Death, Taxes, and Extra-Hold Hairspray

by Diane Kelly

  Ross and I headed down the hall to the elevator, making small talk about his kids, my cats, the cold spell we were having. Yep, the temperatures had hovered in the low nineties the past few days. We Texans feared frostbite from this prolonged cold spell.

  We pushed open the double front doors and stepped outside. There, on the steps, stood a woman in a black suit and high-heeled pumps. Though she faced away from me, I’d recognize that butterscotch-colored hair anywhere, even if it was uncharacteristically pulled back into a tight bun. Trish LeGrande.

  Trish normally wore casual clothes on her job, so I wasn’t sure why she wore a business suit today. She waved a hand when she noticed me coming out the door and clacked across the concrete steps in her stilettos, a cameraman jogging along behind her. Three other reporters noticed Trish coming my way and began making a beeline for me, too.

  WTF?

  “May I have a word with you, Agent Holloway?” Trish said in her typical girlie, breathless fashion. She shoved her microphone in my face, practically knocking out my front tooth.

  “About what?” I asked.

  “About the Ark case. Pastor Noah Fischer?”

  How did these reporters know about the case? Nothing had yet been filed with the court. Then again, there was always a rookie reporter or two hanging out at the jails, hoping to be the first to catch the arrest of a serial killer or celebrity.

  The other reporters had reached us and now four microphones were shoved in my face. Looked like the extra-hold hairspray wasn’t the only sticky situation I’d face today.

  Ross looked my way and gave a small shake of his head, telling me to keep my mouth shut.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t discuss confidential taxpayer information or pending cases.”

  Trish put the microphone back to her own frosty pink lips now. “So you’re refusing to tell us anything, Agent Holloway?”

  The microphone returned to my chin. “I’m not refusing, I just can’t—”

  A dark-haired female reporter elbowed Trish aside, jockeying for position. “The Ark’s attorneys claim this case is the government’s attempt to restrict religious freedom.”

  The Ark’s attorneys are a bunch of dumb asses, I wanted to say. Instead, I gave them, “No comment.” I tried to move to the side, but they moved with me, a mirror image, as if I were an aerobics instructor and they were students in my class. “Excuse me, please.”

  They didn’t excuse me, continuing to block my path.

  “Pastor Fischer says the government is trying to reduce the deficit by wrongfully taxing churches and nonprofits. What do you say to that?”

  So Fischer had taken a preemptive strike and put his own perverse spin on the story, huh? His arguments were ridiculous. The government wouldn’t go after legitimate churches and charities in order to balance the budget. The reason charities and churches were given tax-exempt status in the first place was because they stepped in where government did not, providing services like literacy programs and low-cost health care, protecting children and animals and the homeless. Charities and churches saved the government money by supplementing federal programs. Imposing taxes on these groups would be entirely counterproductive.

  Fischer’s argument made no economic sense. Which probably meant the public, who didn’t understand economics, would fall for it.

  Hook.

  Line.

  And sinker.

  “Any response, Agent Holloway?” the reporter demanded.

  What part of “no comment” did these people not understand? “No comment.”

  I finally managed to get around the group by faking right, then rushing down the stairs to the left. Junior high flag football had taught me some important skills.

  A high-pitched shriek came from behind me, and I glanced back to see Trish falling to her hands and knees. She’d tripped over the last step. Neener-neener. While her cameraman helped her to her feet, the other reporters continued to tail me to the parking lot. With their equipment, though, they couldn’t quite keep up. I managed to hop into my car and start the engine before they could reach me.

  Tires squealing, I floored the gas pedal and drove away, angry and frustrated.

  Still sticky, too.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  That’s News to Me

  After a few deep breaths, I calmed down. I shouldn’t let a few pushy reporters upset me. I was bigger than that, right?

  Sure.

  But they were still stupid, stinky doo-doo heads.

  I made my way slowly through the developing Dallas rush hour gridlock to another wig store. This one had a more limited selection. Nearly all of the wigs were blond and nearly all of them were long. I had a feeling this store didn’t cater so much to women who’d lost their hair as to women who were into sexual role play.

  The drive over had taken nearly an hour, though, so I wasn’t about to return home empty-handed. I chose both a golden-blond bob and a longer dirty-blond model for Lu. If nothing else, they would give her some variety.

  * * *

  I heard the answering machine clicking off as I walked in my door. My home phone began ringing again immediately.

  I tossed the wigs and my purse onto the kitchen counter and picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

  “Tara Holloway?” asked a woman’s voice.

  “Who’s calling, please?” Never admit who you are until you’re sure it’s not a salesman, right?

  “You should be ashamed of yourself!” screamed the woman on the other end. “How dare you go after a man of God!”

  Wow. Word travels fast, huh?

  “You’re not worthy to walk this earth!” she continued. “You’ll get yours in the end!”

  Seriously?

  “Do you mean the end of time?” I retorted. “Or are you referring to my butt? Because suggesting sodomy is downright sinful of you. Pervert!”

  I had to admit, it felt good to let loose. That whole “no comment” business had left me feeling emotionally constipated. I was willing to obey the rules on the job, but this was my personal phone line, in my private home, and this was America and, by God, I was going to exercise my First Amendment right of free speech and let loose all my pent-up anger on these buttheads.

  As my grand finale, I inserted my thumb and index finger in the corners of my mouth and let loose the same shrill, earsplitting whistle I’d used as a girl to round up my brothers from the back forty for dinner.

  THWEEEEET!

  I hung up the phone.

  Earlier I’d felt like Pastor Fischer’s arrest had gone too easily, had been anticlimactic. I supposed I’d asked for this, huh?

  The LED call counter on my answering machine flashed “99.” I had a sneaking suspicion the call count exceeded the two-digit readout, but 99 was as high as the counter could go. I poured myself a full glass of sweet moscato wine, steeled my sphincter, and pushed the play button.

  Most of the messages were similar to the call I’d just taken, but a few used surprisingly un-Christian language. One caller said I deserved a good, hard spanking, while another suggested I should be lynched. I was called a Jezebel, which didn’t seem quite apropos, as well as a she-devil, a minion of Satan, a plain old bitch, and, my personal favorite, Uncle Sam’s whore. I had trouble seeing Uncle Sam as a pimp. Then again, he did wear the bright clothing and funky hat pimps were known for.

  Where did these people come up with this stuff? It was like they were speaking in tongues.

  Religious zealots. Yep, for better or worse there were plenty of them in the Southern Bible Belt. They often had knee-jerk reactions, such as the group who’d gotten up in arms when one of the suburban school districts sought a federal grant to implement an Arabic studies program. Though the program was designed to give students the opportunity to learn about a language and culture with increasing relevance in today’s world, perhaps even give the students a highly marketable job skill given the scarcity of Arabic speakers in the U.S., ultra right-wing parents were sure the program was the di
strict’s attempt to convert their children to Islam. For such a small group they raised a mighty big stink and the program was never implemented. But give these same people a devastating natural disaster like a flood or tornado and they responded with equal fervor, organizing food and clothing drives, providing shelter and comfort to those affected.

  I’d questioned their ways, arrested their pastor. Yep, I’d sure enough asked for trouble. I was beginning to have a better understanding why the other government agencies wimped out on pursuing Pastor Fischer and the Ark, why Lu had sat on this case for years. But frankly, I was more than a little miffed that here I was, taking all kinds of shit, when Nick had virtually stolen the case from me. Some of this shit belonged to him. It wasn’t fair.

  After I listened to all the messages, I went into my living room. Henry lay sprawled on top of the armoire, his eyes at half-mast. I patted his furry head and grabbed the remote to turn on my television. I plopped onto the couch with my wine to watch the six o’clock news. Annie crawled out from under the couch and jumped up into my lap where she turned in a circle twice before settling in.

  The arrest of Noah Fischer was a top story on the evening news, not only locally but nationally. Video footage showed the pastor walking out of jail yesterday. He was flanked by his four attorneys as if they were bodyguards protecting an innocent victim. On screen, Trish asked him about the criminal tax evasion charges.

  Fischer flashed his best angelic smile. “Our Savior was wrongfully persecuted, too,” he replied. “These trumped-up allegations are the government’s attempt at a modern-day crucifixion.” He looked directly into the camera now. “‘Forgive them, for they know not what they do.’”

  Ooh. Them’s fighting words.

  The screen changed to a close-up of my face from earlier today. Compared to Trish, I looked washed out. If I’d known I was going to be on camera I would’ve put on some lipstick.

  My name appeared in white print over a blue banner on the bottom of the screen. IRS Special Agent Tara Holloway. Sheez, why didn’t they just print my address and social security number while they were at it?

  “No comment,” my bare lips said on the TV screen.

  Damn. I appeared annoyed, evasive. Of course I had been annoyed and evasive so it only made sense.

  I picked up the remote and flipped through the channels. There I was. Again, and again, and again.

  No comment.

  No comment.

  No comment.

  My phone rang once more. I tossed back a good chug of wine and picked up the receiver. “Uncle Sam’s Whorehouse,” I said. “She-Devil speaking. And, just for the record, I need no forgiveness for I know exactly what I’m doing.”

  “Tara?” It was Brett. He sounded confused. Understandable. I’d be worried if he actually thought I was making sense. Maybe I was the one speaking in tongues now.

  “Hey, Brett.”

  “Did you say ‘Uncle Sam’s Whorehouse?’”

  “Yep.” Another chug of wine made its way down my throat. “It’s been a hell of a day.”

  I told him all about the arrest of Pastor Fischer the previous day, about Trish and the other reporters accosting me on the front steps of the federal building earlier today.

  “Trish mentioned she was filling in for a reporter who’s on maternity leave,” Brett said. “Funny that her first story involved one of your cases.”

  Funny?

  FUNNY?

  Had Brett gone nuts?

  There was nothing at all funny about the Ark investigation, nothing funny about reporters making me, and the entire federal government, look bad. And there was nothing funny about the fact that my boyfriend seemed to keep tabs on a bosomy cheesecake reporter. “You and Trish best buddies now?”

  “No,” Brett said, his tone wary. “She just happened to mention it last time I saw her at the Habitat house.”

  “Is there something going on between you two?” I was in a totally pissy mood now. Might as well get this subject out in the open.

  “Of course not, Tara.” Brett’s voice was surprised, indignant. But it was a bit tentative, too, wasn’t it?

  “You sure seem chummy.”

  He was quiet a moment. “Where is this coming from?”

  It hit me like the two o’clock freight train from Shreveport. This was coming from the fact that I could be totally crazy about Brett, maybe even be falling in love with the guy, yet still be hopelessly attracted to Nick. Truth be told, if there was some way I could have them both, I’d do it in a heartbeat. And if I could feel this way about two men, what was to prevent Brett from feeling the same way about two women?

  I was in a love triangle. Or, since there were four of us involved, perhaps a rectangle was the more appropriate analogy. But since the connections between the parties were not equally close, that really made it more of a trapezoid or rhombus. Some type of relationship quadrilateral. Hell, I didn’t know. It had been a long time since I’d taken geometry.

  Tears pricked at my eyes. The last few days had been emotionally draining. I’d been angry, aroused, frustrated, worried, horny, and relieved, then angry all over again. My emotions were all over the place, out of control.

  I did a horrible thing then. I betrayed all of womankind by playing the PMS card. “Sorry, Brett. I must be hormonal.” It was no more than a convenient, bullshit excuse, a placeholder in the conversation until I could sort out my feelings. If I could sort out my feelings. Logical things could be sorted. But trying to sort something illogical, like emotions, could prove impossible.

  Time to change the subject. “How was dinner last night?” I closed my eyes and held my fingertips to my lids, forcing the tears to stay in the ducts.

  “Dinner was great. The restaurant had the best peach cobbler I’ve ever tasted. Their chef is incredible. You would’ve loved it.”

  I inquired about Napoleon and Reggie next. Dennis had reported they were doing fine. “I don’t think the dogs even miss me,” Brett said.

  “I’m sure they do,” I said. “I know I do.” Sort of. I’d missed him a whole lot more before this conversation. Now I was just … confused. Normally Brett offered a welcome, calm respite from my crazy world, but tonight he’d only added to my stress level. And he wasn’t even here for me to use his body to work off the stress.

  After we ended the call I unplugged the cord from the jack. Any idiot who tried to call me now wouldn’t be able to get through.

  I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket and dialed Nick. Maybe it was the wrong thing to do, but I couldn’t help myself. Brett had left me feeling alone and abandoned and vulnerable. And the callers had left me feeling royally pissed off.

  “You suck!” I shouted in the phone when Nick answered.

  He was nonplussed. “And this is about…?”

  “I came home to ninety-nine phone messages from people accusing me of being the Antichrist.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.”

  “How did they get your number? Isn’t it unlisted?”

  “Maybe it was written on a bathroom wall.” More than likely it was on the Internet somewhere. Probably a high-school reunion list or the Junior League cookie committee roster. The World Wide Web made it virtually impossible to keep anything secret. Damn Al Gore to hell for inventing the thing.

  Nick’s tone bore concern. “Did any of the callers threaten you?”

  “Not directly,” I said. “They seem to believe God or Satan will give me my due.” I wasn’t sure which would be worse, being smote down or tossed into a lake of fire. Six of one, half a dozen of the other, I guess.

  Nick was quiet a minute. “I don’t like this, Tara.”

  “Really? Because it’s loads of fun for me.” Whoa. I was being superbitchy, wasn’t I? Then again, it was refreshing to feel that I could totally be myself, superbitch or not. With Brett, I tended to be more reserved, on my best behavior. With Nick, though, I felt more free to let loose.

  Nick let my snarky comment slide.
“I don’t trust those kooks. You shouldn’t stay alone tonight.”

  “I’ve got an alarm system.” It was an older system, a basic one that had been installed when my town house was originally constructed years ago. Though it lacked the interior motion sensors common in the more modern systems, it would sound both an audible alarm and send a signal to an offsite monitoring company if any of the exterior windows or doors were breached.

  “The average response time for Dallas PD is twenty minutes,” Nick said. “A lot can happen in twenty minutes.”

  He had a point. It didn’t even take twenty minutes to bake a frozen pizza. And I couldn’t count on my neighbors, either. False alarms were routine in the neighborhood. Nobody paid much attention to the alarms anymore.

  “By the time the security company or police respond to an alarm,” Nick said, “it could be too late. It’s not enough to keep you safe. I’m coming over there.”

  I wasn’t sure it was safe to have Nick here, either. As emotionally confused as I felt I was likely to do something stupid, like boink his brains out. That was a complication I didn’t need. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

  “I didn’t ask what you thought.”

  Damn me again, but my nether regions fluttered. I found his alpha male style to be both titillating and irritating at the same time. What’s a girl to do? I’d just as soon slap him across the face as tackle him to the ground and have my way with him.

  “I’ll be there in half an hour. Call the cops and tell them what’s going on.”

  With that, he was gone.

  And on his way here.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  My Boinkable Bodyguard

  Nick banged on my door. The noise scared Annie and she darted under the couch to hide. My girlie parts whimpered.

  I walked to the door and opened it.

  Nick barged past me, a small black duffel bag hanging from his right shoulder, the handle of a blue dog leash and a cardboard six-pack container of Shiner Bock in his left hand. He’d changed out of his work clothes and wore a pair of faded jeans, tan ropers, and a light blue western shirt, untucked. Damn, but he looked absolutely boinkable. His fluffy golden-haired dog followed him in, tail wagging.