3 Death, Taxes, and Extra-Hold Hairspray

by Diane Kelly

  Fischer had graduated in the bottom quarter of his high school class and engaged in no extracurricular activities, though he had been awarded an honorable mention in the school science fair his junior year for powering a low-watt lightbulb with an improvised potato battery. No doubt his father had helped with that project. Fischer’s senior high school photo showed a scrawny, bucktoothed boy with white-blond hair and a disproportionately large nose.

  During his late teens and early twenties, Noah had floated from one menial part-time job to another, flipping burgers, delivering pizza, detailing cars at a Cadillac dealership. A slacker. Not exactly the kind of background you’d expect of a guy who’d successfully built and led one of the largest churches in the metroplex and whose sermons were broadcast nationwide every Sunday morning to hundreds of thousands of viewers.

  Things had seemed to suddenly change for Noah when he turned twenty-two. He began taking classes at the local community college, was later admitted to Iowa State, and went on to divinity school.

  Had he found God then?

  Maybe.

  Or perhaps he’d discovered something else.

  He’d married his wife, Marissa, a decade ago, when both of them were in their late twenties and Noah’s career had just begun to take off. The couple had no children. Whether their childless state was by choice or due to fertility issues was unknown.

  A recent photo of the couple from the Ark’s Web site showed that Fischer was indeed a much-changed man. Though he was still lean, he no longer looked scrawny. Gone, too, were the buckteeth and too-large nose, replaced by a perfect set of pearly whites and a schnoz in exact proportion with his other facial features.

  Eddie Bardin, my usual partner, walked into my office. Eddie was tall and thin, with skin the color of black coffee. The guy was a sharp dresser with a sharp mind. Even his calculator was a Sharp brand model.

  He plopped down in one of the two chairs facing my desk and grasped his head in his hands as if to prevent his skull from exploding. “Being director sucks.”

  Only three weeks ago he’d been thrilled when the Lobo asked him to fill her shoes—or should I say go-go boots?—while she’d be out for her cancer treatments and recovery.

  “What’s so sucky about it?”

  “Everything!” Eddie rested his elbows on his knees now and slumped forward in the chair, his blue silk tie hanging like a cut noose from his neck. “I’m buried in paperwork, I rarely get to leave my office, and I have to listen to the staff whine all day about stupid shit.”

  “What kind of stupid shit?”

  “The stupidest. Viola’s on a rampage about parking. The new clerk in the records department has been parking in Vi’s usual spot. I reminded Vi that parking isn’t reserved, but she said she’s parked there for thirty years, everyone knows it’s her spot, and she wants me to do something about it.”

  “She’s got a point,” I said. “Thirty years is a long time.”

  Eddie frowned. “Whose side are you on?”

  “Yours, buddy.” I hooked my two index fingers together in a sign of solidarity. “Always yours.”

  He glanced at the clock on my wall, noted it was two minutes after five, and reached up to loosen his tie. “The second Viola left my office, Josh came in pitching a fit because someone stole a Twinkie from the box he keeps in his desk.”

  I grimaced. “Sorry, boss. That was me.”

  Eddie shot me a pointed look. “Tara, please. You know Josh gets his Underoos in a bunch when anyone touches his stuff. You can buy Twinkies from the vending machine in the break room.”

  “I know,” I said. “But I was a nickel short.” Plus it was kind of fun to put Josh’s undies in a bunch. He could be a bit of a twerp sometimes.

  Eddie pulled his wallet from his pocket, fished out a dollar bill, and laid it on my desk. “Do me a favor. Go buy him a Twinkie so he’ll shut up.”

  “Will do.” I slid the dollar into my pocket. “I guess this isn’t a good time to tell you I had to fire my gun yesterday.”

  Eddie threw his hands in the air. “You’re killing me, Tara.”

  “August Buchmeyer shot at us first,” I said. “The hearing will be a slam dunk in my favor.”

  “Let’s hope so.” He stood to leave. “By the way, I assigned Nick to work with you on the Ark case.”

  My heart lurched in my chest. After the awkward conversation in the car last night, I wasn’t sure it was a good idea for Nick and me to be alone together. In fact, I’d purposely avoided him all afternoon, waiting until I saw him walk into his office with his postlunch can of Red Bull before going to the kitchen to fill my coffee mug, timing my potty breaks just after his, keeping my door partially closed so our gazes wouldn’t accidentally meet across the hall.

  “Why Nick?” I asked.

  “Pastor Fischer and the church won’t go down without a fight,” Eddie said. “It couldn’t hurt to put more muscle on the case.”

  If it was muscle we needed, Nick was certainly the agent to turn to. Still, I was insulted. Lu had appointed me as the lead agent on the investigation. The least Eddie could have done was consult with me before assigning a secondary agent. I told him so.

  “Nick asked to work with you. Said he thought you two worked well together.”

  Nick asked to work with me? Again?

  Before I could fully process that information, Eddie turned and left.

  * * *

  After work Friday evening, I drove to Brett’s house. He was already home and had left the door unlocked for me, so there was no need to use the spare key he kept hidden under the decorative birdhouse on his front porch. Brett smiled and waved to me from his kitchen as I stepped inside.

  While Nick was tall, tan, and dark haired, Brett topped out at five foot eight, with sandy hair and green eyes. Nick’s body was a weapon, carefully built and strategically sculpted with machines and weights, while Brett sported the lean, honest muscle that came with physical labor. Unlike Nick, who was all man, Brett had a sweet, boyish charm, like Brendan Frazier or Matthew Broderick. Not that I was comparing Brett and Nick. Oh, wait. I guess I was.

  “Hey, Tara.” Brett met me in his foyer, cupping his free hand behind my neck, giving me a warm kiss. As the kiss deepened, he twined his fingers in my hair, my stiff locks giving off an odd crunching sound. When he stepped back, he found his hand hopelessly stuck in my hair.

  “What’s so sticky?”

  “Lu’s extra-hold hairspray.”

  “Hairspray? Feels more like glue.”

  While he wiggled his fingers, trying to work them loose, I turned my head one way then the other, cringing as the action pulled at the sensitive hairs at the nape of my neck. He finally managed to free his hand from my hair. Thank God. I was beginning to think we’d have to use scissors.

  A half hour later, Brett and I sat on his sofa, enjoying Indian takeout while watching back-to-back episodes of our favorite British sitcom, Peep Show, on the BBC America channel. Remembering the cute speckled chicken at the Buchmeyers’ place, I’d forgone the tandoori chicken in favor of the channa paneer.

  Brett wore his chili-pepper-print lounge pants and a green T-shirt. I had slipped into the red satin spaghetti-strap nightie that made a home in Brett’s top dresser drawer, next to his boxer briefs. Napoleon, Brett’s furry black Scottish terrier mix, lay next to his master, his front paws and small head draped over Brett’s leg. He watched every bite Brett put into his mouth, waiting for the nibbles he knew Brett would give him.

  Brett’s other dog was also black, but with an entirely different physique. Reggie, an enormous pit bull-Rottweiler mix, sat on the couch next to me, his brisket-sized head only inches from mine, his eyes on my mouth, his warm doggie breath on my cheek. With his square jaw and large teeth the dog looked mean as hell, but under Brett’s constant doting he’d grown into one of the sweetest, most loyal dogs you’d ever meet. Of course the fact that Brett had relieved the dog of his pendulous nuts and the doggie testosterone they created may have c
ontributed to the beast’s new mellow temperament.

  Reggie smacked his lips every time I took a bite. When I could take his stares no longer, I held out a big piece of bread to him. He grabbed the naan, hopped down from the couch, and lay down on the rug to eat it, thumping his tail against the floor in appreciation. Thump-thump-thump.

  “How are things coming along at the Habitat house?” I asked Brett.

  Though he’d grown up in one of the more exclusive parts of Dallas and had never wanted for anything, he was no spoiled brat. His parents supported several local charities and had instilled in him a sense of responsibility to his community and others. Brett had recently become involved with Habitat for Humanity, donating his landscaping design services, as well as grass, plants, and trees.

  “The heat’s been tough,” he replied. “Not many people want to work in hundred-degree weather. We’ve had a hard time getting volunteers lately, but Trish has put some feelers out for new recruits.”

  At the mention of Trish’s name, I felt my inner bitch rear her head. Trish worked as a reporter for a local television station. With butterscotch-blond hair, a bubbly personality, and equally bouncy, oversized boobs, she handled the happy-feel-good stories for the ten o’clock news. “Tune in for Trish at ten!”

  Not long ago she’d done a piece on Habitat for Humanity. Brett happened to be landscaping the worksite when she arrived and she interviewed him for the piece, commenting in her airy way on the size of his equipment and how skilled he was with his tools. I might have been able to let her flirtatious comments go if she hadn’t subsequently volunteered to work on the project with him, if I hadn’t seen her hop into his wheelbarrow for a giggly, breast-jostling ride.

  Although the exposure she’d given Brett had been great for his landscaping business, I sensed she had a few more questions she’d like to ask him, such as “Your place or mine?” and “Was it good for you, too?” Still, I didn’t want petty jealousy to ruin my evening with Brett so I dropped the subject.

  When we finished our dinner, Brett gathered up our plates and silverware while I collected the napkins, cardboard containers, and bags. I followed him to the kitchen and tossed out the trash while he rinsed our dishes and stuck them in the dishwasher.

  He turned and leaned back against the counter. “I’ve got some news.”

  His posture was relaxed, but the fact that he’d waited until after dinner to tell me this as-yet-undisclosed information made me suspicious.

  “Is it good news or bad news?”

  “It’s good,” he said, but there was a slight hesitancy in his voice.

  I stepped toward him, putting my hands on his chest and looking up into his eyes. “What is it?”

  He grinned modestly. “I landed a new job today.”

  Brett was an award-winning landscape architect. His hard work and creative, distinctive designs had earned him quite a reputation. Each job he landed was larger, more prestigious. This guy was going places.

  “That’s great.” I slid my hands up from his chest to encircle his neck. “Tell me all about it.”

  “It’s a new country club,” he said. “I’ll be landscaping the clubhouse, pool area, and tennis courts. Around the golf course, too. They also want me to design an outdoor pavilion for weddings, that kind of thing.”

  “This sounds like a huge project.”

  “My biggest so far.”

  I still sensed the hesitancy. I slid my hands back to his chest. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  He exhaled slowly. “The job’s in Atlanta.”

  That meant he’d have to travel. But when? And for how long?

  These questions were quickly answered. “I’ll be gone for a full month. I leave tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” My hands dropped to my sides and I took a small step backward. My brain seemed to be spinning inside my skull. “How can they expect you to be there tomorrow when they just hired you today?”

  Brett reached out and took my hands, pulling me back toward him. “I’m replacing the first guy they hired. He’s tied up with another project, overbooked himself.”

  “But…” But you can’t leave me! I want you here! I need you here!

  As much as I wanted to, I knew I couldn’t say such things. I had no right. I’d recently handled a very demanding, very dangerous case, a case that had left me little time to spend with Brett. He hadn’t exactly been happy about it, but he’d supported me through the entire ordeal, even when it was clear it was the last thing he wanted to do. I owed it to him to provide the same support in return, didn’t I? This project was big. A new country club in a rapidly expanding urban area. No doubt this would lead to more work, more projects.

  Projects that might repeatedly take Brett away from me.

  “But what?” he asked.

  “But nothing,” I said softly. “I’ll miss you is all.”

  He pulled me full against him, kissing the top of my head. “I’ll miss you, too. We’ll talk every day. And we can Skype, too, as often as possible.”

  My heart slumped inside my chest. This wasn’t what I wanted at all. But there was no point whining about it, was there? Better to accept it and try to make the best of it.

  I pushed my pelvis forward, grinding myself against him, and looked up at him with bedroom eyes. “If you’re going to be gone for an entire month,” I demanded in my best sultry voice, “you’d better give me a month’s worth of loving tonight.”

  And he did.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Hey There, Lonely Girl

  Saturday morning, I woke to find Brett staring at me from his pillow. I wondered how long he’d been watching me, hoped I hadn’t snored or drooled in my sleep.

  He propped himself up on his elbow, looking absolutely adorable with his sandy bed head, his hair sticking up in crazy spikes. “Are you angry at me?”

  Yes, I was. But I wasn’t about to tell him that. I’d sound petty, hypocritical. It was ridiculous to be angry at him for taking on a project that would surely further his career. But emotions aren’t exactly logical, are they? I decided to play dumb. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because my balls feel bruised.”

  Not surprising. I’d insisted on being on top when we’d made love—against doctor’s orders—for the second time last night. I’d claimed my superior positioning protected the injury on my thigh, but it was probably more a subconscious attempt to dominate him, bend him to my will, punish him for leaving me. I’d ridden the poor guy like a pogo stick.

  I wasn’t sure what to tell him, but figured I couldn’t go wrong with, “Sorry about your balls. I couldn’t help myself. You’re so damn good in bed I lose all control.”

  His concerned expression melted into a grin. Sheez, men are so easy. “If you kiss them,” he said, “it might make them feel better.”

  “Nice try.” I threw back the covers. “No more nooky until I’ve had some coffee.”

  * * *

  Later that morning, we drove out to a property Brett owned outside the city. He’d launched a landscape supply business there, though for all practical purposes he was his own silent partner. He’d hired a manager to take care of the day-to-day operations. Brett dropped by occasionally simply to check in on his investment.

  The manager, a middle-aged guy named Dennis, did an excellent job. The place had been in business only a matter of weeks and was already breaking even. No doubt the enterprise would be well in the black before long.

  Brett routinely took his dogs out to the nursery when he went, and the dogs and Dennis had become quite fond of each other. Dennis had offered to watch Napoleon and Reggie while Brett was gone to Atlanta. I would’ve liked to help out, but my busy and erratic work schedule would make it difficult to run by Brett’s on a regular basis to check on his pets. I shared my townhouse with two cats, one skittish, the other intolerant, so taking the dogs to my place was out of the question.

  I drove along the country road until we reached the white wooden fence lining the fron
t of the property and turned in by the large sign that read ELLINGTON NURSERIES. Two king-cab dually pickups were parked in the small lot, the flatbed trailers attached to them loaded with drought-tolerant summer flowers. Petunias. Mexican heather. Dianthus. Yep, it was that time of year, when the flowers planted in spring had since burned up in the hot summer sun and fresh replacements were needed.

  Dennis stood next to one of the trailers. He was stocky, with thick, reddish-brown hair and a matching, neatly trimmed beard. He placed a large flat of purple petunias on one of the trailers and waved a gloved hand in greeting. Brett and I raised our hands back at him.

  The dogs hopped out of my BMW the instant I opened the back door. The duo ran over to Dennis, their tails wagging furiously. He knelt down to pet the two, pulling off his thick suede work gloves so he could give them a nice scratch under the chin. “Hey, boys.”

  Napoleon latched onto one of the gloves in Dennis’s hand and yanked it free, holding it in his teeth and furiously shaking the glove back and forth.

  “Give me that, you little troublemaker.” Dennis chuckled as he gently pulled the soggy glove from the dog’s mouth.

  “Is everything ready to go to the Habitat house?” Brett asked Dennis.

  Dennis nodded. “Got the delivery truck loaded and a driver lined up for later this afternoon.”

  “Great,” Brett said. “Tell the driver to ask for Trish LeGrande. She’s got a copy of my landscaping plans.”

  I bet Brett’s designs weren’t the only thing Trish would like to get her hands on. “Why does Trish have a copy of your plans?” I asked.

  “She’s the coordinator for our latest project,” Brett explained. “She keeps a copy of all the paperwork to make sure everyone’s on the same page.”

  Hmm. What he said made sense. But just because it made sense didn’t mean I had to like it.

  So much for setting aside my petty jealousy, huh?