Death, Taxes, and Sweet Potato Fries

by Diane Kelly

  “Not today, thanks.” After introducing myself, I asked about the four men I was seeking.

  “Those names sound vaguely familiar,” he said. “Let me check the records.” He worked his computer mouse and keyboard for a moment. “Looks like Mister Guzmán moved out in February.” He went on to tell me that the others had moved out on different dates, but all in early spring.

  “Any chance they left a forwarding address?” I asked.

  “Sorry,” he said, “but we don’t ask for that information. We do a walk-through when they leave and work out any damage charges at that time. It’s charged to their credit card. There’s no need for a forwarding address.”

  I gritted my teeth in frustration, but managed to say, “Thanks for the information.”

  The rain had slowed to a mere drizzle as Brett and I stepped outside. We cowered under the covered porte cochere.

  I debated my next move. “Any chance the workers provided you with updated addresses?”

  “Fiona could tell you,” he said. “She handles all the administrative stuff.”

  I pulled out my cell phone and gave her a call, explaining that I needed to know if the men had updated their addresses.

  “I’ll take a look,” she said. The clicking sound of her keyboard came through the phone. “No,” she said a few seconds later. “We still show them all at the address in Garland. Brett pays everyone by direct deposit. Nothing goes into the mail except the W-2s at the end of the year. If they moved since then, they probably didn’t think to update their address with us.”

  I exhaled sharply. “Thanks for checking.”

  When I ended the call with his wife, Brett asked, “Anything else I can do before I have to head back for my meeting?”

  “You can give me the men’s phone numbers.”

  “Of course.” He pulled them up on his cell phone and I entered them into my contacts list as he rattled them off.

  “I’ll see if I can get in touch with them by phone,” I said. “If not, I’ll swing by the job site in the morning. Any chance you can meet me there?”

  He cringed. “Sorry, but I can’t. I’m scheduled to present a proposal to the board of directors of a new shopping center in north Arlington tomorrow afternoon and I need the morning to prepare, especially since I’ve lost time today.”

  “I understand. Thanks for your help today, Brett. You really went above and beyond.”

  “Anytime. You take care now.”

  He stepped forward and gave me a hug, holding on for a long moment. I held him back. We might not have been destined to spend our entire lives together, but neither of us regretted the time we’d shared.

  With a final tight squeeze, he released me and we returned to our cars. He gave me a wave through the window as he drove off. I raised a hand, too, wondering when, or if, our paths might cross again.

  chapter sixteen

  Let Them Eat Cake

  From my car, I called each of the four numbers Brett had given me. At all four I got only the standard prerecorded message with a computerized voice that referenced the phone number but gave no name. I left a short message for each of the men, identifying myself only as Tara Holloway, a friend of Brett’s, and asking them to call me back right away.

  I logged into the DMV records to see if any of the men had obtained a driver’s license using the names and birthdates of their aliases. Only one driver’s license came up under each name, and none of the addresses was local. Looked like the men had used their real names if they’d obtained driver’s licenses. Too bad I didn’t know what those real names were. Without them, I was at a dead end.

  Out of ideas, I returned to the office. Fortunately, the storm had ceased by the time I returned and my clothing had nearly dried. Back at my desk, I phoned Agent Castaneda to give him an update on my end of the investigation.

  He sounded hopeful. “Any luck? Got someone willing to testify that Hidalgo smuggled them into the U.S.?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Dammit!” he blurted in frustration.

  I felt the same way. “The first Julio should be at the restaurant where he works tomorrow morning. His shift starts at five a.m. I’ll check in with him first thing. I doubt Sister Mary Margaret will let me close to Julio number two again, so I don’t see any point in going back to Saint Lucia School. Number three works for a nursery, along with three of the others. I tried to catch them at their work site today, but there were heavy rains here and they were gone by the time I arrived. I checked the hotel where they’d been living, but they’ve all moved out. Their boss doesn’t have a current home address for any of them, but I’ve left each of them a voice mail asking them to call me ASAP. If I don’t get what I need from them tonight, I’ll head back out to their work site tomorrow morning, see what I can find out.”

  Castaneda groaned in frustration. “I was hoping you’d have something by now, but I can tell it’s not for lack of trying. I appreciate your help, Agent Holloway.”

  “Glad to do it. I’ll be back in touch when there’s something new to report.”

  When we ended the call, I phoned Bethany Flagler. “Any chance the names Amelia Yeo or Gwen Rosenthal sound familiar to you? Maybe Jocelyn Harris or Thomas Hoffmeyer?”

  “No,” she said. “Should they?”

  “Not necessarily,” I said. “Just trying to find out if there’s a connection I’m missing.” I asked her to send me a list of the same information I’d asked Amelia and Gwen for. Addresses and landlords. Doctors. Schools. Anywhere that someone might have both interacted with her personally and have access to her social security number.

  “It’ll take me a little while to pull all of this information together,” she said, “but I’ll get it to you as soon as I can.”

  “Great.”

  With both of my big cases in a holding pattern, I tackled the next file on the stack. It was a relatively easy one in which a woman who made custom quilts had neglected to report and pay tax on any of her income. She claimed she only performed the services for neighbors and friends, and that the income from her quilts was a gift, not business earnings. Her Web site advertising her services to everyone and anyone said otherwise. I shot her off a letter telling her she had one week to make payment arrangements on her quilting income or we’d begin seizing her assets. Until she responded, I’d be on needles and pins. Ha.

  A few minutes after five o’clock, Nick stepped to my door. “Just heard from my mother. She and your mom decided they’re going to make our wedding cake. They’ve spent all day in the kitchen baking a bunch of different cakes they want us to sample.”

  “My mom’s still in town?” I’d assumed she’d headed back to Nacogdoches by now.

  “She and my mother are having the time of their lives. It’s like a girls’ slumber party over there.”

  I rounded up my purse. “Any chance they’ve made us dinner, too?”

  Nick scoffed. “Those two? They probably engaged in a knife fight for the privilege.”

  Yep, both of our mothers were very old school, priding themselves on their prowess in the kitchen. Nick and I were grateful beneficiaries.

  We left the office and walked to our personal vehicles. I followed Nick to his mother’s house, where we found both women in the kitchen. The smells of frying foods filled the air, and a lineup of ten frosted cakes sat on the table. Our own personal bakery.

  “Hey there, hon,” my mom said, giving me a hug. She stepped back and hesitated a moment, giving me an odd look. “Did you try a different makeup?”

  “No,” I replied. “Why?”

  “Your skin looks a little … off.”

  “Off? What do you mean?”

  “You look orange-ish.”

  Nick stepped closer, bending down and running a thumb over my cheek. “She’s right. Your skin looks like a tangerine.”

  “What?!?” I reached up, grabbed a metal frying pan from the hanging rack, and used it to examine my reflection. As much as I hated to admit it, they had a point. I
returned the frying pan to the rack. “I got caught in the rain today. It must’ve smeared my eye shadow or something.” Surely the odd color would wash off once I took a shower.

  Nick went to the stove, lifting a lid off a pot. “Is supper ready yet?”

  “Whenever you are,” Bonnie said. “I set the table in the dining room since the kitchen table is covered with cakes.”

  The four of us retrieved plates and served up a country dinner with loads of vegetables and sides of warm corn bread. We all poured generous glasses of Bonnie’s peach sangria from a glass pitcher to go along with the meal. My mom rounded up a legal pad on which she’d jotted notes and a long list of to-do items. As we ate, we discussed some of the plans she and Bonnie had come up with that day.

  “We were thinking we’d look for a caterer who’s willing to cook some of our recipes,” Mom said. “Everyone’s always telling us how good our food tastes.”

  “They don’t lie.” I raised my glass of peach sangria in salute. “I love that idea!”

  “Sounds good to me, too,” Nick agreed. “There’s not a professional chef on God’s green earth who can out-cook either of you.”

  Our mothers beamed.

  “Now,” my mother said, “about the colors.”

  Nick stopped with his fork halfway to his mouth. “Colors?”

  I turned to him. “Couples usually choose a color theme for their wedding.”

  “Really?” he said. “I never noticed.”

  “You’re a guy,” I said. “Of course you didn’t notice.”

  “How about we go with navy blue and silver?” Nick suggested.

  I scoffed. “We’re not decorating our wedding to look like a Dallas Cowboys pep rally.”

  Nick slid me a sly smile. “We’re not even married yet and you’re calling all the shots.”

  “Not all of them,” I replied. “Just this one.” Besides, if we were going with team colors, I’d prefer burnt orange and white, the University of Texas Longhorns colors.

  “Anyway,” Mom said, redirecting the conversation, “Bonnie and I were thinking pale blue and lavender. That way the decorations and flowers will match the color scheme at the house for the reception.”

  “Sounds great, Mom.” I turned to Nick. “What do you think?”

  “If it sounds good to you,” he said, “it sounds good to me.”

  Bonnie topped off Nick’s sangria. “We thought floral arrangements with blue hydrangeas in them would be pretty.”

  Mom nodded. “We could accent them with some purple asters. If you don’t like that idea, we could go with calla lilies. Those things come in every color imaginable these days. Or we could mix it up and do some of both, maybe even add some of the roses from the yard.”

  I enjoyed gardening and had spent untold hours each spring and fall helping my mother in her flower beds. Given my tomboy tendencies, plus the fact that I was a bit of a daddy’s girl, gardening had been a special time for the two of us, one of my most cherished mother-daughter memories. “That sounds wonderful,” I said. “Let’s mix it up.”

  When we were done with dinner, Bonnie shooed us away from the table. “I’ll clear,” she said, turning to my mother. “Let them eat cake.”

  “Then off with our heads?” I teased.

  “You can keep your noggin’,” Bonnie said with a wink.

  My mother led us to the kitchen table, which was covered in cakes frosted with white buttercream icing. She pointed at each cake in turn. “We’ve got classic white, vanilla, lemon, strawberry, chocolate, Italian cream, hazelnut, red velvet, black forest, and marble. All homemade recipes, of course.”

  Of course.

  “You don’t have to pick just one, though,” she said. “Bonnie and I are planning on making a five-layer cake, so you can do a combination.”

  “Five layers?” I asked. “How tall is the cake going to be?”

  “With the pedestals?” Bonnie shrugged from her place at the sink. “About four feet or so.”

  “The cake will be taller than the flower girl!” Still, while the two might be going a little overboard, they were having a ball. I wasn’t about to take this away from them. And, really, what kind of crazy person would complain about too much cake? Was there even such a thing as too much cake?

  Mom waved a dismissive hand. “There’ll be enough wedding cake for the guests to have seconds if anyone wants ’em, and we can let everyone take some cake home in a doggie bag.”

  Using a long knife, my mother cut tiny pieces of each of the cakes for us to sample, arranging them on separate plates.

  Bonnie rounded up a set of dessert forks and handed them to us. “Everyone try the white first.”

  We each took a bite.

  “Thoughts?” Bonnie asked.

  “Not bad,” I said.

  “But?” she asked, arching a brow.

  I hated to sound critical given that they’d slaved in the kitchen all day, but I knew she wanted me to be honest. “But not really special, either.”

  Luckily, she let me off the hook. “I had the same thought,” she said. “It’s too everyday for a special occasion like a wedding. Okay, now for the vanilla.”

  We each took a bite.

  Mmm. “Now this is good,” I said. “I’ve never tasted vanilla quite this way before. What did y’all do?”

  Mom grinned. “Bonnie likes French vanilla but you know I’m partial to Mexican. So we put in a little of both.”

  It might be a culinary culture clash, but it tasted fantastic. “Let’s definitely have a vanilla layer.”

  His mouth full, Nick nodded in agreement.

  We sampled each of the other flavors, finally deciding on the vanilla, lemon, strawberry, Italian cream, and hazelnut. We’d save the chocolate for the groom’s cake, which Nick suggested be made to look like either a football or a wide-mouthed bass.

  “Wonderful!” Mom said, unfazed by the football and fish, crossing cake off her list of wedding details. She looked from me to Nick. “Ready to talk invitations?”

  “Why not?” Nick said.

  Bonnie reached into a tote bag that was sitting on one of the kitchen chairs and pulled out a forest’s worth of paper. She had samples of invitations in everything from a basic white with black print to a fancy lavender card with a scalloped edge and silver embossed lettering.

  “Whoa,” Nick said. “You must have hit every printer in Dallas.”

  “Just about,” Bonnie said. “We wanted to make sure you had plenty to choose from.”

  Nick and I sorted through them. While I could certainly appreciate elegance, I saw no reason to spend a small fortune on an invitation people would glance at and toss once they’d entered the information in their calendars. Besides, my parents had already splurged on my dress.

  Nick pulled out one in a yellowed hue designed to look aged. The edge was professionally frayed. “How about this one?”

  I scrunched up my nose. “That looks like something a pirate’s treasure map would be printed on.”

  He chuckled. “That’s why I picked it. It feels adventurous.”

  I picked out another with a line of red hearts across the bottom. “What do you think of this?”

  “Looks too much like a valentine,” Nick said.

  He had a point.

  We eventually settled on a white card with a lacy looking watermark. Bonnie and my mother agreed that it was classy but understated.

  “You’ll need to decide on the wording, too,” Bonnie said. She grabbed a computer printout from the countertop. “Here are some suggestions we found online.”

  Several contained the traditional wording. Mr. and Mrs. so-and-so invite you to the wedding of their daughter such-and-such to insert-groom’s-name-here. Given that Bonnie was putting so much time and effort into planning the event, I didn’t want her excluded.

  I pointed to another option. “What do you think of this phrasing?”

  Nick read it out loud. “The parents of Nick Pratt and Tara Holloway invite you to a cel
ebration of love.” He snorted. “Sounds like we’re hosting an orgy, not a wedding.”

  “An orgy?” Bonnie rolled up the paper and smacked Nick across the shoulder with it. “I raised you better than that!”

  He slid her a grin. “You certainly did. It’s not your fault Tara has corrupted me.”

  My mother grabbed the papers out of Bonnie’s hand and gave Nick a good-natured smack of her own. “Don’t you talk about my daughter that way!”

  “Or your future wife.” I grabbed the papers from my mom and treated Nick to a third smack.

  Nick turned his gaze up to the heavens and raised imploring arms. “Dear Lord. What have I gotten myself into?”

  chapter seventeen

  Lost Dog

  At home Wednesday night, I climbed into bed, my cat Anne curled up next to me. It was after ten o’clock already, but I figured it couldn’t hurt to catch another episode of Amor y Vengaza before closing my eyes. Besides, maybe one of Brett’s workers would call. I hadn’t heard a peep from any of them, even though I’d called all four and left a second message asking them to get in touch with me. Were they purposefully avoiding me? Or had they simply not checked their phones? Brett mentioned they had children. Maybe they were busy with dishes and laundry and baths and bedtime stories. I knew how crazy busy it was for my friends who had small children. They could barely come up for air, let alone make a phone call.

  This episode of A y V was even more engaging than the last. Isidora suspected her new husband wasn’t actually at a business dinner as he’d said, so she’d tailed him to an elegant restaurant at a fancy hotel. She’d slipped a bellhop a wad of cash in return for his uniform, tucked her long dark locks up into the hat, and positioned herself in the lobby near the restaurant where she could keep an eye on her husband. Her methods might be crazy, but I had to admire the woman’s ingenuity.

  When a gorgeous woman with honey-colored hair arrived, Isidora’s eyes flared again. Was this woman a business associate? Or her husband’s secret lover?

  Once again, the show ended on a cliffhanger, my questions—and Isidora’s—unanswered.