Death, Taxes, and a Shotgun Wedding

by Diane Kelly

  The page noted the name of the club in Shreveport where she danced. It also noted that she was available to dance at “private parties” for “negotiable rates.”

  I sat back in my chair and pondered things for a moment. Had losing Noah Fischer’s consistent patronage been an issue for her? The woman oozed sex and was surely a favorite at the club where she danced. But strippers had a short shelf life. Dancing topless was for the young and nubile. Maybe she’d hoped to get more money out of Fischer and get out of the game. Maybe I’d ruined her plans by throwing her benefactor in the klink. And maybe now she sought to ruin my plans, too. Then again, maybe this was too many maybes.

  I logged out of the social media sites and finished looking over the records in Teacher’s Pet’s computer files. By matching the tutoring schedule to the payment records, I discerned that the owner had received at least twenty grand in unreported cash income each year she’d been in business. I calculated the taxes due, tacked on interest and penalties, and prepared a formal notice demanding payment. I phoned her to let her know the assessment was on its way. If she failed to comply, we’d seize her other assets and carry her cheating ass off to jail. Of course I worded that information much more professionally.

  “We expect you to promptly arrange to make payment,” I said. “If you fail to do so, the next step is incarceration. Your personal and business assets would also be forfeited.”

  “What about my computers?” she demanded.

  “You can also come by our office any weekday between eight-thirty and five o’clock to pick them up.”

  She scoffed and snapped, “You took them out of my office. You should bring them back.”

  “And you should’ve paid your taxes,” I snapped right back. So much for trying to maintain my professionalism. This woman was getting on my last nerve. “If you don’t pick them up in thirty days, we’ll turn them over to impound. Your choice.” I hung up the phone before she could respond. Neener-neener.

  Nick looked up from behind his desk across the hall, his brows drawn. I suppose I had sounded a little testy, hadn’t I? But I couldn’t help it. I had a death threat hanging over me, a rental-fraud case I couldn’t seem to solve, and no nookie to relieve my stress.

  “Want to drive out to August Buchmeyer’s place with me?” I called to Nick. His court case had concluded. Luckily, the jury had come back with a quick conviction.

  “Buchmeyer?” Nick said. “That kook?”

  “Yeah. He’s my last suspect in the area.”

  Nick stood from his desk. “I suppose we might as well. I have my doubts he’s behind the death threats, but you never know.”

  I had my doubts, too. But I couldn’t just sit here and do nothing. It wasn’t in my nature. Besides, the Buchmeyers lived out in the boonies. It would give me and Nick a chance to spend some time together.

  We chatted and sang along to the radio as we maneuvered out of downtown, through the suburbs, and ventured into the countryside.

  “Here it is,” I said as we approached the gate that led onto the Buchmeyers’ property.

  Nick slowed again. A plywood sign lay in the shallow ditch next to the gravel drive. The sign, which had once proudly graced the barbed-wire fence, read PROPERTY OF THE LONE STAR NATION. TRESPASSERS WILL BE VIOLATED. A cockeyed, weather-beaten blue trailer rested in a thick patch of weeds inside the gate, an enormous, outdated satellite dish standing between it and a half-dead mesquite tree. Buchmeyer’s ancient two-tone brown pickup was parked on the packed-dirt driveway. The rusted tractors, horse trailer, and trampoline that had littered the yard when we came out before were now gone, as were the sounds of clucking chickens and the stench of bird poop from the long metal buildings farther back on the property. Looked like they’d shut down their chicken operation. The Burnet flag remained, though its azure-blue background and single gold star were faded now. The flag, the last one flown over Texas when it was still an independent country, hung limp and lifeless as if it had accepted its defeat, the breeze not even bothering to pick it up. The two coonhounds we’d seen here last year were still around, lounging in the shade under the pickup.

  The cheap metal gate had a chain on it to keep it closed, but no lock this time. I hopped out and opened the gate, closing it again after Nick had driven through. I climbed back in the car and rode the short distance to the trailer.

  Betty Buchmeyer, August’s wife, met us at the door. “What are you two doing back here? Didn’t you cause us enough problems last year?”

  When we’d come out before, we’d found a stockpile of Spam, canned beans, toilet paper, and guns and ammo in one of the barns on-site. Tents and survival gear as well. The stash had been seized to cover taxes due on the couple’s chicken-ranching operations. Needless to say, the Buchmeyers had been none too happy to see the government take off with their supplies and weapons. But, heck. They’d left us no choice. They’d not only failed to file or pay their taxes for years on end, but they’d also refused to respond to the many notices they’d been sent. Had they been reasonable, they could have worked something out. Besides, there was no telling what they’d planned to do with all those guns. They’d stockpiled enough weaponry and ammunition to fight the Civil War all over again.

  I looked up at the woman. “I got your card.”

  She frowned. “What card?”

  “The one you sent to my office.”

  “Why on earth would I send you a card?”

  I decided not to beat around the bush. “To threaten my life.”

  She rolled her rheumy eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself. You’re not worth the trouble.”

  “Oh, yeah?” I went up the steps. “Your husband got anything to say about that?”

  She snorted. “Why don’t you come in and ask him?” She opened the door wide and stepped back to allow us inside.

  We walked in to find August on the couch. He looked up at me and Nick. “Why, hello there!” he said happily. “Grab a beer and join me. Can you believe what they’re saying about Nixon? Think he’ll get the boot?”

  It was clear that even though August Buchmeyer was still here, he was no longer all there. Heck, I was pretty sure he hadn’t been all there last year, either.

  I turned to Betty. “We’ll go now. Sorry to have bothered you.”

  Her face and voice softened. “Sure you can’t stay for a few minutes? Sometimes, when he’s talking to people, he…” She seemed to be searching for the right word. “He comes back.”

  No matter how loony her husband had been, it was clear she missed the man he once was. While I couldn’t understand the life choices the Buchmeyers had made, I could understand that kind of love and devotion.

  Nick and I grabbed chairs from the kitchen table and pulled them over. Nick turned to August. “My guess is that Nixon will resign before they impeach him. That would be the smart thing to do, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I suppose so,” August said. “If it were me, though, I’d put up a fight.”

  I fought a smile. “I have no doubt you would.”

  August waved a gnarled hand and started to say something, but he eyed us again, his gaze narrowed. “Hold on. Ain’t you two from the government?”

  “He’s back,” Betty said, a smile on her face. “You better get on out of here.”

  Nick and I bade them good-bye and hightailed it out the door.

  “You’re lucky I ain’t got my gun on me!” August shouted after us. “I’d put some buckshot in your ass!”

  I had no doubt about that, either.

  * * *

  A little after four, the woman who owned the property Johnny Brewster had shown me finally called me back. She and her husband had been out of town visiting their grandchildren and had just received my message.

  “Nothing to worry about,” I told her. “I’m investigating a rental scam but I was able to discern that your leasing agent isn’t involved.”

  “Thank goodness!” she said. “When I got your message, I was worried.”

&nbs
p; I could only hope that renters in the Dallas area had seen Will’s report on the news and knew to be wary of sign-now situations.

  Detective Booth phoned me a few minutes later. “I heard from Amber. She says she’s innocent.”

  No surprise there. “Were you able to verify her whereabouts the night the silver car followed me?”

  “Not definitively. She works from home and claims she was home all day with her car in the garage.”

  In other words, she may or may not be telling the truth. Still, I was inclined to believe her. She’d seemed far more upset at Noah Fischer for his betrayal than she’d been at law enforcement for taking him down.

  “Thanks for letting me know,” I told the detective.

  “Sure. Stay safe now.”

  “I’ll try my damnedest.”

  * * *

  While Will and Eddie stood guard outside our town houses that evening, Nick and I hustled about, packing up the rest of our things for the garage sale and move the next day.

  My nightstand drawer was full of miscellaneous chargers and plugs, but I had no idea what devices they belonged to. Keep or toss? I decided to keep them. We’d have more space in the new house and, with my luck, as soon as I tossed them, I’d come across the appliance or electronic gadget they paired with.

  I stripped the bed and stuffed the sheets, pillows, and spread into a large box, secured it with strapping tape, and scribbled “bedroom #2” on the box. Nick’s bed was bigger and more comfortable, so we planned to use it in the master. I grabbed the clothes from the rack in my closet and carried them out to my car in the garage, draping them across the back seat and, once the seat was loaded, filling the trunk. My shoes tumbled into another box, my towels into another. I would’ve liked to take more time with the packing, but I simply didn’t have it. I’d have to spend more time on the back end, when we unpacked at the new place, but so be it.

  Being less of a pack rat, Nick finished his place before I was through with mine, and he came down to help me. He bent down to clear the cabinet in my bathroom. He took one look inside, grunted, and turned to me. “There’s a dozen half-empty bottles of lotion in here.”

  “I know.” I tended to tire of the same scent and often moved on to a new bottle before finishing an older one.

  He took another look. “You’ve got three different types of lavender.”

  “Yep.” It was my right as a woman.

  “Should I throw them out?”

  “No,” I said. “That would be wasteful.”

  “Do you plan to use them all?” His voice and face were skeptical.

  “Eventually.” I made a rotating motion with my finger. “I’ll circle back to them.”

  “Maybe we should just get rid of them.”

  I cut him a look. “And maybe we should get rid of those fishing lures you haven’t used in a while.”

  Without another word he swept the bottles up in his arm and scooped them into a box.

  When we finished upstairs, we moved on to the kitchen. He picked up my toaster, cleared it of crumbs, and put it in one of the boxes on the counter. He pulled out my pasta maker, which I’d bought on a whim one day when I’d been feeling uncharacteristically domestic. Of course the machine was still in the box, the urge to make noodles from scratch having passed on my drive home from the store when I remembered I had no talent for cooking but great skill at ordering takeout.

  “Should I put this with the stuff for the garage sale?” Nick asked, holding up the box.

  “No. I want to keep it.”

  “You’re never going to use it.”

  This again? “You’re never going to use that home beer-brewing system you bought, either.”

  He raised a shoulder in a one-sided shrug. “Can’t argue with that logic.”

  We finally finished around eleven and sent Will and Eddie home with sincere expressions of gratitude. “I can’t thank you enough.”

  “That’s right,” Eddie agreed, sliding me a sly smile. “But you can babysit for me and Sandra once this whole ordeal is over.”

  “It’s a deal.”

  “Me, too!” Will insisted.

  “You got it.” It was the least I could do.

  * * *

  On Saturday, Nick, Bonnie, and I rose before the sun and drove to my town house to get ready for the garage sale and move. Both Hana and Josh had agreed to be lookouts for us this morning so that Eddie and Will could spend time with their families.

  Hana positioned herself at one end of the block, while Josh parked at the other. Both had their guns at the ready. They had radios, too, so that they could give us a quick warning if need be. Chances were whoever was after me would see the G-rides and realize we had protection, but you never knew what someone might do, especially someone crazy and violent enough to want to kill a person. Bonnie sat sentry at my town house, positioning herself in a lawn chair on my porch, my shotgun discreetly hidden behind the bush but within easy reach. With this many eyes on the area, the event should be safe.

  After we arranged the items in the driveway, we put a sign out on the main thoroughfare just outside the neighborhood, next to the new mailbox that had been installed to replace the one in which I’d deposited our wedding invitations, the one that had been damaged by the pickup. The sun had barely begun to light the morning sky when a car pulled to the curb. It was the first of many, the diehard yard-sale pros who knew you had to arrive early to have the best selection.

  Nick was dickering with a man over the price of a lawnmower when Hana came over the radio. “Two rough-looking women just passed in a Subaru Forester. They slowed when they saw me and seemed to be checking out my car. They’re on their way. I’ll come down, too.”

  “I’ll be in the garage.”

  I used the remote to open the garage door and scurried inside, closing it after me. When the door lacked only a couple of inches from the concrete, I pushed the button again to halt its descent. I crouched down and peered under the door. Close to me were several pairs of feet milling around, but farther back I saw the Subaru. The driver pulled to the curb across the street and two women climbed out. One was tall, thin, and dark-headed. The other was thin, but short, about my height. She had white-blond hair styled in a buzz cut with bangs. They both wore ripped jeans, ankle boots, and tight black T-shirts.

  I pushed the talk button on my radio to get in touch with Hana and Josh. “I see the women. I don’t recognize them. But if they’ve been hired to kill me, I wouldn’t, anyway.”

  Hiring a female hit man would be a smart thing to do. People tended to be much less suspicious of women. In fact, was there even a term “hit woman?” I’d never heard it used. In this day and age of feminism, it seemed like there should be, though. Now that’s an odd thought to have, isn’t it?

  “I’ll hang around until they go,” Hana replied.

  Through the gap, I saw Hana approach on foot. Her Glock was hidden under her loose cotton shirt. She stopped at the edge of the drive and feigned interest in a clock radio.

  The dark-haired woman examined a nightstand that had been passed down from my brother Trace to me years ago when he married and he and his wife bought a new bedroom set. She pulled the drawers in and out to test them. Satisfied that they didn’t stick too badly, she called out to Nick. “Will you take five bucks for this?”

  “How about ten?” Nick said as he stepped over.

  She came back with, “Seven.”

  He replied with, “Sold.”

  He took her cash, tucked it into his pocket, and carried the nightstand to the back of the Subaru, stashing it in the cargo bay for her.

  The other woman negotiated with Bonnie over a couple of DVDs. One minute and three dollars later, she returned to the Subaru, too.

  Once they drove off, I came back out of hiding. Looked like it had been a false alarm. Then again, maybe they realized I wasn’t accessible and simply improvised. I made a mental note to keep an eye out for the two.

  We’d gotten rid of nearly every
thing by the time my brothers arrived at noon. My parents were with them.

  My mother hopped out of my father’s truck the instant it stopped moving and stormed over to me. “Tara!” she scolded. “Why didn’t you tell me someone’s been trying to kill you?”

  I cut my eyes to Trace, who was climbing out of his truck. “You weren’t supposed to tell her.”

  “I didn’t,” he said. “I told my wife and she told Mom.”

  “Thank goodness she did!” Mom put her hands on her hips. “Don’t you ever keep something like this from me and your father again! I have half a mind to put you in time out.”

  “I’m a little too old for time out, Mom.”

  “Maybe so,” my mom retorted. “But if you ever want to taste another one of my pecan pralines you will not keep secrets from me.”

  The mere thought of being deprived of the yummy treats for the rest of my life made my heart sink. “But that would be cruel and unusual punishment!”

  Still scowling, she nonetheless gave me a kiss on the cheek and a tight, warm hug. She gestured around at the few remaining items. A chipped souvenir coffee mug from a long-ago trip to Port Aransas for spring break during college. A pole lamp that refused to stand up straight. A pair of striped kitchen curtains that had faded in the relentless Texas sun. All of which would go into the trash. “How’d y’all do?”

  As Bonnie came over, Nick pulled the wad of cash and coins from his pocket and counted them out. “One hundred thirty-seven dollars and seventy-five cents.”

  “Not bad,” Bonnie said before giving both my mother and father a hug.

  My dad pointed to the house. “We best get busy if we’re going to get everything moved today. It won’t all fit on the trailer at once.”

  While Hana and Josh stayed on lookout duty, the rest of us went inside. While the men took out the large pieces of furniture, we women packed boxes with kitchenware, books, clothing, shoes, and framed pictures, as well as various and sundry knickknacks, tchotchkes, gewgaws, and bric-a-brac. In other words, miscellaneous junk I’d managed to collect over the years.

  We spent the rest of the day moving everything from Nick’s place down the street and my town house to our new home next to Bonnie’s, carefully watching for a tail. Fortunately, we saw none. Whoever was after me appeared to have taken the day off. Or perhaps they were holed up somewhere, planning some particularly heinous and painful way of dispatching me once they had the opportunity. Ugh. There’s a happy thought, huh?