by Diane Kelly
She stared at herself in the mirror.
“Well?” I asked hopefully. “What do you think?”
She turned one way, then another. “I’m not having more fun yet.”
Strike two. Darn. No sense getting her more upset. I decided not to tell her about the development in the Ark case, that they planned to present the equal protection defense in court on Friday. Stupid Constitution. I’d have liked to kick the Founding Fathers in the seat of their breeches about then. But I suppose it didn’t really matter. Nick and I were bound and determined to bring Fischer down, one way or another.
“I’m not done looking, Lu. I promise I’ll find you the right wig.”
Lu retrieved a second can of her contraband hairspray and held it out to me. “Here’s some for you. I had my stylist order extra.”
“Gee,” I said. “Thanks.”
I took the can from her, though I had no intention of using the stuff on my hair. It was much too caustic and sticky. Still, it might come in handy if I ever needed to install wallpaper or stop a lynch mob in their tracks.
* * *
I turned the sharp corner onto my street. What the hell? In the front yard of my town house stood a metal red and white sign reading FOR SALE BY OWNER.
I parked in the driveway, climbed out of my car, and made my way across the grass to the sign. What was this thing doing in my yard? If it had been a professional Realtor’s sign, I might’ve thought that one of the agent’s staff had gotten an address wrong and put it in my yard by mistake. But FOR SALE BY OWNER? I was the owner of this town house. And I sure as hell wasn’t selling it.
It took some wrangling to pull the metal prongs loose from the soil, but I finally managed to yank the sign out of the lawn. As I was on my way to stow it in the garage, a fluttering to my left caught my eye. A piece of paper had been taped to the glass of my front door.
Lugging the cumbersome sign with me, I went to the porch and snatched the paper from the glass. Across the top of the page was an embossed Lone Star Nation logo. For a government that didn’t legally exist, they sure spent a lot on stationery.
The title of the document read “Fourclosure Notice and Order to Vacate.” The paragraphs below informed me that the Nation had exercised its right to seize my property and was hereby notifying me that I had three days to vacate the property or I would be removed by force.
Was there no end to their dumbfuckery?
I found myself glancing up at the sky, beseeching God to tell me just what I had done to deserve the nonstop hassles that had confronted me over the last few days. I was a sinner, sure. I engaged in premarital sex, used foul language on occasion, and hadn’t set foot in a church, other than the Ark, in several months. Still, I wasn’t truly a bad person, was I? I contributed to charities, worked hard, used my turn signal as a courtesy to other drivers. So why did it seem like karma was out to kick my ass?
Maybe I was paying now for something I’d done in a former life. Perhaps I’d been a hooker in a saloon in the old west or stolen precious jewels from an Arabian princess for whom I’d served as a handmaid in the Middle Ages.
Or maybe shit just happens.
Given that I planned to stay at Brett’s for the time being, the notice to vacate was not only illegal but also moot. They couldn’t very well remove me if I wasn’t here, right?
But what if they tried to get into my place? I phoned Ross O’Donnell. He instructed me to fax him the notice in the morning. He’d take the notice to court and obtain a restraining order for me.
I stashed the FOR SALE sign in the garage and carried my purse, Lu’s hairspray, and the notice inside. After changing into jeans, tennis shoes, and a dark tee, I packed a few days’ worth of clothes into a suitcase and rounded up my toiletries, leaving the extra-hold hairspray behind on the bathroom countertop. I also gathered up the cat food and bowls, the litter and litter boxes, and loaded everything into my car.
I hadn’t originally planned to take the cats with me to Brett’s place, but the sign in the yard and the bogus foreclosure notice had me rattled. I didn’t trust the religious fanatics from the Ark at all, and I trusted the wack jobs from the Lone Star Nation even less. If they’d fight roosters to the death, they probably wouldn’t hesitate to cause me or my cats bodily harm.
Annie was easily coaxed into her plastic pet carrier but Henry put up his usual fuss, spitting and clawing and hissing until I finally managed to shove his fat, furry ass into his crate. I pointed a finger at him through the metal bars of the cage. “I’ll have no more of your crap, sir.” The ungrateful beast responded with both a growl and a scowl.
I swung by Brett’s place and dropped off the cats and my suitcase. I texted Brett a simple message, Working tonite. Let’s talk tomorrow. I didn’t bother telling him I’d be staying at his house tonight. He wouldn’t mind me squatting and there was no sense typing a long and detailed text message when I could just tell him tomorrow. Besides, this was simply a precaution. I didn’t want to cause him unnecessary worry.
The worry would be unnecessary, right?
I headed out to meet Nick. We met at a burger joint one exit down the freeway from the Ark and left Nick’s truck there, figuring we’d be less conspicuous at the highbrow church in my BMW.
Nick’s long legs preceded him as he slid into my passenger seat. Damn, but the guy could fill out a pair of jeans. He pulled the brim of his white cowboy hat low to shade his face and slid on his sunglasses. I put on my sunglasses, too, though I opted to disguise myself by pulling my hair up into a ponytail. It wasn’t much, but we weren’t exactly going undercover here. We were just trying to be inconspicuous.
We drove to the temple and circled slowly through the parking lot. The crowd entering the church tonight was predominantly female, mostly choir members attending practice and mothers bringing their youngsters to the weekly children’s program.
I pulled into a shady spot under a tree and parked. We rolled down the windows and sat for a few minutes, watching the activity.
“Well, well. Look who’s here.” Nick jutted his chin to indicate a silver SUV driving by.
Amber Hansen was at the wheel, her young son strapped into his seat in the back. She pulled into a nearby spot and cut the engine. Nick and I watched as Amber unloaded her son, grabbed her purse and a diaper bag from her front seat, and took her boy’s hand to lead him inside.
The evening sun glinted off the boy’s white-blond hair as he jumped with both feet, hopping over the cracks in the sidewalk. He was a lively, cute kid. But was he Noah Fischer’s? Short of a DNA test, we’d never be able to prove it. And we had no legal basis for demanding a DNA test. Whether he’d fathered this kid or not had nothing to do with the taxes we were trying to collect.
We slunk lower in our seats as Fischer’s white limo pulled to the curb near the main doors. The driver climbed out to open the door for the pastor and his wife. Both were as impeccably dressed as they had been on Sunday, though their clothing tonight was more casual. Noah sported gray pants with a striped dress shirt, no tie or jacket, while Marissa wore a white lacy blouse, baby-blue Capri pants, and a cute pair of wedges. Noah spoke briefly to the driver, then put a hand on his wife’s back to guide her inside.
The flurry of activity subsided, but Nick and I continued to sit and watch the building. What we were waiting for, I wasn’t sure. But whatever it was, it didn’t happen. An hour later there was another flurry of activity as the people left.
“Let’s come back Friday evening,” Nick suggested, “when the women will be leaving for the retreat.”
I wasn’t sure the surveillance would get us anywhere. But with Brett out of town it wasn’t like I had anything better to do on Friday night.
When Pastor Fischer and his wife returned to their limo, Nick let out a long huff of air. His eyes locked on the back of the car as it drove out of the lot.
“Enjoy your taxpayer-subsidized limo while you can, Noah Fischer. Your empire won’t last much longer.”
I wished I could say I was feeling as confident as Nick, but I wasn’t. Pastor Fischer just might end up being the one that got away.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Intruder
When I arrived at Brett’s, it was growing dark. A woman pushing a baby in a stroller was heading down the sidewalk in front of the house, so I bypassed the driveway and parked at the curb.
Though the streetlights were flickering on in the dusk, I’d forgotten to leave the porch light on for myself and had to fumble under the birdhouse for the spare key. I let myself in, checked on the cats, and got ready for bed. It had been a long day and I was pooped.
It felt strange climbing into Brett’s bed alone without him here. The place felt too quiet, too empty. I traded the pillow on my side of the bed for his, resting my head on the soft fabric of the cover, smelling the scent of him on it. It made him seem close, yet far away at the same time.
I’d been asleep only a short while when a soft rumble and vibration woke me. Brett’s garage door opening. I glanced at the clock. Twelve-thirty.
I scurried to the front window and looked outside. There was no moon and the porch light didn’t reach the driveway. All I could see was a dark car backing into his garage.
Holy crap! He was being robbed!
I rushed to the kitchen, grabbed my Glock from my purse, and snatched Brett’s cordless phone from the wall. I had just finished dialing 911 when the door from the garage to the kitchen opened. All I could see was a dark human form silhouetted against the light of the garage.
I dropped the phone so I could hold the gun steady with both hands. “Freeze, fuck face! Or I’ll blow your head off!”
The figure emitted a high-pitched, breathless cry and shrieked, “Please don’t shoot me!”
I felt around for the switch and snapped the kitchen light on. There, standing in the doorway, was a bosomy, butterscotch-haired bimbo.
Trish.
What the hell?
A voice came from the phone on the floor. “Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?”
Trish waved a frantic hand at me. “Could you please put that gun down?”
I still had my weapon trained on her. Old habits are hard to break.
I lowered the gun and returned it to my purse, then picked up the phone from the floor. “Sorry. False alarm,” I told the operator. I clicked the button to terminate the call, plunked the phone into its cradle, and turned back to Trish.
“What are you doing here?” the two of us said in unison.
“You first,” I demanded, crossing my arms over my chest.
She shot me a nasty look and her tone was no more pleasant. “I’m returning some tools Brett left for the volunteers to use at the Habitat house. He left me his garage door opener and a key so I could bring them back.”
Her explanation was logical. Not that it pleased me one bit, but still, it wasn’t totally out of line for Brett to give another woman his garage door opener under those circumstances, was it? But why had he given her a key, too? Hell, I was dating the guy and I didn’t even have a key to his place. I had to use his hidden spare.
“If you were only dropping off tools,” I asked, “why did you come inside?”
“I offered to check on things for him. Bring in his mail and water his plants.”
Heck, I hadn’t thought twice about his mail or plants. Some girlfriend I was.
“It’s late,” I noted, pointing out the obvious.
“I work on the late news. ‘Tune in for Trish at Ten’. Remember?”
Oh, yeah. How could I forget?
She crossed her arms over her substantial chest now and gave me an icy stare. “Brett didn’t mention you’d be at his house. Does he know you’re here?”
Trish was questioning me? How dare she! I had far more right to be here than she did, didn’t I? Brett was my boyfriend, not hers.
Then again, Brett had given her a key. He had no idea I was here. Technically, I was trespassing.
“I’m on confidential IRS business,” I said.
“Right.” Her tone was scoffing. She twirled Brett’s spare key ring around on her finger. “As long as you’re here, you can water the plants then.”
I nodded. I didn’t like taking orders from her, but I didn’t want this discussion to develop into a brawl, either. Well, truth be told I kind of did. Taking the bitch down would be pretty damn satisfying. But Brett wouldn’t like it.
“How long will you be staying here?”
“A couple of days,” I said. “Ring the doorbell first next time.”
With an exaggerated eye roll, she flounced back through the door.
I locked it behind her and went back to Brett’s bed. But I couldn’t get comfortable. I felt like an intruder, like I didn’t belong.
Like I hardly knew the man whose bed I was sleeping in.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
You’ve Got Mail
In the morning, I took the cats and my stuff back to my town house before heading to work. I doubted the lunatics from either the Lone Star Nation or the Ark would make a move in broad daylight. And, after my run-in with Trish last night, I didn’t want to stay at Brett’s place again. Rather than making me feel safe and secure, I’d only felt more ill at ease there. I’d ask Nick to come stay with me again. After all, he’d offered. He was only a phone call away. Heck, he was right across the hall.
Just say the word.
One of the young men from the mailroom entered my office, followed by the new file clerk, whom he’d apparently enlisted to assist him. Both had large canvas bags slung over their shoulders.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Your mail,” he said.
The two of them upended the bags over my desk, letting loose a cascade of envelopes of various shapes, sizes, and colors that quickly covered my desk, some of the mail falling off onto the floor. It was like the scene from Miracle on 34th Street when the post office staff brought Santa Claus bag after bag of undelivered mail that had been addressed to him.
Their task completed, they left the room.
I grabbed a couple envelopes off the top of the pile and eyed the return addresses. One was from a Ricky Don Dupree, General Delivery, Lone Star Nation. The other was from an Elizabeth Beardsley at a Dallas address. I opened the letters. Ricky Don’s letter was written in barely legible chicken scratch and contained a verbal barrage of accusations against me, ranging from tyranny to illegal imperialism. Elizabeth’s letter was written in precise, flowing handwriting, accusing me of essentially the same things but for different reasons.
Eddie passed by my office but then retreated a few steps, doing a double take at the pile of mail on my desk. “What’s all that?”
“Love letters from the Lone Star Nation and the Ark,” I replied.
He put a hand to his forehead. “I feel another headache coming on.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “I’ll handle it.”
My cell phone chirped and I pulled it from my purse. The readout indicated it was Brett. Thank goodness. I could use some moral support. I pushed the button to accept his call. “Hi, Brett.”
“You pulled a gun on Trish last night?” he said. “And called her ‘fuck face’?”
No “hello”? No “good morning”? No “how are you”?
“I thought Trish was an intruder,” I replied. As for “fuck face,” well, that was simply false bravado mixed with alliteration.
“She was only returning some tools, Tara. You could’ve shot her!”
“I wouldn’t have pulled the trigger until I identified whether she was a threat,” I said. “Besides, how was I supposed to know it was her? You didn’t tell me she was coming to your house.”
“You didn’t tell me you’d be in my house, either.”
“It was a long story. I figured I’d tell you all about it today, when we had more time to talk.” Wait. Why was I the one defending myself here? This didn’t seem right.
“What’s going on?” Brett asked, finally e
xpressing some concern about my welfare.
I told him about the phone calls, the foreclosure notice, the FOR SALE sign, the big-ass stack of hate mail staring me in the face.
“I can see why you might have been feeling on edge.” His voice softened a little. “Why is it you always get assigned the cases with the nut jobs?”
“Just lucky, I guess.”
He was quiet a moment. “Look. I’m sorry I jumped on you. It’s just that Trish called me this morning freaking out. You scared her half to death.”
What was I supposed to say to that? Was he expecting me to apologize? I wasn’t quite sure I was in the mood for that. I settled for, “It was just a little misunderstanding. All’s well that ends well, right?”
He hesitated a moment before saying, “I guess so.”
I was hot and bothered by that point, but I could feel Nick’s gaze on me from across the hall and didn’t want to take this unpleasant discussion any further in front of him. I forced a smile onto my face. “I’ve got to be somewhere,” I said into the phone. “Can we talk later?”
Brett let out a long sigh. “Okay.”
I hung up and gently slid the phone back into my purse, fighting the urge to hurl the thing against my wall. Nothing in my life seemed to be going right at the moment. Not work. Not my refinance. Not my personal life. Hell, I’d even woken up with an unsightly sty in my eye this morning. The thing hurt and itched and had tripled in size already, threatening to take over my entire face.
My desk phone rang then. I picked it up without checking the readout. “Agent Holloway.”
“Trouble in paradise?” It was Nick.
I looked up and my gaze met his from across the hall.
I turned away. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Brett’s a pretty boy, Tara. He’s not man enough for you.”
I didn’t much appreciate Nick insulting my boyfriend but, at the moment, I was inclined to agree with him. So I’d pulled a gun on someone. Big deal. Nothing Brett should have gotten himself so worked up about. Still, I said nothing.
