by Diane Kelly
“I’ve been great.” What a lie, huh? “As for the darts, you might have stood a chance of beating me if you’d been able to stand up straight.”
He chuckled as he released me. “Yea-a-ah. Kind of hard to aim a dart after four beers and two shooters.”
Chloe watched the two of us, her expression impassive. “I need to get going. Sure you can handle this, Jeremy?”
He groaned and threw his head back. “Yes! I can handle printing out some documents.” He looked down at me and draped an arm around my shoulders. “Come with me, old buddy.”
chapter twenty-four
Pour Some Sugar on Me
Jeremy led me down the hall to his office. His space was much smaller and windowless, with cheap, functional, put-it-together-yourself furnishings. Unlike Chloe’s tidy office, Jeremy’s appeared to have been ransacked by monkeys on meth. His desk was covered with colorful drawings of candy wrapper mock-ups, as well as balled-up drafts that had been rejected. Two of the drawers on his filing cabinet hung open, papers sticking out at odd angles, preventing the drawers from closing. A bulletin board behind his desk was covered with photos of a pretty young blond woman and a dark-haired boy who also had the Aberdeen dimple. The boy appeared to be about six years old.
When Jeremy saw me looking, he removed a thumbtack and handed me a photo of himself, the woman, and the boy. “That’s my wife and son. They totally rock!”
“You’re married? And a father?” He’d been such a goofball in college, it was hard to think of him in those grown-up roles.
“I know, right? Who would’ve thought it?” He grinned. “Of course my wife only married me ’cause I knocked her up. Best mistake I ever made.”
Now it was my turn to laugh. “She’s very pretty. And the kid’s a cutie pie.”
Jeremy looked down at the photo and beamed before tacking it back to his board. “So what have you been doing since college? Catch me up.” He had no wing chairs, but he pushed his rolling chair over to me and hopped up onto his desk, crossing his legs to sit Indian-style amid the paper carnage.
I told Jeremy about the years I’d spent at Martin and McGee. “It wasn’t a bad job, but I had a hard time being cooped up in a cubicle.”
“I hear that. So then you became an auditor for the IRS?”
I hesitated a moment, unsure whether I wanted to go into my questionable work history. But looking up at Jeremy, at his friendly, nonjudgmental face, I decided to open up to him. Heck, the guy had made dozens of mistakes himself. He’d understand. I told him about my track record in criminal investigations, about all the attacks I’d endured, about the shooting at Guys & Dolls.
“I heard about the bust at the strip club on the news. Holy shit, that was you?”
“It was me all right.”
“How many people did you shoot in that raid? Ten? Eleven?”
At least he hadn’t accused me of killing anyone. “Four,” I replied. “Three bouncers and the club’s owner.”
Jeremy shook his head slowly. “So they bumped you over to audits?”
“Yep. They don’t trust me with a gun anymore.”
“It could be worse,” he said sympathetically. “My father and Chloe don’t trust me with a stapler.”
I picked up one of his drawings to take a look. “It must be nice being part of the family business.” Especially when the family business was candy.
He hesitated a moment before responding. “Let’s just say it has its ups and downs. Hey, why don’t I show you around?”
“I’d love that.”
We left Jeremy’s office and went back down the hall, passing Chloe’s now-closed door. Dennis Aberdeen was off the phone now and glanced up as Jeremy stopped in his doorway. Now that Dennis was facing us, I could see that he had a white goatee and the same brown eyes as Jeremy and Chloe. Dennis had the Aberdeen dimple, too. He reminded me of Kenny Rogers.
Jeremy took a step into his father’s office and held out his arm to indicate me. “Dad, this is Tara Holloway.”
Mr. Aberdeen rose from behind his desk and stepped around to shake my hand. “Hello there. You’re the auditor from the IRS?”
“That’s right.”
“You’ll have an easy time of it. I’m sure Chloe kept impeccable records.”
I’d figured as much myself. She hadn’t graduated with honors because she cut corners.
Jeremy crooked his arm around my shoulder again and pulled me closer with his elbow. “Tara’s also an old friend of mine and Chloe’s from college.”
Dennis rocked back on his heels, his face softening a touch. “Don’t that beat all.”
“Chloe and I lived in the same dorm freshman year and had several accounting classes together.” Not that Chloe remembered any of that. “Jeremy and I were in Marketing together.”
“Tara beat me at darts once, too,” Jeremy added.
Dennis cut his son a look. “If you’d spent more time in the library and less time at the pubs, you might have managed to graduate.”
The arm Jeremy had wrapped around me stiffened. I was about to point out that I’d spent plenty of time in Austin’s bars and still managed to earn my degree, with honors no less, but I realized that wouldn’t really help Jeremy’s case.
Dennis turned back to me. “Looks like you’ve done well for yourself.”
That was up for debate. Luckily, he didn’t wait for a response.
“Chloe’s been quite a success, too,” Dennis said. “She spent three years working for one of those big CPA firms in Oklahoma City, learning the ropes, before coming back here and taking over as chief financial officer two years ago. She’s a financial whiz, that girl. Made a killing last year in the stock market, even in this economy. She and her husband have a beautiful home in Southlake, two girls, the whole nine yards.” He beamed with pride.
“Jeremy’s son sure is a cutie, too,” I said.
“Can’t argue with you there,” Dennis said. “I only hope that boy will have more sense than his daddy.”
I glanced over at Jeremy, noticing the tightness in his neck and jaw. “Let’s take that tour,” I suggested. I turned back to Dennis. “Nice meeting you.”
We made our way back over the catwalk and down the stairs. Jeremy led me past the vats of delicious-smelling melted chocolate, warning me to be careful of the hot metal. He took me up and down the factory floor, introducing me to the workers, all of whom he knew by name. He snatched candy samples off the conveyer belts as they went by, handing them to me to try.
“I’m not supposed to accept anything from a taxpayer,” I said.
“I’m not offering this candy to Tara Holloway the IRS auditor,” he said. “I’m offering it to Tara Holloway my old college buddy. Besides, you can hardly call me a taxpayer. I haven’t filed a return in five years.” He flashed the dimple to let me know he was joking.
According to the information I’d found in the file and gleaned from some quick research, Cowtown Candy Company had been in business for thirty years. While it had been a relatively small operation for more than two decades, the company had made a major expansion several years ago. The company had also gone organic and acquired its own herd of milk cows. It was then that the company acquired its fleet of bovine-themed delivery trucks. Until that time, the company had primarily sold chocolate truffles and the typical assortment of candies at its boutique stores, located in Fort Worth’s suburban malls. During the expansion, the company added a variety of unique western-themed candies, opened a large ice cream and candy store in the historic Fort Worth stockyards district, and began offering tours of its factory and dairy facility to tourists and schoolchildren alike.
Jeremy handed me a package of Licorice Lassoes. A white label on the package read: Warning! Eating Licorice Lassoes can make you tongue-tied!
“Let me guess,” I said. “You came up with that line?”
Jeremy grinned. “You got me.”
Next he handed me a Happy Hen, a yellow marshmallow chick perched on a trio of color
ful jelly beans in a nest of green-colored coconut. He followed it up with a bag of Pink Piggy Popping Gum, ordinary pink bubble gum formed in the shapes of little pigs. The company also manufactured yellow lemon pellets in a drawstring pouch labeled Chickenfeed. The coup de grace—or should I say poo de grace?—was the Cowtown Cow Patty, an amorphous dome of fudge that came in both plain and walnut varieties.
“Here,” Jeremy said as he handed me a cow patty. “Eat shit.”
Although he also treated me to some of the company’s classic offerings, such as a white chocolate raspberry truffle and a chocolate-covered cherry, I had to admit the more upscale candies lacked personality.
“Want to be my guinea pig?” he asked.
“Guinea pig?”
“My taste tester. I’ve got a new product in development.” He led me through a swinging door into a kitchen where three workers milled about. A large bin of candy corn sat in the middle of the table. On a tray next to the bin sat what appeared to be ears of corn in varying sizes, all made with candy corn.
“What a great idea!” I said. “Who came up with it?”
“I did,” Jeremy said. “All of the new candy concepts were mine.” He handed me a sample of each type. “Try these. Give me your honest opinion.”
The first ear had a nougat center; the second was held together with firm caramel, the final with a crisp, cookie-type core.
“I like the first one best.”
“That was my favorite, too.”
“What else are you working on?”
“A new kind of jelly bean called a Goat Eye.” He pointed to a mock-up on the table. The drawing was of a golden jelly bean bisected horizontally with a thick brown line.
“What flavor is it?”
“Butter rum and root beer,” he said. “It’s a surprisingly good combination.”
We continued on to the packaging department, where the candies were sorted and placed in cowhide-print boxes for shipping. He grabbed a jacket off a peg near the exit door and slid into it. “Come meet the cows.”
We made our way outside into the brisk afternoon. Despite the fact that the sun was shining, the temperature hovered in the mid-forties. I was glad for the warm coat Nick had given me.
Jeremy and I walked across the parking lot and through a gate that led to the barn and pasture. Given that the wind had picked up, the cows had decided to huddle in the heated barn.
Jeremy introduced me to the cows, scratching them behind the ears as he did so. “Ladies, meet Tara. Tara, this is Barbara, Elisabeth, Joy, Sherri, and Whoopi.”
I raised a brow. “Whoopi?”
“I let my son name them. My wife’s a stay-at-home mom. She’s hooked on The View.”
One of the cows nuzzled my hand and I gave her a scratch under the chin. She lowed in gratitude. Moo-o.
Given the small dairy operation, it couldn’t be very cost-effective. “Wouldn’t it be cheaper to buy your milk from a supplier?” I asked.
“It would be less expensive,” Jeremy agreed. “But this way I know the cows are treated right.” He turned to one of the big beasts. “Right, Babs?” He gave the cow a kiss on the nose.
Our tour completed, Jeremy led me back inside. He returned the jacket to the hook, and I followed him back upstairs to his digs at the end of the hall.
“Okay.” He clapped his hands together. “The American people don’t pay taxes to Uncle Sam for you to shoot the shit with old friends, you know. What would you like to see?”
I pulled out the audit notice. “I need to take a look at the expense accounts for utilities, maintenance, raw materials, salaries, phone, mortgage payments—”
Jeremy threw his hands up in surrender. “Okay! Okay! Enough already!” He gestured for me to sit in the rolling chair, stepped behind it, and called out, “Vroom-vroom!” as he steered me in a fast, roundabout course ending behind his desk. He picked up a few of his sketches-in-progress, then ran his arm over the desktop, knocking the wadded-up paper balls to the floor. He punched a few keys on his computer keyboard and angled the screen my way. “There. You’ve got full access to the accounting system. Have your way with it. But please, be gentle and don’t forget to call afterward.”
“Thanks.” I set my briefcase on the now-clear desk and opened it, removing a legal pad and a thumb drive. “You okay with me copying the computer files?”
“Why not?” He kicked aside a couple of the paper balls. “I’ll be back in a few. I need to check on a shipment. A dude ranch in Bandera ordered three thousand cow patties. Can you believe it?”
“That’s a shitload.”
He pointed a finger at me. “Now I remember why I liked you.”
After Jeremy headed out, I pulled up the expense files and quickly perused them on the screen. Nothing immediately caught my eye, other than the already-noted fact that some of the costs seemed to have increased significantly from previous years.
I delved a little deeper into the utility accounts, checking to see if there had been a change in providers that might explain the increase. Nope. Cowtown Candy Company had been with the same provider since the expansion. Of course it was possible the rates had increased. I made a note to take a look at the bills.
I took a look at the maintenance costs next, noting they had increased a couple of years ago when an outside janitorial firm was hired. The bills seemed a bit high to me, over eighty thousand a year, but the building was large and I supposed it wasn’t easy to clean floors made sticky with sugar. If the bill also included mucking the barn, eighty grand was a steal.
The largest increase in expenses was manufacturing. Although sales had increased by leaps and bounds over the past few years, the increase in profits had been more than eaten up by increased costs for raw materials such as cocoa, sugar, nuts, and Red Dye No. 3. The increase could likely be explained by the company’s decision to use only more expensive organic ingredients, but I’d need to verify if such was the case.
The salaries account had increased quite a bit, too, though the reason for the increase was immediately obvious. They’d added three new members to their sales staff, all of whom were paid generous salaries. The increase in sales required increased production, which necessitated more factory staff, too.
Looking over the salary data got me wondering. How much was Chloe paid? Although auditors weren’t supposed to dig through taxpayers’ accounts willy-nilly and I would have no grounds for reviewing her personal tax return, there was nothing to prevent me from accessing her salary information as part of the audit. In fact, I’d be remiss if I didn’t do a thorough analysis, right? I owed it to Uncle Sam, to honest taxpayers.
Aw, who was I trying to fool.
I was being nosey.
I ran through the list of subaccounts labeled with each employee’s name until I found the one for Chloe Aberdeen-Jennings. I clicked on the account.
Holy guacamole!
Chloe was pulling down just over ten grand in each of her twice-monthly paychecks. Only five years post-college and she was earning a quarter-million dollars a year. She wasn’t just one step ahead of me now. She’d leapfrogged me and reached a level of financial success I’d likely never achieve. Not that success should necessarily be measured in dollars. Still, it stung. I’d been paid a respectable amount as a special agent, but nowhere near $250K annually. And I hadn’t been sitting on my ass in a cushy chair in a cushy office in a cushy candy company. I’d been out fighting bad guys, putting my safety and life on the line.
Tempted to put my fist through the computer screen, I backed out of the account. Just below Chloe’s name were salary accounts for Dennis and Jeremy Aberdeen. Curious, I clicked on those.
Dennis earned less than half as much as Chloe, only $110 grand as chief executive officer, and a large part of his salary was paid in the form of a bonus based on net profits. Hm-m. The situation smacked of income shifting, a way for Dennis to reallocate income that should be his to another family member. Income shifting was always a potential issue in family-
owned businesses, where older family members who no longer had the need for a high income and might have fewer itemized deductions to offset their salaries often paid their children excessive amounts. The excess salaries were essentially gifts, though, of course, the families never reported them as such for tax purposes.
Still, I wasn’t sure whether to raise a stink about the issue. If the extra income was a gift, it would be nontaxable to Chloe and potentially taxed to her father. No sense putting a burden on him and giving her a break. Besides, with her husband’s salary and the money they’d made trading stocks she was likely already in the highest tax bracket. Reallocating the funds would only complicate matters and wouldn’t yield any more money for the government coffers.
I exited Dennis’s account and clicked on Jeremy’s. He was paid twenty-five hundred dollars every two weeks, putting his annual salary at sixty-five thousand dollars. Nothing to sneeze at, but nothing to write home about, either. After all, he’d been at the company longer than Chloe and, from what I could see, worked really hard, juggling several roles. While Chloe seemed to be getting a bump up in pay for working at the family business, Jeremy could likely be doing just as well, if not better, elsewhere. He certainly deserved more than a quarter of his sister’s salary. I wondered if he was aware of the disparity. Given his aversion to numbers, maybe he’d never taken a look at the accounting system.
Having poked around sufficiently in the salaries account, I moved on.
The mortgage account had increased quite a bit. Building such a large facility had been costly, of course. But mortgages were normally a set amount each month. Why had their annual totals risen so much? I checked the dates. Sure enough, two payments had been made last December, one seventy-eight-hundred-dollar payment representing the installment due that month, the other seventy-eight hundred dollars a prepayment for January. Nothing unusual about that, especially when personnel might plan to be on vacation over the holidays and would not be in the office when the bill came due at the beginning of January. Just to be thorough, I checked this year’s records.
