3 Death, Taxes, and Extra-Hold Hairspray

by Diane Kelly

  The house sat a hundred yards beyond the gate, though “house” hardly seemed an appropriate term. “Mansion” was more like it. The place was a beautiful two-story plantation-style home, white wood with light blue shutters, a wide porch, and six oversized columns. Large terra-cotta planters sat on each of the brick steps leading up to the porch, all of them filled with colorful pink and blue hydrangeas. The grounds were well maintained, with vibrant flower beds of blue irises and white impatiens, as well as nicely shaped ornamental trees. Timeless, sprawling live oaks provided an abundance of shade.

  I wanted to see more, partly out of professional curiosity, partly because real estate is like crack to women. “Let’s park and take a look around.”

  “Anything you say, boss.” Nick circled to the other side of the fountain and eased the truck to the edge of the driveway, leaving room for a car to pass if needed.

  After we climbed out of the truck, Nick stepped up to the security keypad, used his index finger to punch in 666, and turned his head to watch the gate. Nothing happened. He shrugged. “It was worth a shot.”

  We walked along the iron fence that demarcated the grounds. The enclosed yard was precisely one acre, a small acknowledgment of the state’s property tax law, which imposed a one-acre limit on the exemption for a parsonage.

  “This place is beautiful,” I said.

  “The Lord will provide.”

  I glanced up at Nick. “You sure know your Bible verses.”

  He shrugged. “Where I grew up there wasn’t much to do in the summer other than attend vacation Bible school. For each verse you learned, you’d get a jelly bean.”

  “We got cupcakes at my church.” What the Lord didn’t provide, the church ladies would.

  We continued on, waving away a swarm of pesky gnats that flitted around our faces. Too bad I didn’t have any of Lu’s extra-hold hairspray with me. That caustic stuff would’ve taken care of the gnats in short order.

  When we rounded the back of the property, Nick stopped and whistled. “Boy howdy, take a look at that.”

  The back of the house was nearly all windows. Two sets of French doors opened onto an extensive covered patio, complete with half a dozen white ceiling fans and cushioned white wicker furniture. An enormous built-in red brick fireplace ran along one side of the patio, an outdoor kitchen, complete with a large propane grill and minifridge, along the other.

  Crystal-clear water beckoned from a large swimming pool built in the shape of a cross, a diving board mounted where the crown of thorns would normally appear. A freestanding brick bathhouse sat at an angle at the top of the pool. An automatic vacuum with a long hose snaked along the bottom of the pool, leaving a small ripple in its wake. A covered hot tub sat between two trees off to the side.

  Through the back window we could see a woman in the kitchen preparing lunch for the Fischers. Apparently the Sabbath wasn’t a day of rest for her.

  “Wow,” I said. “Who knew there’d be so much money in being a minister?”

  Nick’s eyes narrowed. “I bet Noah Fischer knew it. He isn’t so much a preacher as a salesman. He’s selling those people a version of God that requires little of them other than a big weekly contribution.”

  Not only did Nick have good financial and weapons skills, he also had a unique ability to read people. That skill had saved his life a few years ago, when Nick realized the target of an undercover mission had discovered his secret identity as a federal agent and determined to kill him. Before the guy could act, Nick confessed he worked for the IRS and offered to derail the investigation in return for a sizable payoff. As soon as he could, Nick double-crossed the murdering tax cheat and together he and I nailed the son of a bitch.

  Maybe Nick was right. Maybe he and I did make a good team.

  We continued on, eventually making our way completely around the perimeter of the parsonage and back to Nick’s truck. I was sweaty now, my bra glued to my chest and back, my thighs sticky with perspiration. So much for feeling purty.

  We climbed into Nick’s truck and drove back down the driveway, passing the white limo as it headed to the house. Presumably Pastor Fischer and his wife sat inside, though with the dark tinted windows it was impossible to tell.

  “Let’s grab lunch,” Nick said.

  “How about Mongolian barbecue?” I suggested. “There’s a great place near my town house.”

  Nick’s lip curled up. “Barbecue sounds good, but not Mongolian. Let’s get the good ol’ American kind.”

  So Nick wasn’t an adventurous eater. Hmm. Brett and I enjoyed making the rounds of local ethnic restaurants, sampling different cuisines. I’d been raised on a steady diet of Southern cooking and, though my mother was a good cook, her offerings were somewhat limited. It was always something fried in grease. She kept a tin can of recycled grease in the pantry, scooping out a spoonful to fry pork chops, eggs, what have you. She’d pour the leftover grease back into the can afterward, to be used again at the next meal. Heck, I bet there was some grease in that can from the first dinner Mom had fixed Dad after they’d married.

  Nick and I stopped at a barbecue joint off the highway a few exits down. As I perused the menu, I wondered what Brett was having for lunch today halfway across the U.S. of A. My heart sagged. He’d been gone only twenty-four hours, but it had been a long twenty-four hours.

  One day down, thirty more to go.

  A waitress arrived to take our order. Nick chose the chicken, but after the moment I’d shared with the hen at the Buchmeyers’ barn I just couldn’t do it. I opted for a veggie plate. Better for my heart and arteries anyway. Better for my ass and thighs, too.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  That’s Not What Jesus Would Do

  Nick eyed me across the table. “If you’d put up more of a fight, I might’ve agreed to eat that mongrel barbecue.”

  “Mongolian,” I said, “not mongrel.”

  “I know.” He cut a grin my way. “Just yanking your chain.”

  When Nick finished his lunch, he wadded up his napkin and dropped it onto his empty plate. “Got your Glock with you?”

  “Of course.” I never felt fully dressed without a gun.

  “Let’s hit the range,” he said. “I’m rusty.”

  Mexican law forbade citizens from owning guns. Nick had been without a piece for the past three years while he’d been in forced exile south of the border. It couldn’t hurt for him to sharpen his skills. I, on the other hand, was the best marksman in the office, probably even the entire IRS. Who better to help retrain him?

  An hour later we stepped into position in adjacent spots at the firing range, protective earmuffs on our heads, goggles over our eyes, loaded guns in our hands. We faced paper targets hanging from an overhead pulley.

  Nick counted down. “One. Two. Three. Go!”

  We unloaded our clips as the pulley quickly drew the targets away from us.

  Blam. Blam-blam. Blam-blam-blam-blam-blam.

  Guns now empty, we retrieved our targets from the pulley and compared them. As expected, each of my bullets hit the paper target square in the heart. Nick’s shots were more sporadic. Though three had penetrated the heart and one had hit the target in the head, several missed the dark human outline entirely and pierced the paper on either side.

  Nick emitted a frustrated grunt. “I’ve got some work to do.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself,” I said. “You did fine.”

  “Fine’s not good enough.” Nick shoved another clip into his gun. “Let’s go another round.”

  After the second round, Nick held back, watching me as I fired alone. He yanked the target from the clip when I finished. He eyed the target—all shots square in the heart, as always. “This is a thing of beauty.”

  He was impressed. I was flattered.

  He joined in with me again, and we fired several more rounds. Soon my forearms, elbows, and shoulders began to ache. Holding a heavy gun in place for extended periods of time wasn’t easy and the recoil was a bitc
h. “I’m out.”

  I packed up my gun, then stood back and watched Nick as he shot several more rounds. “Squeeze the trigger faster,” I advised, “and loosen your grip a little.”

  “Fast and loose, huh?” His next three shots found their mark. He glanced back at me. “Whaddya know. Your advice worked.”

  I shrugged. “I know my guns.”

  “You may be a weapons expert, but I’m an expert in other areas.” A sly smile slid across his lips. “I’d be happy to return the favor, show you a thing or two.”

  No doubt about it now. The guy was flirting with me.

  “I’ll take that under advisement.”

  * * *

  Talking with Brett via Skype Sunday night was a poor substitute for seeing him in person. No shoulder rub, no snuggling on the couch, no nooky.

  Waah.

  I told Brett about my visit to the Ark, but chose not to mention that Nick had attended the service with me. Why ask for trouble, right? Brett would be none too happy if he knew I’d be working closely with Nick, but there was nothing I could do about it. Sure, Nick was hotter than a jalapeño pepper, but I was beginning to see beyond his yummy exterior to the man underneath. And while I respected Nick’s take-charge style, I didn’t so much appreciate it when the thing he was taking charge of was my case. Then again, he did have more experience than I did. Maybe I should set aside my simmering resentment and appreciate his help. He could be a good mentor.

  “I shot a 78 today,” Brett said, a grin spreading across his face.

  “That’s wonderful.” I assumed it must be a good score since he seemed happy about it, but honestly I had no idea. I’d never played enough golf to learn much about the game. “I shot ninety-nine percent at the firing range.” It would’ve been perfect had Nick not bent over that one time. His ass had been quite a distraction.

  “Looks like it was a good day for both of us.”

  Oh, yeah.

  We chatted for a few more minutes, then wound up the conversation since it was growing late.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow night,” he promised from my laptop’s computer screen.

  “Nighty night.” I raised my sleep shirt and flashed my bare breasts at the Webcam.

  He groaned and sat back, crossing his arms over his chest. “That was really unfair.”

  “Just wanted to remind you what you’re missing.”

  * * *

  I stopped by the doc-in-a-box Monday morning. My stitches had pulled loose, and the area had become pink and puffy and oozy. Ick.

  Ajay frowned when he looked at my thigh. “You had wild monkey sex, didn’t you? Against my direct orders?”

  “No,” I lied.

  He gave me a stern look under his dark brows while he injected a local anesthetic. He removed the original stitches, cleaned the area with antiseptic, and stitched me back up. He handed me a prescription for an antibiotic and told me to come back in two weeks to have the stitches removed. “No lollipop today. You’ve been a bad girl.”

  Darn. But at least I wouldn’t have to worry about the new stitches coming loose. With Brett off in Atlanta, I wouldn’t be getting any sex, wild monkey or otherwise.

  When I arrived at work, I passed Josh’s office. He stood in front of his bookshelf, carefully positioning what appeared to be a hardback copy of The New English Dictionary between volumes of the Internal Revenue Code. I slowed and glanced into the trash can by his door. Sure enough, there was an empty box in the bin, one for a nanny cam designed to look like a book. He was bound and determined to discover who’d been stealing his Twinkies. Looked like my days of pilfering snacks from his desk were over.

  I continued on to my office, took a seat, and pulled the church bulletin out of my purse. The note about the women’s retreat was tempting. I sure could go for a day of whirlpools, aromatherapy, and a mani/pedi. But the trip cost $750 per person. Out of my price range. I wondered if I could sell Eddie on the idea, convince him the retreat would somehow help me with the case and that the IRS should fund it. Probably not. The guy wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t a pushover, either, except where his wife and twin daughters were concerned.

  I flipped to the back of the bulletin and placed a call to the mortgage broker who’d posted her ad there. After holding for a minute or two, her secretary put me through. I introduced myself and she asked me some questions about my existing mortgage loan and credit history.

  “Current rates for someone with your good credit would be a percent and a half less than what you’re paying now.” She quickly ran some figures. “Refinancing would reduce your monthly payment by roughly a hundred dollars.”

  “Let’s do it.” Who couldn’t use an extra hundred bucks a month? I grabbed a pen to make notes. “What do you need from me?”

  She ran through a list of documents for me to fax to her. Last year’s tax return, account statements, my latest pay stub. “Once you get the documentation to me, it’ll take only a day or two to get the loan paperwork ready.”

  Nick walked into my office as I ended the call and ceremoniously plunked a stack of papers on my desk. “Check these out.”

  I quickly riffled through them. A vehicle registration. A birth certificate. A marriage license. A final order in a paternity suit. A divorce decree. A photocopy of someone’s ass.

  I held up the ass. “Yours?”

  “Nope. I found it on the copier.”

  “It’s a white butt,” I said, “so we can rule Eddie out. But other than that I don’t have a clue.”

  “It looks like a female ass to me. My guess would be the new clerk in the records department.”

  “The one who keeps parking in Viola’s spot?”

  Nick nodded.

  I turned the copy one way then the other. Was I looking at a G-spot and just didn’t know it? “Maybe this is actually Viola’s butt and Vi’s trying to frame her, get the girl fired.”

  “I wouldn’t put it past her. Viola’s damn upset about that parking spot.”

  “So I hear.” I crumpled up the paper, tossed it into the wastebasket, and turned to the other documents.

  Nick slid into one of my chairs. “The auburn-haired choir girl from the Ark is Amber Hansen,” Nick said, providing a quick Cliff’s Notes version of the paperwork. “Amber was married briefly to a marine named John Vincent Hansen. Got herself knocked up while her hubby was serving a tour of duty in the Persian Gulf.”

  “So much for keeping the home fires burning.”

  Nick pulled his stress ball out of his pocket and began working it. “According to the court documents, Amber claimed she got pregnant when her husband was home on leave, but the timing didn’t jibe. When her husband returned, he moved out of their house and filed a paternity suit. The DNA evidence proved he wasn’t the biological father.”

  “Hence the divorce.”

  “You got it.”

  I glanced at the birth certificate. Although the child’s name was listed as David Jacob Hansen, the space for the father’s name was blank.

  “Are there any other records?” I asked Nick. “Maybe a subsequent paternity suit filed by Amber?”

  “Nothing.”

  So Amber’s little boy could, in fact, be Pastor Fischer’s. Or he could be someone else’s. There had to be thousands of blond men in the Dallas area, after all, men with much less to lose than Pastor Fischer.

  “I’m surprised Amber didn’t file for child support.” After all, it wasn’t cheap to raise a kid these days, even with the dependency exemptions and tax credits for child care costs.

  Nick cocked his head. “I’m thinking she didn’t pursue financial support because this dirty little secret would get the father in trouble.”

  “Or maybe she doesn’t know who the father is. Maybe she had a one-night stand with a guy she met at a bar.”

  Nick rolled his eyes.

  “I’m just saying we can’t be sure of this. We need to tread carefully.”

  Because when you didn’t tread carefully, it was easy to step
in it.

  * * *

  I sneaked out of the office just past eleven to meet my best friend, Alicia, for an early lunch. As always, Alicia was impeccably dressed. She wore sling-back heels with a colorful, embroidered Asian-style dress, complete with a high collar and buttons in the form of small fabric knots. She topped off today’s look by pulling her short blond hair into a small bun bisected by black lacquer chopsticks that formed an X on the back of her head.

  Yep, Alicia was a master fashionista. I was more of an apprentice, with less of an eye for detail and a smaller budget. But I’d befriended a salesgirl with an inside track to the Neiman’s clearance rack and thus managed to hold my own.

  Alicia and I had met as accounting majors at the University of Texas in Austin years ago and immediately hit it off. We’d roomed together during college and, after graduation, had both taken jobs at Martin and McGee’s Dallas office. While working at the CPA firm was the perfect fit for Alicia, the job proved to be less than perfect for me. I’d grown up a tomboy in the open spaces of east Texas and didn’t cope well with prolonged periods of confinement. I simply wasn’t cut out for the cubicle world. Nevertheless, I’d maintained my close bond to Alicia even after I’d left the accounting firm to take the special agent job with the IRS. She was a true friend, someone I could always count on. And today I needed her help.

  After a quick bite at a sandwich shop, we made our way to a downtown wig store, two women with a mission—find a strawberry-blond beehive wig for my boss. We stepped inside and surveyed the room. The wigs were arranged in a veritable rainbow that spanned from one side of the boutique to the other. Blonds lined the wall on the left with reds in the center, giving way to brown and black wigs on the right.

  We headed down the middle aisle. The wigs were displayed on two-tiered shelves and perched on white ceramic head-shaped figures that resembled decapitated albino aliens.