by Diane Kelly
He shook his head. “They’re not the best. Fischer’d have plausible deniability.”
I nudged Josh. “What about the video?”
Josh reached into the breast pocket of his wrinkled blue button-down and retrieved the recorder pen that was still clipped there. He plugged the loose end of the USB cable into the pen now. A few clicks later, the video image popped up on the screen.
The clip showed Fischer, cards in front of him, slugging back a drink. The image captured half of the woman seated next to him, a grandmotherly type with dark gray helmet hair. The video quality wasn’t much better than the photos. Given all the noise of the slot machines in the background, the audio wasn’t all that clear, either.
“Damn,” Nick muttered.
The granny leaned in slightly, enabling us to see all of her now. Her thin lips were clenched tightly around a cigarette that had burned dangerously short. I was reminded of Lu, of her cancer treatments, of the promise I’d made to find her a strawberry-blond beehive wig. I might have to try eBay or Craigslist or pay a personal shopper an astronomical finder’s fee. But whatever it took, I’d find the right wig.
The woman tapped a finger on the felt-covered table. The gravelly words “hit me” could barely be heard above the slot-machine din.
We could see Fischer’s mouth move a moment later, but the audio didn’t pick up what he said. Crap. Since the dealer placed another card on top of Fischer’s stack, it appeared Fischer had requested another card, too. The dealer continued around the table until he reached Josh.
Given that the pen was situated just a few inches below Josh’s chin, his voice came through loud and clear. “No, thanks.”
“What are you doing, dude?” A young man’s voice barked from off camera. His voice was also clear. He must’ve been sitting next to Josh. “You’ve got a two showing, man. The best you can have is twelve. You’re not going to win with that hand. You should’ve taken another card.”
“But I might go over,” Josh whined.
The reply bore unveiled disgust. “Whatever, dude.”
Yep, a boy doing a man’s job.
The dealer went bust and Fischer won again with nineteen. Damn him.
The granny slid an irritated look at Fischer as she took a final drag on her cigarette and stubbed it out in a glass ashtray on the table.
Fischer won the next round, too. After scooping the chips into a pile in front of him, he raised his hands. This time, his voice came through loud and clear. “To God go the glory!”
His catch phrase.
If anyone had doubts whether the man at the table was Pastor Fischer, there’d be no doubt about it now. Nick and I had known Pastor Fischer was a fake and a fraud. Now the world would know it, too.
Nick leaped up from the table and pumped his fist. “We got ’im!”
Josh beamed. He might not know jack about playing blackjack, but he knew his high-tech spy gadgets.
The video played on, cutting from the casino to an image of Fischer sitting on a tall stool at a table in the Hustler Club. A barely legal topless woman performed a personal lap dance for him, moving in and out around him, shaking what her mama gave her. Her mama had been generous. The girl’s ta-tas had to be at least double Ds.
Josh leaned forward to get a closer look. Nick rolled his eyes and put out a hand, pushing him back. “Don’t drool on the keyboard. It might short out.”
On the screen, the girl swung her long, auburn hair, moving so that it draped over Fischer’s shoulder as she sidled around the back of his chair. She danced her way back in front of him and motioned for him to spread his knees. When he did, she eased in between them, gyrating, pumping, and grinding to the beat of the rock music.
“Well, well,” Nick muttered. “Noah Fischer’s got a type.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
He jerked his head at the screen. “Who does that girl look like to you?”
I thought a moment. “Amber Hansen?” They both had long, straight auburn hair.
He nodded. “A little like Marissa Fischer, too. Our naughty boy has a thing for redheads.”
On the screen, we saw Noah tuck a bill into the young woman’s G-string. With this fresh encouragement, she turned her back to him, lifted her hair above her head with her hands, and let it fall, the tresses cascading over his face, which bore a horny grin.
“He really seemed to like that stripper in particular,” Josh said. “He kept putting large bills in her panties.”
Nick’s gaze sought mine. He raised a brow. “Looks like Fischer may have another plaything in Shreveport.”
I wasn’t nearly as sure as Nick whether Fischer had anything going on with the stripper or with Amber Hansen. Regardless, though, he was clearly not the pious paragon of virtue he purported to be.
On the screen, the woman backed toward Fischer and began bumping her butt against his crotch. He tucked yet another bill into her G-string.
“You think she’s reporting all those tips?” I asked.
Nick responded with a snort.
“She’s really hot,” Josh said dreamily, his eyes still locked on the screen. “She has one of those sexy moles on her upper lip. Like Cindy Crawford.”
I suggested we send the photos from a computer at one of the public libraries in Dallas where the communication couldn’t be traced to us. One of the tax evaders I’d recently nailed had done the same thing, sending e-mails from public computers at libraries and hotel lobbies. Made them darn difficult to trace.
Nick ruffled Josh’s curls. “We couldn’t have done this without you, Josh. You done good, kid.”
Josh offered a weak smile in return. “Thanks. Can I go back to bed now?”
“Sure.”
Dad returned to the kitchen dressed in his work clothes. “Ready?” he asked Nick.
“Yes, sir.”
Mom stopped my father before he and Nick headed out the door. “What time will you be back from Lufkin?”
“Around one,” Dad replied.
“That gives me just enough time to whip up chicken-fried steak for lunch,” Mom said. She pointed a finger in Nick’s face. “Best in the world. You’ll see. I’ll make a believer out of you yet.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Pastor or Poser?
While Josh dozed and my mother began preparations for lunch, I drove Josh’s car out to the Baptist church my family had attended as long as I could remember.
I had to admit that, like most kids, I didn’t pay a lot of attention in church growing up. It was difficult to sit still in a hard, uncomfortable pew for a full hour, especially for a young tomboy who’d rather be climbing trees, wading in the creek, or shooting root beer cans with her BB gun. Still, I’d come away with a general sense of what the Man Upstairs expected of us.
Pastor Beasley’s sermons had contained the standard fare. Count your blessings. Respect your parents. Don’t lie, cheat, or steal. Don’t do nothin’ to nobody that you wouldn’t want them doin’ back to you. It ain’t right.
While Pastor Beasley’s sermons lacked the glitz and glamour of the Ark’s services, he’d offered our rural small-town community precisely what it needed. A practical, pragmatic form of spirituality.
I pulled into the church’s lot, glad to see the pastor’s pickup truck in place at the parsonage out back. He was an avid angler, one of the Bait Bucket’s best customers. I hadn’t been sure he’d be around on a Saturday morning when the fish might be biting.
I stepped inside, my eyes taking a moment to adjust. The lights were off, but soft, colored light streamed through the stained-glass windows that lined the sides of the chapel. I glanced up at the large cross mounted at the front of the church, wishing the thorn-crowned Jesus would speak up and tell me if what we planned was the right thing to do. But since that wasn’t likely, I looked around for Pastor Beasley.
I found him sitting halfway down a pew in the section where the youth group normally congregated. He was a short, increasingly stout man, with thi
ck salt-and-pepper hair. He’d left his slightly-too-tight Sunday suit in the closet today, opting instead for jeans and a comfortable knit shirt. He had a stack of Bibles next to him and was going through them one by one, erasing notations and unfolding dog-eared pages back into place.
“Good morning, Pastor Beasley.”
He looked up and gave me a genuine smile. “Well, if it isn’t Tara Holloway. How are ya? Still working hard for Uncle Sam?”
“Yep.” I’m his whore. “You got a minute?”
“I’ve got all the time in the world.” I wasn’t sure whether he meant that literally or figuratively. Perhaps both. He patted the pew. “Come take a seat and help me out. The teenagers keep marking the naughty parts in the Bibles. I have half a mind to tear these pages out.”
I sat, picked up a Bible from the stack, and opened it to the first dog-eared page. Someone had underlined a reference to “spilled seed.” Ew. I grabbed a pencil from the rack mounted on the back of the pew in front of me, erased the line, and smoothed the page as flat as I could.
“So,” Pastor Beasley asked, “what brings you by?”
I was hesitant to broach the subject of Noah Fischer. I didn’t want to sound accusing and distrustful. Still, I needed some guidance. I wanted Fischer to get his due, but I wasn’t sure that’s what God had planned. The Big Guy seemed to be smiling down with favor on Fischer. Who was I to push fate? But surely Pastor Beasley had heard far worse confessions than what I was about to tell him.
I smoothed another page. “Everything I tell you is confidential, right?”
“I love conversations that start this way. It always leads to something juicy.” He chortled and rubbed his hands together. “Did you embezzle from the government? Lie under oath? Maybe kill someone and bury the body in your backyard?”
“Sorry to disappoint you,” I replied, “but no. Nothing that exciting.”
“Shucks.”
I folded another page back. “Have you ever met a minister that you thought was a phony?”
“Dozens,” he replied, nonplussed.
“How could you tell?” I asked.
“It’s the shoes,” he said. “If they’re wearing expensive shoes, they’re a phony.”
“That simple, huh?”
He shrugged. “Surprisingly, yes.”
I looked down at Pastor Beasley’s shoes. Cheap canvas sneakers, worn through on one toe, the tip of a white sweat sock visible through the hole.
I told him about our case against Fischer, how we’d lost in court, how we’d tracked him to the casino and topless bar in Shreveport.
“I’ve met Noah Fischer,” he said, a sour expression on his face.
“And?”
He dropped a Bible into the rack with a resounding thunk. “He was wearing the most expensive shoes I’ve ever seen on a preacher.”
His words were as close to a go-ahead from God as I’d get.
“People deserve to hear the truth,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact. “Whether they choose to accept it will be up to them. But step lightly, Tara. Give him a chance to do the right thing, to come clean and make amends himself. The man’s made some mistakes, but he’s still one of God’s children. God loves him, even if the rest of us think he’s an arrogant, self-righteous snake oil salesman.”
Great advice. My heart felt lighter already. “Thanks.”
“Be careful, too,” he warned, giving me an intent look. “He’s not a man who likes to be crossed. He’s terminated several of his associate pastors when they didn’t agree with him.”
That might be true, but I didn’t see how Fischer could be a threat to me. I didn’t work for him.
I offered to finish the Bibles for Pastor Beasley so he could enjoy his day off.
He stood and put a hand on my shoulder. “You, my child, are an angel. I’m off to find me some bass.”
* * *
My cell phone chirped as I left the church a half hour later. I checked the readout. Brett.
I pushed the button to take the call. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
“What are you doing back in Dallas?” I asked. “I thought you’d be gone all month.”
“It’s raining cats and dogs in Atlanta. They expect it to keep up through the weekend.”
The weather had given Brett an unanticipated break. Can’t do landscaping work when it’s wet outside.
“I’d like to see you,” he said. “When were you planning on coming back?”
“This afternoon,” I replied. “After lunch.”
“Great. Let’s get dinner somewhere. Maybe that Cuban place Alicia told you about?”
“Perfect.”
“Sorry about the Ark case,” he said.
“So Trish gave you the news, huh?” I’d expected her to do as much. Still, it got my ire up.
“Yeah.”
I wondered what else she’d give him if given the chance.
We ended the call and I slipped the phone back into the side pocket of my purse.
Weird. I actually felt a bit nervous about my date with Brett. Silly, huh? He’d only been away a few days, yet it seemed as if he’d been gone a very long time. So much had happened, so much had changed.
I felt so far from him now, but it had nothing to do with the actual distance between us.
* * *
Dad and Nick returned to the house at lunchtime, both sweaty, both ravenous. Loading and unloading hay was hard labor.
Mom and I met them at the trailer with full tumblers of iced sweet tea. Nick pulled off his work gloves, took the cup from me, and downed it in just a few gulps. Dad did likewise.
While Dad and Nick cleaned up, Mom and I set the table for lunch. In addition to chicken-fried steak, she’d made corn bread, green beans, and blueberry pie. We set everything out family style.
I woke Josh and soon the five of us were seated around the dining room table. Mom had gone all out, covering the table in her best lace tablecloth, using her fine china. All eyes were on Nick as he cut into his chicken-fried steak. He skewered the bite with his fork and lifted it to his mouth. He closed his lips and his eyes and began to chew.
“Well?” my mother asked. “What’s the verdict?”
After a few seconds, a slow smile spread across his face. “Mmm.” He opened his eyes and looked at my mom. “If you tell my mother I said this, I’ll be forced to deny it. But, boy howdy, this is in fact the best chicken-fried steak I’ve ever eaten.”
Dad held a huge chunk of battered meat aloft on his fork. “Told you so.”
Josh, too, was digging into his steak, apparently feeling better now.
Nick ate another bite. “What’s your secret, Mrs. Holloway?”
“That’s for me to know,” my mother replied saucily, “and nobody else to ever find out.”
I knew what her secret ingredients were—lemon pepper, buttermilk, and a tiny spoonful of finely chopped fresh jalapeño. But I wasn’t about to share that information. Mom would disown me if I ever revealed what she put in her batter.
After we’d eaten lunch and followed it with big slabs of blueberry pie, we packed up our meager things and headed out to Josh’s car. Nick had changed back into his own shirt. The bloodstain had come out. I wasn’t surprised. My mother could do just about anything.
Mom and Dad each gave me a hug.
“Come back soon,” Mom said. “You can help me with the canning.”
“I’m busy that weekend,” I replied.
She shot me a pointed look. “I didn’t say when I planned to do it.”
“Oh. Right.” I hated canning and my mother knew it. While I respected her domestic skills, I’d inherited none of them. Slaving away in a hot kitchen wasn’t my idea of fun, even if it would provide an opportunity to spend time with Mom. If we wanted to engage in a female bonding ritual, I’d rather go shopping for antiques or get our nails done. “How about we drive into Jefferson some weekend?” I suggested instead. “Maybe have lunch at the tea room?”
“You’re
on.” She gave me a kiss on the cheek before raising a hand to wave good-bye to Nick and Josh. “Y’all take care, now.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Reunited
The ride home was uneventful. I sat in the backseat, staring out the window, trying to sort through my feelings, figure out what I should do. It wasn’t easy to think straight with Nick sitting three feet away in the front seat. If I was ever going to work through this mess, I needed to put some distance between us so that I could think rationally and reasonably. This close, it was too easy to be influenced by his roguish grin and those whiskey-colored eyes and that crisp, clean smell of soap that, ironically, made me want to do very dirty things to him.
But should I even be trying to think rationally and reasonably? Attraction wasn’t about logic, was it? It was about feelings, emotions. Maybe I should be listening to my heart rather than my head. Problem was, my heart was just as confused as my head.
Josh dropped me and Nick back at the office parking lot where we’d left our cars the day before.
“See you Monday,” he called before motoring off.
Nick and I were alone again. I felt I should say something, but what? I was at an emotional impasse. My relationship with Nick was in limbo.
“Still on for dinner at my mother’s tomorrow?” he asked.
How could I back out now? It would be rude. Besides, the dinner would be her way of thanking me for bringing her son back from Mexico, nothing more. It wasn’t a date.
“Sure,” I said.
He rattled off the address and I entered it into my cell phone’s notation app.
“See you tomorrow.” He turned and headed for his truck.
“Yeah. See ya.” I climbed into my car, closed the door, and rested my forehead on the steering wheel, my eyes closed. I was tempted to start the engine and drive far away, away from all of this turmoil. I could start a new life somewhere else. Like Boise. Or Walla Walla.
But, no. I couldn’t do that. I’d be leaving two great guys behind, one of whom I could very well be happy with. Which one, though, I wasn’t sure. Besides, Tara Holloway didn’t run away from her problems. She confronted them, worked through them, resolved them.
