress tonight, Nick be damned. After all, I had to look like I was making a serious effort with this guy or he might realize I was a decoy. I’d worn a pair of stilettos, along with skinny jeans and a sheer, sexy blouse that provided a peek at the red bra I wore under it. Not that Morgan would care about the bra, assuming, of course, that Hana’s gaydar was correct. But still, I had to look like I was trying to entice the guy.

  “Here,” he said, holding out the book he’d had signed for me. “This is for you.”

  “Oh, Morgan!” I gushed. “You’re so sweet!” I took the book and opened it to the inscription. To Sara, Enjoy life’s mysteries. The inscription was followed by a crazy squiggle that looked like the author had suffered a stroke while signing his name. Really, what was it with signatures? Shouldn’t they be as legible as other handwriting?

  Morgan
and I stepped up to the hostess stand. “Would you like to sit at the sushi bar or do you prefer a table?”

  “A table,” Morgan said without hesitation. He turned to me and smiled. “I want to be able to look at you.”

  “Aw.” I gave him a playful jab on the shoulder. “You’re going to make me blush.” Blush, nothing. It was more likely he was going to make me puke.

  The hostess led us to a table for two in the center of the room. Being more accustomed to the flat shoes I wore to work each day, I wobbled a little on my heels. I took the seat on the side of the table facing the sushi bar so Morgan’s back would be to Nick.

  Over Morgan’s shoulder, I saw Nick pick up a pair of wooden chopsticks and make a show of breaking them apart. If he had his druthers, he’d be snapping Morgan’s neck in the same manner. Nick’s possessiveness could be a little much at times, but I had to admit it was reassuring to know how much he wanted me for his own.

  Morgan opened his menu to take a look. “What’s good here?”

  Hell if I knew. I’d never been to this particular restaurant before. But every sushi place served an avocado roll, right?

  “They make a good avocado roll.” I opened my menu, too, glad to see they also served a sweet potato tempura roll. That was less standard fare, but one of my favorites when I could get it. “Let’s get a sweet potato roll, too.”

  The waitress came by to take our drink orders.

  “Plum wine for me,” I said.

  Morgan looked up at her. “I’ll have the same.”

  “No sake for you?” I asked.

  He grimaced. “Ugh, no. That stuff burns.”

  I laughed. I’d never acquired a taste for the stuff, either. It was like drinking hot nail polish remover.

  As we waited for our drinks, I asked about his stepson. “Did you see Shane when you went home last weekend?” Might as well feign some concern, right? And pretend to believe that Morgan had been back home in Oklahoma?

  “He came by the house,” Morgan said. “He asked if he could have some of the furniture and the big-screen television.” He sighed. “I let him take it. I want to be fair to the kid. And at least I know he’ll use the furniture and TV. It’s cash I don’t trust him with. He’d spend it on weed.”

  “He uses drugs?”

  “Yes,” Morgan replied. “Ironic, given my line of work, isn’t it? Problem is, he doesn’t want to quit. No amount of therapy can help a person who isn’t interested in kicking their habit. But maybe he’ll outgrow it.”

  “Some people do,” I said.

  He lifted a shoulder. “And others use marijuana as a gateway to harder drugs.”

  “True. I hope he’ll be the former case.”

  Morgan gave a soft smile. “You and me both, Sara.”

  The waitress arrived with our wine and took our food order.

  As she left the table, Morgan raised his glass. “To new relationships.”

  I was much more inclined to poke a chopstick in his eye, but instead I smiled, raised my glass, and tapped it against his. Clink. As I took a sip of the wine, Nick looked over and made a stabbing motion with his chopsticks. Great minds think alike. An involuntary laugh burbled up and I choked on my wine.

  “Are you okay?” Morgan asked, beginning to stand.

  I motioned for him to sit back down. “I’m fine,” I croaked out. “The wine just went down the wrong pipe.”

  We chatted more as we waited for our food. I gestured to the chefs behind the sushi bar. “Ever notice how their chef suits look like karate uniforms? Other than the hats, I mean.” I watched Morgan closely, gauging his reaction to my reference to karate.

  He merely shrugged, giving nothing away. “I guess they’re both based on traditional Japanese clothing.”

  Ugh. Nothing in his response or demeanor told me whether the guy was a black belt. But the safest assumption was that he was. I couldn’t be certain how much of a threat he posed, but I would be wise to be prepared.

  “I’m not sure whether this is a fair question to ask,” he said, changing the subject, “but I have to admit I’m curious. Did you get a lot of winks on the dating site?”

  He’d been the only one. The site offered an option to put things on hold if something serious seemed to be developing with a member. After all, there was no sense wasting the other members’ time or getting their hopes up if a person was essentially off the market. I’d taken advantage of that capability and put my profile on hold. Still, Morgan didn’t need to know that, and even if he could somehow tell my listing was on hold now he had no way of knowing how many winks I might have gotten before doing so.

  I decided to play it coy. “You tell me first. How many winks have you gotten?”

  He played it coyer. “Gosh, it must have been hundreds.”

  I was going for coyest now. “Only hundreds? Why, I must have had several thousand winks. Millions, even.”

  He chuckled. “It’s really about quality over quantity.”

  “Good point.”

  “And on that point”—he lowered his voice and leaned toward me over the table—“I have to say that you are by far the most enchanting woman I’ve met.”

  Enchanting? What did he think this was, some kind of fairy tale? Did I look like some type of damsel in distress waiting to be rescued by a handsome prince? Screw that. I took a sip of my wine. “Is that so?”

  “I guess what I’m saying here is that I hope you’ll give me a real chance and let me know where I stand.” He stared at me intently. “I’m not sure I can take another heartbreak.”

  So he was playing the widower card now, going for pity, huh? Such pure bullshit. Even so, I knew I had to play the game, tell him what he wanted to hear. “I’ll be honest with you, Morgan,” I said. “I’ve gotten a few winks, but after e-mails and phone calls I could tell most of the men weren’t even worth a first date. There’s one other guy I’m keeping on the back burner, but at this point you are the definite front-runner, by far.”

  His mouth spread in a wide smile and he clenched a victorious fist. “That’s exactly what I wanted to hear.”

  And that’s exactly why I’d said it.

  The sushi was delicious. I almost didn’t mind that I was sharing it with a con artist.

  Nick kept an eye on our table during our meal, timing his departure just before I snatched the last piece of avocado roll from the platter. I knew he’d be heading out to the parking lot to plant the GPS tracker on the Mercedes. Morgan wouldn’t be able to ditch us now. Ha!

  When we were done eating, Morgan paid the bill and walked me out to my car. The Mercedes was likely parked far away from the building, as usual. Little did he know I’d already traced it. Never mind the security cameras.

  When we reached my car, I decided to take the bull by the horns. I didn’t want this guy kissing me, even under a mutual pretense. Nick would likely run him over. And I knew this guy wasn’t truly interested in kissing me. I stepped toward him and gave him a hug, brushing my cheek against his in a light, yet seemingly affectionate, embrace. The kiss thus avoided, I bleeped my door locks open and slipped quickly into the driver’s seat. “Thanks for dinner!” I called back through the open door.

  “Wait!” As I reached for the interior door handle, he grabbed the frame and held it open. “I have to go back to Oklahoma later in the week, but how about lunch next Monday?”

  It would be our third date, and it would be during the day, when banks were open. This guy was following his typical MO. It would be his last time.

  “Lunch sounds great,” I said.

  He smiled. “I’ll be in touch so we can decide on the time and place.”

  “Okeydoke. Have a safe trip back home.”

  He closed my door and, once he’d stepped away, I backed out of my space. He stood in the lot, hand raised to wave good-bye, pretending that he was so taken with me he wanted to watch me ride off into the sunset. Sheesh.

  I was half a mile down the road when my phone rang. It was Nick. I put him on s
peaker.

  “Enjoy your date?” he growled.

  “Only the food,” I said, “not the company. Where’s Morgan headed?”

  “North on I-Thirty-Five. Same as before.”

  Clearly, his home had to be somewhere in that direction. The only question was, how far? Did he really live in Oklahoma? Or did he live in one of the towns between Dallas and the Oklahoma border?

  We’d find out tonight.

  chapter twenty-seven

  The Buck Stops Here

  I pulled into the lot of a nearby grocery store to wait for Nick to swing by to get me. After I’d climbed into his G-ride and buckled my seat belt, he handed me a tablet. On the screen was the site that linked to the tracker.

  “He’s still heading north on the interstate,” I told Nick.

  “And so are we,” Nick said, driving out of the lot.

  Fortunately, now that we had the tracker on our side we could hang back far enough that Morgan wouldn’t know we were on his tail. We trailed him a dozen miles before the red dot on the screen stopped moving for several minutes straight.

  “Looks like he’s parked somewhere.” I mentally crossed my fingers that wherever he’d stopped would tell us something about his identity.

  We followed the path he’d taken, ending up at a bar in Denton. We circled through the parking lot, looking for the Mercedes.

  I pointed when I spotted it. “There’s his car. Look, someone wrote: ‘Wash me, asshole’ in the dust on the driver’s door.”

  Nick raised his index finger into the air. “Not someone. Me. I couldn’t resist.”

  I couldn’t much blame him. I was guilty of these types of juvenile acts on occasion, too. The more frustration a target caused us, the more we needed to vent our emotions somehow.

  We drove across the street and parked in the lot of a barbershop that was closed for the night. It gave us a good vantage point for keeping an eye on the Mercedes but made it less likely Morgan would spot us spying on him when he emerged from the bar.

  We sat, watching the activity in the lot. Guy after guy went into the building, not a single woman among them. Evidently this was a gay bar. A busy one, too, given the two-for-one Tuesday night special advertised on the digital sign out front. The place appeared to be packed to the rafters.