by Diane Kelly
The bare spot Nutty had dug up himself wasn’t big enough so Nick began to dig up the adjacent pea plants, stopping once to rub the back of his sleeve across his eyes. “This dust is getting to me.”
Bonnie and I exchanged glances. Nick wasn’t fooling us.
While Nick dug, I sat on the ground with Nutty, keeping a hand on him as if to maintain a connection that could no longer exist other than in memory.
Bonnie went back into her garage. I heard the tap-tap-tap of a hammer, and she returned a few minutes later with a cross she’d fashioned out of white fence pickets. When Nick finished digging the hole, he picked Nutty up and laid him carefully inside. All three of us knelt down next to the hole and used our hands to gently cover the dog with earth. When we finished, Nick put the pointed end of the picket in the ground and eased the cross down into the dirt. Bonnie offered a short, simple prayer, put her fingers to her lips, then pressed them to the dirt on Nutty’s grave.
Though Bonnie offered us lunch, we declined. None of us felt able to eat under the circumstances. Nick gave his mother a hug and drove me home.
“You gonna be all right?” I asked Nick as he pulled to a stop in my driveway.
“Eventually.” He was quiet a moment. “I’ll call you later. I’m going to take my boat out.”
I didn’t bother pointing out that it was cold and overcast. I don’t think he’d even noticed or that he’d care. He needed to be alone, to grieve, and there was no better place for him to do that than out in the middle of a lake on his bass boat. I wished I could comfort him, but I knew what he needed now was to be alone with his thoughts and his feelings and his memories, to confront his emotions unobserved and thus unrestrained, to let Nutty go in his own way.
I gave Nick a kiss on the cheek, squeezed his hand, and climbed out of the truck. I leaned back in before closing the door. “I loved that stinky old dog,” I said, fresh tears in my eyes.
Nick emitted a sob that he tried to cover with a cough, and forced a soft smile. “Nutty loved you, too. Almost as much as your fried baloney.”
chapter twenty-seven
Shoo Fly, Shoo
I spent the next few days trying to locate Brazos and his Ferrari, tour bus, plane, and boat. I had a sneaking suspicion that we’d never see a signed agreement and I wanted to keep tabs on him so I could swoop in for the kill when next Thursday came. Unfortunately, this task proved daunting.
I monitored the Twitter feeds, routinely checking the hash tag #brazosrivers to see if anyone had posted a sighting. No such luck. All I found was a bunch of chatter about the release of the Buckin’ Bronco Boots ad, discussion about the bullet hole in the Dallas billboard, and chatter about how hot the singer looked on the stallion. I wondered if his fans would think he looked so hot if they realized the stallion was stuffed with poly fill. Kinda hard to get turned on by a guy sitting on an oversized Beanie Baby.
The singer’s Facebook fan page was also devoid of useful information. Instead, there were just hundreds, if not thousands, of posts speculating on his new album and discussing his break from the Boys of the Bayou. Not surprisingly, all of them were one hundred percent behind Brazos’s decision to split from his backup singers and dancers.
Someone named Kirstie had posted: You don’t need the boys, BR. You are all MAN!
From Elizabeth: You’re the star! The Boys were just riding your coattails.
A post by Bree read: Call me, Brazos!!! I’m willing!!!;) (555) 678–2314
Sheesh.
I added my own post. Pay your damn taxes, jackass.
The chances of Brazos actually reading my post were equal to my chances of being crowned Miss Lone Star State, but venting made me feel a little better.
I called Sierra to see if she might be able to offer some suggestions, but she wasn’t much help. If Brazos wasn’t on tour in the bus, he sometimes left it at his parents’ house, or he sometimes took it traveling around the U.S. As for his boat, she said that he’d generally moved the vessel among the larger lakes in Texas, Arkansas, and Oklahoma while on vacation. He’d even taken it down to the gulf coast on occasion. Whether he’d continue that pattern knowing the IRS was now after both him and his assets was anyone’s guess. He might have put the car, bus, and boat in locked storage somewhere, out of sight and out of reach. As for the plane, wherever it was, Brazos usually wasn’t far away. Problem was, the plane was both large enough to go long distances and small enough to land at private airstrips. In other words, Brazos could be just about anywhere.
Argh.
The following Thursday morning came and I’d still received no signed agreement from Brazos nor any contact from his attorney, whoever she was. I tried calling the singer’s cell phone number only to discover the service had been discontinued. Had he lost or broken yet another phone, or was he trying to make it harder for me to track him down? My gut told me it was the latter.
I phoned his parents. They didn’t answer but I left them an emphatic message. “Call me back with Winnie’s new cell phone number immediately or the next time you see your son it will be in jail.”
Okay, so that was probably overstating the case. Even if I arrested Winthrop 7, as I’d come to think of him now, the judge would likely grant him bail and he’d be released in a matter of hours. Still, it couldn’t hurt to give them a sense of urgency.
The last time I’d seen Sierra in person she’d shown me his planner, which revealed his schedule as completely open after the filming of the sausage commercial. I supposed it was possible that Quentin Yarbrough had booked another endorsement deal for the singer since that time. Might as well give the agent a call, right?
After a short wait, his receptionist put me through.
“I need to find Brazos Rivers.” Winnie the Shit was more like it. “Do you know who his attorney is?”
“Sorry,” Yarbrough said. “He’s never given me that information. Brazos tends to share information only when absolutely necessary.”
“Any chance he’s got an upcoming engagement?”
“Let me check.” Yarbrough was quiet for a moment, presumably looking through his file for Rivers. “No,” he said a moment later. “He’s got nothing in the pipes. And if he keeps demanding the moon, that’s not going to change.”
“He’s turned down gigs?”
“Several,” Yarbrough said. “He told me he won’t consider anything less than half a mil from now on.”
What an ego. The guy was popular, sure, but he wasn’t the only fish in the sea. Or should I say the only fish in the river? “If something comes up, please let me know. Okay?”
“You got it.”
Defeated, I rested my forehead on my desk. I’d been an absolute idiot to let Brazos string me along for so long. His plan had worked. He was on hiatus now, purportedly working on new songs for an as-yet-unscheduled tour, and nobody knew where to find him or his assets. It could be weeks before I tracked him down, months even. I wasn’t sure I could handle that type of frustration. Besides, it was only another six weeks until my one-year anniversary with the IRS. Lu would be giving me a performance review, and my raise would be based on her evaluation. The year had been tumultuous up to this point, but overall my work had been successful. I’d put a number of tax cheats behind bars and collected significant sums for the agency. But if I let Brazos Rivers and the tens of millions of dollars he owed fall through the cracks, that failure would overshadow everything else I’d accomplished.
I couldn’t let that happen.
I wouldn’t let that happen.
Brazos was nothing more than an overgrown kid who, despite having traveled the world several times over, was not half as worldly and wise as he considered himself. Nevertheless, that incorrigible kid had bested me up to this point.
After allowing myself to wallow in self-pity for a minute or two, I pulled my head up off the desk, leaving a makeup smudge on my desktop calendar, and grabbed my purse. I doubted Brazos was at his parents’ ranch, but I had to confirm that fact before goin
g to the courthouse and seeking an order to obtain the Merriweathers’ phone records. It was the only way I could think of to track Winthrop 7 down now. Surely the Merriweathers were in touch with their son. If their phone records provided his new cell number we could use triangulation to pinpoint his whereabouts.
A sticky note on Nick’s door advised that he was out of the office for the rest of the day. Looked like I was on my own. Ugh. I was damn tired of making this drive. It was no longer exciting to drive out to the Brazos Bend Ranch. It was a grind.
Two hours later, I pulled up to the gate at the ranch and looked across the field at the luxurious house. There was no tour bus here today. No plane. No Ferrari. There were, however, more stuffed animals left along the fence, including three more teddy bears and, for some unknown reason, a white unicorn with a rainbow-striped horn.
I punched the buzzer on the keypad. Bzzt. There was no response.
I tried it again, holding it down longer. Bzzzzzzzt. Still nothing.
Might as well go for broke, right? Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzt. If the Merriweathers weren’t home, no harm done. If they were home, maybe the long, aneurysm-inducing sound would encourage them to respond to me. When nothing happened, I jabbed at the button multiple times. Bzt. Bzt. Bzt. I then went for a random pattern. Bzzt. Bzt-Bzt. Bzzzzt. Bzt-Bzt-Bzt. Bzzzzzzzzt.
I was beginning to get on my damn nerves, but there was still no reaction from within the house. Was nobody home? Or were Winthrop 6 and Marcella inside, attempting, once again, to avoid me?
I turned my engine off and sat there for a few minutes, my windows down, enjoying the day. It was almost March now, and today there was a hint of spring in the air. Before long, the tulips and hyacinths would be in full bloom.
As I sat there, many things went through my mind. How stupid I’d been to let Brazos manipulate me, to believe the lies that rolled so easily off his tongue. How lucky I was to have Nick in my life. How Nick needed a couple of weeks to grieve, to get over the loss of his beloved Nutty, and then I’d drag him down to the animal shelter to pick out a new dog. That sweet old stinky thing had left a hole in my heart, too. It was about time to refill it.
The sound of a car driving up caught my attention. I turned my head, hoping to see Brazos in the Ferrari. Instead, a white cruiser with the gold and black Palo Pinto County Sheriff’s Department logo pulled up. I raised a hand in greeting, but the deputy at the wheel failed to return the gesture.
As the stocky, white-haired man climbed out of his car, I climbed out of mine. “Hello, there.”
“Whoa, now.” He held up a palm. “Is that a gun on your hip?”
“Yes,” I told him. “I’m with IRS criminal investigations out of Dallas.”
“Dallas IRS?” He cocked his head, pondering my words for a moment. “What’re you doing way out here?”
“Looking for Brazos Rivers. He owes Uncle Sam a dollar or two.” Or three. Or 20 million.
I thought the sheriff might be amused, but the pinched expression on his face told me he was anything but.
He arched his back, stretching. Riding around in the cruiser all day had to be hard on the spine. He turned side to side, his vertebrae giving off a pop-pop-pop. “You got a search warrant?” he asked. “An arrest warrant?”
“No,” I said. Not yet, anyway. “I was hoping to speak with his parents, see if I could get his new cell phone number.”
He cocked his head and squinted his eyes at me. “You sure you’re asking for professional purposes?”
What was this guy accusing me of? Abusing my position to get close to Brazos? Hell, if anything, I’d neglected my duties rather than overstepped my authority. Well, other than that little fence-climbing stunt I’d pulled last time I was out here. That feat of agility had pushed the boundaries.
Rather than answer his insulting question, I said, “Brazos has lied to federal agents. Multiple times. Now he can’t be found. I’m just trying to track him down, is all.”
He dipped his head. “I understand that. I also understand that these folks”—he lifted a chin to indicate the Merriweathers’ house—“have a right to privacy and not to have their land trespassed upon. Unless you’ve got some type of warrant, you’re no different than those stalkers that come out here looking for Brazos.”
My mouth fell open. No better than a stalker? Was this guy shitting me? How dare he treat me like some pesky housefly, shooing me away. I was working here. On official federal government business.
“Let me guess,” I said. “The Merriweathers made a substantial contribution to the sheriff’s reelection campaign and now they’ve got the department in their pocket, officers coming out here at their beck and call to provide personal security services.”
Just as I’d ignored his rude inquiry earlier, he ignored mine. “You best move along now,” he said, resting his hand on the butt of his holstered gun, “or things could get ugly.”
I knew then that it was inevitable. Things would get ugly. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But no doubt about it, before this case was resolved things would get Marilyn Manson ugly. Fugly with a capital F. Totally and undeniably butt ugly.
“All righty then,” I said, pretending to play nice. “You have a good day now.”
The deputy stood there, watching, until I’d driven all the way down the road and turned to head back toward Dallas. The joke was on him, though. I turned around ten minutes later and drove past the ranch again, stopping to snatch the rainbow-horned unicorn for my niece as I headed toward Possum Kingdom Lake. Neener-neener. I’d driven all this way. Might as well see if the River Rat was docked along the lake or out on the water. Too bad I hadn’t brought my long-range rifle. I could put a few holes in the boat, sink the darn thing, and snag Brazos when he swam to shore.
I spent the next four hours circumnavigating the lake, stopping at every public and private marina. I used my field glasses to scan the water. Again my efforts were for naught. There was no sign of Brazos’s boat anywhere.
Where the hell was he? And where had he hidden his car, bus, plane, boat, and tushie?
chapter twenty-eight
A Deal with the Devil
On my drive back to Dallas, I found myself taking an exit into old downtown Grapevine. I had no idea where Brazos was, but Madam Magnolia might. Desperate times called for desperate measures, right?
I’d first met Madam Magnolia, a self-proclaimed “psychic consultant,” when I’d been pursuing a case against a tax preparer who called himself the Tax Wizard. Not only did the Wiz make tax bills disappear by claiming illusory and ridiculous deductions, he performed magic tricks, as well. The Tax Wizard had subleased space from the psychic, occupying the front half of the small storefront while the Madam ran her business from the back. As it turned out, he was more senile than sinister. He’d escaped criminal prosecution and instead eased into the retirement he should have taken years before.
I parked along the curb in front of the building. Madam Magnolia’s space was sandwiched between a women’s clothing store and a cupcake shop. Purple curtains with gold fringe adorned the windows. Her name was spelled out in gold lettering across the glass of the front door. According to the sign propped in the front window, the front half of her space was now home to an aromatherapist operating a business called Uncommon Scents.
I climbed out of my car and went inside, pushing aside the beaded curtain that hung just inside the door. The place had the same aromas of incense and patchouli that I remembered from last time, but now these scents competed with the smells of peppermint, jasmine, vanilla, and lavender. My nose twitched and wiggled involuntarily, experiencing an olfactory overload. I sneezed three times in quick succession before my sinuses gave up the fight and surrendered.
A skinny woman with short blond curls sat at a table, discussing the spiritual, emotional, and health benefits of various essential oils with a boxy redhead. They both looked up at me.
“Hello, there,” said the blonde. “Can I help you?”
“
I’m looking for Madam Magnolia. Is she in?”
The woman glanced at the antique wall clock. “This is her usual meditation time, but if you ring her bell she might be able to see you.” She gestured to a small gold hand bell sitting atop a marble pedestal next to the thick curtain that led back to the psychic’s digs.
I walked over to the pedestal. From behind the curtain, the faint sounds of someone chanting ohmmm met my ears. I picked up the bell and shook it gently. Ting-a-ting-a-ting.
A single green eye peeked out from between the two sections of the curtain that led to Madam Magnolia’s chamber. A hand sporting gaudy, colorful rings on each finger emerged several inches below the eye. The palm turned upward and the index finger crooked twice, inviting me in.
I pushed the curtain aside and stepped into the dark room. The deep purple walls seemed to suck all light from the room. Not that there was much to begin with. The only illumination came from three pillar candles in brass candlesticks situated on a round table in the center of the room.
It took a moment for my eyes to adjust, but once they did I could see the black-haired Madam Magnolia now sitting on the far side of the table, her palms raised in either a trance or a sign of welcome.
“Hello, Tara,” she said. “Please have a seat.”
I slid into the wooden chair that faced her across the tabletop. As I did, my phone bleeped with an incoming text. “Mind if I check my phone?” I asked. “It could be work related.”
She shrugged. “Make it quick.”
“Or you could just tell me who’s calling and why.”
“What do I look like?” she said. “AT and T?”
I pulled my cell from my purse and checked the readout. The text was from Alicia, who must have been having a really bad day. All it said was, How many days until April 15?
I’d respond later. I set my phone down on the table. Nick and Nutty smiled up at me from the screen. Well, Nick smiled anyway. Nutty’s mouth hung open and his tongue lolled out. Guess that was the closest thing a dog had to a smile, huh? Seeing Nutty gave my heart a painful squeeze. I pressed the button to turn off the screen and turned my attention back to the psychic.