3 Death, Taxes, and Extra-Hold Hairspray

by Diane Kelly

  I returned the gesture, but all I felt was the cold, hard surface. “I miss you, too.”

  When we ended the call, I sat for a moment with my eyes closed, willing things between me and Brett to return to normal.

  Nick phoned at ten to let me know he was in the driveway. “Didn’t want to scare you by knocking on the door unannounced.”

  I went to the door and let him and Nutty in with only an angry glance. Make that an angry one-eyed glance. I’d affixed a warm, moist teabag over the other with gauze tape. Still, as mad as I still was at Nick for questioning my relationship with Brett, I had to admit it was nice to have a bodyguard in case the kooks from the Ark or the Lone Star Nation tried to pull anything tonight. I had no doubt Nick could dispatch any intruder in short order. His presence made me feel more relaxed, too. He was like a human security blanket.

  “What’s that on your eye?” Nick asked.

  “A teabag,” I said. “My mother says it’ll get rid of the sty.”

  “Lord, I hope so. That thing’s hideous.”

  I knew his jibe was a joke, his way of trying to force me to engage with him. But I refused to jump to the bait.

  We sat at opposite ends of the couch with Nutty lying between us. Nick unpackaged his new shotgun and looked it over as I watched the news in silence. An armed robbery at a convenience store in south Dallas had left the clerk with a bullet in the leg but, fortunately, he was expected to make a full recovery. The Dow-Jones Industrial Average was down nine points. Another bomb exploded in the Middle East.

  Trish’s usual happy-feel-good segment came on near the end of the newscast. She offered a brief live introduction from her seat in the studio, then the image cut to footage filmed earlier today. In the recorded clip she wore a frilly pink apron over a pink top and white jeans. Small, giggling children flanked her on both sides. Apparently, she’d spent the day baking carrot cupcakes with a local kindergarten class learning about nutrition. They’d topped their healthy cupcakes with natural honey instead of frosting.

  I fought the urge to heave a lamp through the television screen.

  Trish knelt down, put an arm around the tiny pigtailed girl next to her, and smiled at the camera. “As you can see, the cupcakes aren’t the only sweet things around here.” She gave the viewers an exaggerated wink with an overly made-up eye.

  I couldn’t take it anymore. I stood and made my way to the stairs.

  Nick’s voice came from behind me, soft but sure. “You should’ve shot her while you had the chance.”

  I didn’t dare turn around, knowing he’d be able to read my mind from the expression on my face.

  He’d said just the right thing.

  God help me, I could fall hard for the guy.

  * * *

  An hour later, I was still awake, lying in my bed, trying to count sheep but instead distracted by the confusing mess my life had become. Work sucked. I wasn’t sure where Brett and I stood. And my swollen eye itched like crazy. Damn sty. The teabag hadn’t helped a bit.

  A creak sounded from the stairway. The third step making its usual protest as Nick climbed the stairs.

  I heard him in the hallway outside my bedroom, then the noise stopped. I opened my good eye just a tiny slit to see him standing in my dark doorway. He said nothing, probably assuming I was asleep by now. He stood there for several seconds, watching me, before finally heaving a sigh and turning to go into the guest room.

  * * *

  A low growl woke me at three A.M. Nutty. It sounded as if he were downstairs.

  I grabbed my Glock from my nightstand, climbed out of bed, and tiptoed into the hallway, nearly running into Nick, who’d come out of the guest room to investigate. He wore nothing but a pair of plaid boxers, but he held the shotgun in his hand.

  “Go back to your room,” he whispered. “I’ll check things out.”

  “No!” I whispered back. “I’m coming with you.” I wasn’t about to cower in fear from crazy rednecks or religious zealots. Of course I might not have felt so courageous if Nick wasn’t there with me.

  Nick let out a frustrated huff. “At least stay behind me then, okay?”

  Not a bad idea. Big as he was, Nick would make a darn good human shield if anyone opened fire.

  He flattened himself against the wall and tiptoed down the stairs. Instinctively, I put a hand on his shoulder. I wasn’t sure if it was for reassurance or simply to help guide me down the stairs, but either way his warm, muscular shoulder felt nice under my fingers.

  Creak. The third step from the bottom gave a bit under his weight.

  A couple more steps and we were on the ground floor. By then, Nutty was scratching at my back door, his loud growls interspersed with woofs.

  We crept through the kitchen in a crouch. Nick pulled back the curtain at the window over the sink and looked outside. The back porch light was on, but the far corners of my small yard were in shadow. It took a few seconds for our eyes to adjust. When they did, I could just make out a face above the metal utility box in the corner, eyes shining.

  “Oh, my God!” I gasped. “There’s someone back there!”

  Was it someone from the Lone Star Nation?

  Nick dashed to the back door, threw it open, and aimed the shotgun at the would-be intruder. “Put your hands up!”

  Nutty scrambled out the door, stopped to sniff the air, then ran to the box, leaping up on it and barking to raise the dead.

  I went to the back door. My next-door neighbor flipped on her floodlights and we could clearly see the prowler’s face now. He had beady eyes, a pointy nose, and long whiskers.

  A possum.

  Sheez.

  “Holy hell,” Nick spat, lowering his gun. “It’s just a varmint.”

  The possum blinked his eyes. For a flea-bitten rodent, the thing was actually kind of cute.

  My neighbor came to the fence and stuck her head over it. “What’s going on?” Her eyes went from me to Nick. They stayed on Nick.

  “We thought someone was prowling around back here,” I told her. “Turns out it was just a possum.”

  The poor creature was terrified, frozen in position on top of the metal box. Luckily it was too high up for Nutty to quite reach him.

  “Sorry to wake you,” I apologized to my neighbor.

  “No problem.” She took one last, longing glance at Nick before heading back into her town house.

  Nick grabbed Nutty by the collar and dragged him back inside. I followed them.

  Despite his age and poor eyesight, Nutty’d proved to be a darn good watchdog. I gave him a slice of bologna to reward him.

  “What about me?” Nick asked. “Wasn’t I a good boy, too?”

  I tossed him a slice of bologna, too, and headed back to bed.

  * * *

  Nick had already left when I woke Friday morning. I knew I shouldn’t have been disappointed by that fact, but I was. At least the sty was gone, too. Thank heaven for small favors.

  I showered, put on my makeup, and dressed in my best black pantsuit with a red silk camisole and a red and black polka-dot scarf knotted loosely around my neck. It was stylish, yet professional, the perfect outfit for the courtroom showdown scheduled for the afternoon.

  As I pulled the hot rollers out of my hair, the can of Lu’s contraband hairspray beckoned from my bathroom countertop. I hadn’t planned to use the stuff, but why not? The spray might be excessively sticky, but I wouldn’t have to worry about my hair losing its sassy curl for court and maybe it would give me some of Lu’s kick-ass attitude.

  Annie watched from her perch on the toilet seat while I fluffed my hair, picked up the can, and aimed it at my head. I held my breath, closed my eyes, and pushed the trigger. Psshht.

  A cloud of the stuff hung in the air. My poor cat leaped off the toilet seat, sneezing three times in quick succession before bolting from the room.

  I returned the can to the countertop and touched my hair. My chestnut locks were frozen in place. Not even hurricane-force winds could m
ove them now.

  * * *

  Nick left me alone at work that morning, going so far as to close his office door so that our eyes couldn’t meet across the hall.

  I was the one who’d pushed him away.

  So why did it hurt so bad that he was shutting me out?

  Men were nothing but trouble. I wasn’t sure they were worth it. Maybe I should consider switching teams. We had a couple of lesbian agents. They could probably give me some pointers.

  I sighed. Nope, it wouldn’t work. I was hopelessly heterosexual. As infuriating as men were, I preferred a sexual partner with guy parts.

  I spent part of my morning sorting the pile of mail I’d received the day before into two separate stacks, one for mail from Ark members, the other for mail from the self-proclaimed True Texans. The clerk brought me another bag of letters, though today’s take was significantly smaller. Maybe things were looking up for me.

  “Did you see your new Facebook page?” the mail clerk asked.

  “What are you talking about?”

  He stepped around my desk and began typing on my laptop’s keyboard, pulling up the Facebook site. He angled the laptop so I could view the screen. “See?”

  The page was titled “Tara Holloway Stinks.” As if the title weren’t bad enough, they’d posted a very unflattering photo of me from my days as a member of the NRA chapter at the University of Texas. My eyes were crossed, my tongue hanging out. I held a rifle in one hand, a bottle of beer in the other. The beer bottle was empty, though you couldn’t tell that from the photo. The snapshot had been taken as a joke after I’d led a workshop on gun safety. Talk about taking something out of context. Hell, I looked as crazy as the kooks from the Lone Star Nation.

  Stupid Internet. Nobody could have any secrets anymore.

  Seven hundred and eighteen people had “liked” the page, and nearly as many anti-Tara comments had been posted. Most were the incoherent, rambling rants of Lone Star Nation members, but a few members of the Ark had discovered the site and chimed in, too.

  A pox on the infidel who dares to steal our meat and guns! The True Texans shall triumph!

  Tara Holloway must be stopped!

  Repent now, Tara, or live forever in hell!

  Damn. My enemies had joined forces.

  On the bright side, I’d gone viral and achieved a level of popularity I’d never managed to muster in high school.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Courting Trouble

  At two o’clock, Nick opened his door and stepped across the hall, leaning against my doorjamb, arms crossed over his chest. He said nothing, just flicked his eyes to the clock and back.

  Time to leave for the hearing on the Ark case.

  I grabbed my briefcase and slung my purse over my shoulder. Together we headed down the hall.

  “Sorry I jumped on you yesterday,” I said, keeping my voice low as we passed the other offices. No sense giving our coworkers any grist for the gossip mill.

  Nick kept his eyes locked straight ahead. “It was my fault. I come on a little too strong sometimes.”

  “A little?”

  “Okay, a lot. Sometimes I’m a big old jackass.”

  “A jackass who’s hung like a horse?”

  He cut his eyes and a grin my way. “Yeah.”

  We rounded up Eddie and headed to the courthouse. Twenty minutes later, the three of us made our way past a crowd of Ark members in the hallway. Some of them held the signs they’d carried at the earlier protests. What the heck did they think this was, a football game? They were arguing with deputies, upset that they’d been denied seats in the courtroom.

  “Full is full, folks,” the deputy said. “You can’t be standing out here in the hall. I’m going to have to ask you to head on out.” He spread his arms and walked slowly forward, effectively herding the crowd back into the elevators.

  We walked into the loud, packed courtroom. Members of the Ark crowded butt cheek to butt cheek along the wooden benches, talking animatedly among themselves. As we headed up the center aisle, a woman’s voice hissed from behind us. “Jezebel!”

  I turned and scanned the faces. Judy Jolly glared at me from a couple rows back. I fought the urge to respond with, “Takes one to know one, bee-otch!”

  “Who’s that?” Eddie asked.

  “Judy Jolly,” I said. “She’s one of the Ark’s greeters.”

  “I’ll get in touch with the audit department,” Eddie said. “I’ll make sure she’s greeted with an audit notice ASAP.”

  We continued to the front, taking seats at the counsel table with Ross O’Donnell. Fischer and his team of lawyers crowded around their table ten feet away, heads down in a huddle as they consulted. Former Attorney General Tim Haddocks was at least going through the motions today, his cell phone tucked away in the breast pocket of his suit jacket.

  I pulled out my cell and sent a text to Daniel. Nice tie. I’d bought him the darn thing for his birthday.

  When his phone vibrated, he pulled it out of his pocket and read the message. He sent a discreet smile my way.

  I eyed Ross. No need to ask him how things looked for us. The death pall on his face said it all.

  I glanced back at the crowd. Behind us sat a pack of reporters from the local television stations and newspapers, including one from the local weekly alternative magazine who sported three silver nose rings and shoulder-length blondish dreadlocks. Trish sat on the front row, dressed in a pink suit, her legs crossed, her short skirt riding up on her thighs. She was gazing in my general direction, though not directly at me. Her face bore an expression most accurately described as predatory.

  I followed her line of sight, realizing she had her eyes on Nick. He was looking over the case file and hadn’t noticed her. Thank goodness. I scooted my chair back, blocking her view. If that bitch thought she’d sink her teeth into Nick, too, she had another think coming. Nick was mine. Well, not mine, exactly. But I was holding him in reserve.

  Trish looked up at me. I forced a smile at her and raised a hand in greeting. She simply quirked her brows at me, then made a notation on the small pad of paper in her hand. I supposed it said something like “Die, Tara Holloway. Die!” Well, two could play that game. I uncapped my pen and wrote “butterscotch pudding sucks” on my legal pad.

  Eddie cast a glance at my note, his brow scrunching in confusion.

  “All rise.” The bailiff instructed us to stand as the judge came through the private door that led from her chambers into the courtroom.

  Judge Alice Trumbull was one of the few liberal judges in Dallas. In her sixties now, she had the round body, loose jowls, and demeanor of a bulldog. Also a tendency to snap and snarl. She bounded up to her bench in her black robe, motioning for those in the room to sit once she’d taken her seat.

  Her clerk handed her the case file. As crowded as the court schedules were these days, it was likely the first time she’d seen the paperwork.

  Trumbull glanced down at the counsel tables. She nodded in greeting to Ross before turning to the defense. “Awfully crowded over there, isn’t it?”

  The men looked up at her, Noah Fischer offering his most angelic smile.

  Trumbull pointed a finger at him. “You’re that guy from television.”

  Fischer nodded, beaming with pride. “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “From that commercial, right? How in the world did you manage to turn all those cartwheels in that taco costume?”

  Fischer’s expression turned from proud to perturbed. “Actually, I have a television ministry,” Fischer corrected her. “The Ark Temple of Worship. We’re on Sunday mornings at ten-thirty.”

  “My mistake.” Judge Trumbull shot our table a wink before looking back down at the file. Apparently she knew exactly who Noah Fischer was. And, just as apparently, she wasn’t impressed. But impressed or not, the legal doctrine of stare decisis would require her to follow established law. Her personal feelings couldn’t enter into the equation.

  Too bad.

>   She pulled out the documentation and scanned it over. “An injunction. Okeydoke.” She looked back at the defense table. “I don’t want to hear a bunch of squawking. Which one of you is going to argue?”

  Daniel stood. “That would be me, Your Honor. Daniel Blowitz with Gertz, Gertz, and Schwartz.”

  “All right, Danny boy. Let’s hear what you’ve got.” She sat back, her hands folded over her plump stomach, as Daniel eloquently argued the case, beginning with the purposes of the equal protection clause, summarizing the relevant case law, then offering defense exhibit number one, Alicia’s spreadsheet that listed the other megachurches and the salaries and benefits offered to their ministers.

  Judge Trumbull took the document from Daniel and glanced down at it. “Numbers? I hate numbers.” She tossed the spreadsheet onto the desktop in front of her. “Tell me in words what this document says, son.”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Daniel said patiently. He continued on, summarizing the data on the spreadsheet, carefully choosing his words to make it sound as if the Ark were doing nothing unusual or inappropriate. “There are thirty-four churches in the United States with congregations and annual revenues similar to those of the Ark Temple of Worship. All of them provide benefits to their pastors similar to what the Ark has provided to Reverend Fischer and his wife. However, not a single one of these churches or their ministers have been pursued for taxes, nor have any of them been threatened with revocation of their tax-exempt status.”

  When Daniel finished, the judge said, “You’ve certainly done your homework, Mr. Blowhard.”

  Daniel didn’t bother correcting the judge on his name.

  She turned to Ross. “I hope you’ve got something good for me, too, Mr. O’Donnell.”

  Ross stood and did his best, offering some information that Nick had pulled together about the number of large churches who did not provide excessive benefits to their ministers. “Clearly, not all large churches divert such enormous sums to their minister’s personal living expenses,” Ross offered. “Only a very small number of them are misusing their funds this way.”