Death, Taxes, and Cheap Sunglasses (A Tara Holloway Novel Book 8)

by Diane Kelly

  Bonnie had the door open before I even reached the porch. “Good morning!” she called. “I hope you’re ready to work hard, because I’ve got ten weeds per square foot out back.”

  “Hard work’ll do me good,” I said. I hadn’t been to the gym since Nick left, and last night’s softball game, most of which I spent sitting on the bench, could hardly qualify as a workout. I could use the exercise.

  We headed out back, Daffodil trotting along beside us.

  “Here.” Bonnie promptly armed me with some type of odd-looking weed-digging device with multiple metal reels and something on the end that resembled a bayonet. “I ordered this from the TV.”

  I looked the thing over. “How does it work?”

  “Heck if I know,” she said. “I was hoping you could figure it out and show me.”

  I spent a minute or two with the device, inadvertently digging several holes in her garden before finally mastering it. I had to admit it worked pretty well. In ten minutes I’d carried out death sentences on three dozen dandelions. No commuted capital punishments for these weeds.

  As I passed the white cross in Bonnie’s pea patch that marked Nutty’s grave, I paused in silent tribute to the dog who was buried beneath it. Losing Nutty had broken Nick’s heart. Though Nick would always mourn his first dog, Daffodil had helped Nick’s heart mend. It was clear she’d grown as attached to him in the short time they’d been housemates as he’d become to her. She’d brought one of his old shirts with her when Nick had transported her here, and she was still carrying the thing around like a security blanket. She flopped down on the back patio, her face resting on the shirt, and emitted a long, lonely sigh.

  I stepped over and stroked her back. “I’m right there with you, girl.”

  Bonnie and I worked for three hours. After we finished weeding, we prepared her garden for spring planting by pulling out the dead plants, tilling the soil, and adding several bags of stinky composted cow manure, a virtual shitload of shit.

  The last thing I did was retrieve her trimmer from the garage. The grass around the perimeter of her yard needed some attention.

  I plugged the extension cord into the outside wall outlet and set about my task. Zzzt. Zzzzzzt. Zzzzzzzt. As I drew close to her azalea bushes, I bent over to carefully guide the trimmer lest I damage the bushes. As I tilted my head, my wraparound sunglasses slid from my face. Before I could release the trigger on the trimmer handle—zzzt-crackle-zzt—the glasses had fallen into the path of the trimmer line and been pulverized. Jeez. This pair had lasted me only a matter of hours.

  Our muscles tired and sore, Bonnie and I headed inside for a tall glass of peach sangria.

  “How’s this sound for dinner?” Bonnie handed me a three-month-old copy of Better Homes and Gardens. The magazine was opened to a page featuring a recipe for a fried tomato salad.

  “Delicious.”

  While she retrieved the ingredients from her pantry and refrigerator, I flipped through the magazine, stopping to peruse an article on uses for a dead Christmas tree. One of the suggestions was to submerge it in a lake to provide an egg-laying area for bottom-feeding fish. I wondered if the Kuykendahls were aware of this useful little tidbit. It could come in handy in their fishing-guide business.

  Three pages after the article was an ad for a feminine hygiene product that promised to keep users fresh as a daisy. The ad featured a photograph of a backyard covered in white and yellow daisies. Atop the daisies was a trampoline, and hovering over the trampoline—defying gravity like the witch from Wicked—was none other than Laurel Brandeis in her airborne, spread-eagle pose, proudly exhibiting her flower-fresh lady bits to the world.

  Aha!

  Now I knew why she’d looked so familiar when I’d seen her photograph on the bogus charity’s Facebook page. Still, I found the ad a little overdone. It would take more than a feminine care product to get me so excited I’d leap into the air or spontaneously turn cartwheels. But Nick returning home from the cartel case unscathed? Heck, that would have me doing back handsprings.

  I held up the magazine. “Mind if I tear out this ad?”

  Bonnie’s eyes blinked and a look of concern crossed her face. “Um … okay.”

  I glanced back at the ad, realizing she must have made some very embarrassing assumptions about my girly parts.

  “Oh, no. It’s not for me!” I said. “I mean…” I figured there was no better, and more convincing, way to explain things to her than to show her the Facebook page for the U.S. Red Cross. I retrieved my phone from my purse, pulled up the page, and showed her the image for Laurel Brandeis. “It’s the same photo. See?”

  “Why, it sure is!” Her surprised expression morphed into one of consternation. “Isn’t that copyright infringement for the Web site to use the photo?”

  “Good point,” I said. If I caught this guy, I’d turn his information over to the Daisy Fresh Feminine Hygiene Company and let their lawyers take a few swings at him, too.

  While Daffodil lay on her bed in the corner and watched us, Bonnie and I worked side by side in her kitchen, slicing and breading the tomatoes, chopping three types of lettuce, dicing olives, and, of course, sipping peach sangria. Bonnie was an easygoing woman, and it was nice to spend time with her. I found myself imagining the two of us baking Christmas cookies along with a rug rat or two. In my daydream, Nick helped our children sprinkle green-colored sugar onto tree-shaped cookies, glancing up to give me a soft, loving smile.

  Would it ever be?

  If Nick survived the cartel investigation, my fantasies of familial bliss could be a real possibility, right? But if he didn’t, I would be left with a broken heart and Bonnie would be left with only a sweet, furry dog.

  I couldn’t let that happen.

  The only problem was, given that I had no idea where Nick was and what danger he might be in, what could I do about it?

  Nothing. That’s what.

  chapter eighteen

  Art, Art Thou?

  After leaving Bonnie’s place, I swung back by my town house to clean up and change clothes for the gallery opening. I slipped into my go-to black dress and a pair of slingbacks. The beautiful ruby drop earrings Nick had given me adorned my ears.

  When I finished, I took a look at myself in the mirror. Not bad. But not great, either. Knowing a group of artists were sure to be stylishly dressed, I didn’t want to look too bland.

  I wandered into my guest bedroom. Alicia was a master fashionista with a constantly changing and evolving wardrobe. I added to mine on a fairly regular basis, but I also tended to hang on to my favorite older pieces. Jeans in my closet had been with me since high school and had seen me through some very fun times. My old pair of ropers were hopelessly out of date now, too, though when Alicia had pointed that out to me I insisted the boots were “classic.”

  Alicia wouldn’t mind if I raided her accessory drawer. She was always generous and willing to share, especially with her bestie. I pulled the drawer open and poked around.

  A lime-green headband. Nope.

  A whimsical female necktie in pale pink satin. Nope.

  An infinity scarf in a red and white houndstooth check pattern. Yep, that’s the ticket. The scarf would add some interest and texture, and would also tie in with my ruby earrings.

  Fully accessorized and fashionable now, I gave each of my cats a kiss on the head, plucked their stray furs from my lipstick, and went out to my garage. I slid into my car, punched the button on the remote to open the door, and took off.

  The gallery sat at the edge of the Bishop Arts District, an electric and thriving area in Oak Cliff, which was a few miles to the southwest of downtown. The district was known for its unusual boutiques, good restaurants, and its regularly scheduled wine crawls, where patrons could purchase an empty wine glass and have it filled with a different wine at each shop they chose to visit. By the end of the night, shoppers often found their wallets lighter, their arms laden with unique purchases, and their minds fuzzy from a blend of merlot
s, cabernets, and pinot noirs. I should know. I’d attended the crawls a time or two with Alicia. We always invited her old neighbor, a teetotaler who didn’t mind being the designated driver, especially since we always sprung for her dinner.

  The small lot at the converted church was full, so I had to take a spot at the curb on the next block, near the Dude, Sweet chocolate store. As I approached the church building, I gave it a thorough once-over. Though its steeple and colorful stained-glass windows made it readily apparent that the building had once been a house of God, the robin’s-egg-blue exterior let passersby know those days had passed, its congregation having outgrown the relatively small space and moved on to a larger facility. An enormous white stone sculpture in the shape of a dragonfly sat at an angle in the small side yard, a lush bed of kudzu sprawling beneath it.

  The night was fresh and cool, and a number of the gallery patrons had spilled onto the front steps with their champagne and hors d’oeuvres. As I approached the open double doors, the sounds of chatter, laughter, and harp music drifted out into the night. The people here were happy, having a good time. None of them had to worry whether their boyfriend was currently being sliced, diced, or filleted by El Cuchillo.

  As I stepped inside the building, a waiter with flutes of champagne on a tray approached me. “Would you like some champagne?”

  “Don’t mind if I do.” I accepted a glass and gave him a polite nod.

  Drink in hand, I ventured through the shallow foyer and into the more open space of what had at one time been the church sanctuary.

  Now this is what an art gallery should be.

  The perimeter walls featured painting after drawing after mosaic, spaced far enough apart to enable patrons to assess each piece individually, yet close enough to make good use of the available wall space. Six movable, hinged, zigzagging walls were set up in the center, providing more display space for the works. Pedestals, set off with velvet ropes, featured three-dimensional pieces and sculptures.

  Though many of the pieces here could be considered modern, the artists’ skill and talents were obvious, even to my untrained eye. The choices of color, shading, shape, material, and texture implied a sense of purpose and direction and theme and mood.

  I wandered past the harpist, giving the woman a smile to let her know I appreciated the beautiful music she was making, before moving on. On the raised platform at the front of the church stood three tables loaded with appetizers and finger foods for the crowd to enjoy. Though I’d eaten the delicious salad at Bonnie’s house, it would be silly not to sample some of the offerings here, wouldn’t it? I eased my way through the crowd to the front of the room and filled a plate with fruits, cheeses, spinach-filled pastry puffs, and more.

  A loud, high-pitched titter drew my attention to my right. Aly Pelham, whom I recognized from her photos online, stood with a small group of people. She was every bit as polished and eye-catching as she’d looked in her pictures. Her sleeveless tangerine dress cascaded over her tall, curvy form like water over rocks. Her bleached-blond hair was swept up in an elegant twist, revealing dark roots and a pair of spiraling silver earrings dangling from her ears. The silver color was repeated in her five-inch heels. An enormous diamond nearly the size of a football graced her ring finger.

  Behind her stood a man who could only be Rodney Fowler. He looked just like his mother, only with shorter, darker hair tinged here and there with gray. He wore a classic black suit, white dress shirt, no tie. His expression was bored yet tolerant. It seemed clear he was here only to indulge his much younger bride-to-be.

  I meandered closer, drawing near enough to eavesdrop on the conversation and observe the couple with more scrutiny. Aly laughed a little too loudly at the others’ jokes, leaned in a little too close when they spoke, exclaimed a little too loudly in response to their comments, reached out to touch them a little too often. Truth be told, it was a little hard to watch. She was trying too hard to fit in with the other artists, working too hard to earn their respect, almost as if she knew she wasn’t really one of them. The harder she tried, the quicker the others slipped away to join other conversations.

  “You must let me show you my exhibit at the Unic,” she told a woman who’d begun to edge away from the group. “I can arrange for a private viewing. You will absolutely love it!”

  “Wonderful,” the woman said without conviction. “I’ll be in touch.”

  When Aly’s group had dwindled and she was glancing around for a conversation to horn in on, I sidled up to her. “Hello, Ms. Pelham, Mr. Fowler. I’m Special Agent Tara Holloway, from the IRS.”

  Rodney stepped up closer behind his fiancée in a protective gesture. “What are you doing here?” It was more an accusation than a question.

  “Just enjoying the art.” I lifted my plate. “And these cheesy, puffy things.” Seriously, what’s in these yummy hors d’oeuvres? Crack?

  Rodney looked around for a moment. “It’s entirely inappropriate of you to accost us in public like this.”

  “I’m not accosting anyone,” I said. But given that his knickers were already in a twist, I figured I might as well ask them a question or two, see if I could obtain some information. Without waiting for a response from Rodney, I turned to Aly. “You seem to be more interested in art than Rodney. Was it your idea to create the Unic?”

  Aly’s eyes grew wide and her lashes fluttered. She looked from me, to Rodney, then back to me. “Well, we—”

  Before she could finish speaking, Rodney put a hand on her shoulder to silence her. “We don’t have to answer your questions.”

  “That’s true.” Everyone had the right to claim Fifth Amendment protection, after all. “But if you give me a little information now, I might not have to take your deposition later.”

  I knew to them I was coming off as an overbearing agent, but truly I was trying to keep this situation more casual and congenial, if such a thing was possible. My case wasn’t on entirely solid footing and I knew that. If they’d just give a little, we might be able to reach some type of acceptable compromise. Frankly, I was damn tired of all of my cases ending in shootouts or explosions or fistfights. “So, would you like to tell me now how the Unic got its start?”

  Before Aly could get a word out, Rodney answered for her. “We came up with the idea together.”

  “That’s very nice,” I said. I looked at Aly again. “I’d love to hear more about your art. What projects are you working on now?”

  Her eyelashes fluttered again. “I … I haven’t done much lately. My muse seems to … have taken a long vacation.”

  “Like writer’s block?” I asked. “Or the artistic equivalent?”

  “Exactly. That’s why I go to events like this, to look for inspiration and be among my fellow artists.”

  I supposed the muse thing made sense. But if someone truly wanted to make a creative field their profession, didn’t they have to hunt down their muse and drag her back, kicking and screaming, if she failed to show up?

  At that point, I honestly had no idea what else to ask them that might be helpful. There was one thing, however, that I was curious about. “What do you think the purpose of art is, Ms. Pelham?”

  She blinked again, her expression bewildered, as if she’d never considered this critical question. “The purpose of art?”

  “Right,” I said. “Is it supposed to be a means of personal expression for the artist? To send a message to those who see it? To make us think or feel? To simply give us something pretty to decorate our houses with? Or is it something else entirely?”

  She tilted her head, as if considering my words. “I guess art is supposed to connect us with other people somehow.”

  Not a bad answer. The art I’d most enjoyed were the pieces I could somehow relate to, like Life’s Compost. Maybe Aly wasn’t a total fraud. Maybe she was just insecure and lazy.

  “Thanks for speaking with me,” I told them. “I’m leaving now. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

  I felt their stares
bore into my back as I made my way to the door.

  chapter nineteen

  Mistakeout

  On my drive home from the gallery, I decided to swing by the apartment complex near Town East Mall where Terrence Motley had gone after picking up the backpack from the Waffle House. Maybe he’d show up again tonight. If I could figure out which unit Motley went into, I could pass that information along to Nick. After all, the more information I could gather, the quicker the DEA could resolve the cartel case, right? And if there was anything I wanted, it was a quick resolution. With my nerves on edge and my mind constantly consumed with worry, it felt as if Nick had been gone forever, the seconds passing like centuries. Honestly, I wasn’t sure how much more I could take.

  I waited at the curb fifty yards from the entrance until a car turned into the complex. Hurriedly, I started my engine and drove up behind the other car, staying close on its tail as it went through the open gate. I hoped my behavior wouldn’t seem suspicious. When Alicia and I had lived at a gated apartment complex after college, people regularly followed other cars through the gate and nobody thought twice about it. As big as the complex was, this kind of thing probably happened all the time.

  Having made it through, I circled the parking lot, looking for the pickup but not spotting it, before I settled on a parking space near the exit. From that vantage point, I could keep an eye on the entire lot, plus execute a quick getaway if needed. Throwing my gearshift into reverse, I backed into the space and cut my engine.

  I’d been sitting in the dimly lit lot for an hour, keeping a lookout for Motley’s truck and watching a romantic comedy on my phone, when my eyelids and head began to feel heavy. Between working virtually nonstop on my cases and not getting enough good sleep, I was beyond tired. Still, I couldn’t afford to take the power nap I craved. If I sat out here and missed Motley, my efforts would be for naught, and Nick and Christina would have to spend even more time undercover with the cartel.