Death, Taxes, and a Satin Garter

by Kelly, Diane

  “Flo owns this site?” I said. “You’re sure about that?”

  “She told me about it when we made the trade. She suggested I sign up.”

  I pointed at the bottom tab. “Can you log in and show me your account data?”

  “I suppose there’s no harm in that. In for a penny, in for a pound.”

  Or a Barter Buck.

  Brady did some keyboarding and maneuvering and up popped his account details. His balance showed he had an 8,750BB credit to spend on the barter exchange.

  I gestured toward the screen. “You’ve got a credit balance. Who’d you give beds to?”

  “I can show you the details if you’d like.”

  “That would be great.”

  He clicked on a drop-down menu to delve into his transaction history. The page listed a dozen transactions. Mister Sandman had traded beds to various small, local businesses, including a janitorial service, a jewelry store, and a company that provided freelance tech support. No doubt the owners of those businesses had taken the beds home with them, just like Flo Cash had done. Commingling corporate and personal finances like this was a big no-no.

  “What’s that?” I asked, pointing to a line that read: “TRANSACTION FEE.” The number next to it was also designated in Barter Bucks.

  “That’s the part that goes to Flo Cash,” he said. “She takes a three percent cut on every transaction.”

  And then spends those Barter Bucks on things for herself, no doubt.

  I asked Brady to print out his transaction history, then requested he click on the “ABOUT BARTER” tab. The page discussed the history of barter, noting that early settlers had traded chickens and goats and eggs for things like medical care and fabric and tools. The site went on to say that cash had been invented as a way to make multiparty trades easier. Of course that wasn’t the only reason. Cash wasn’t perishable like eggs, nor did it crap all over your yard like a goat or chicken. Also, cash could be saved in a bank, where it would be safe and earn interest. She neglected to mention these facts, however.

  But what grabbed my attention most was the statement at the bottom of the page: “Off-the-books bartering is a great way to increase your wealth in cash-free, tax-free transactions.”

  The statement was overly broad and misleading. Barter among individuals for personal purposes, such as two mothers trading babysitting services, was indeed nonreportable and nontaxable. But when trades were made in a business context, the situation was different.

  Those running a commercial barter exchange, such as TradingPost.com, were required to report all transactions arranged via the service. Earned Barter Bucks were considered income to the member, just as if the member had sold the products or services for cash. In cases where the amount “earned” by a business in a given year equaled the value of that “spent,” no net taxable income would result. But where the amounts earned exceeded the amount spent in a given year the business would have net income and owe tax.

  What’s more, when personal and business lines were crossed an individual could owe tax even where the things traded were of equal value. In Flo Cash’s case, for instance, she had traded airtime owned by KCSH Radio Corporation not for something that would benefit the station but rather for a bed that she planned to use personally in her home. In cases like that, KCSH would have reportable income equal to the value of the bed received in return for the advertising service. The transfer of the bed to Flo would be treated as compensation paid by KCSH to her. KCSH could take a deduction for the in-kind “payment” to Flo, but it would be required to report the value to Flo on a W-2 along with her salary. Income, Social Security, and Medicare taxes would also apply to the in-kind payment.

  Of course federal taxes weren’t the only taxes at issue here. Just as barter transactions were treated the same as cash transactions by Uncle Sam, they were treated the same for state tax purposes. The Texas Tax Code imposed sales tax on these transactions. The Texas Comptroller of Public Accounts would surely be interested in this barter site.

  “Can you print out this page, too?” I asked Brady.

  He clicked his mouse and the printer fired up.

  Curious how extensive the site was, I pointed to the “SEARCH FOR PRODUCT/SERVICE” tab. “Let’s go there.”

  “You don’t really need me for that, do you?” Brady stood and held out a hand, inviting me to take his chair. “I’ve got customers to tend to. How about I let you play around on the site while I go sell some beds?”

  “Good idea.” I went around his desk and dropped into his chair. As he stepped to his door, I stopped him. “Just one thing, Mr. Brady. You’re going to have some state sales tax issues, too.”

  He looked up and groaned. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “I might be able to help you there,” I said. “I’ve worked with people in the comptroller’s office on other cases. I can’t guarantee anything, but I’d be happy to put in a good word for you, suggest they give you an immunity deal and waive penalties, too.”

  “I’d appreciate that.” He shook his head. “I should’ve known this barter stuff was too good to be true. But Flo Cash is a financial expert. I thought she knew what she was talking about. I trusted her.”

  No doubt the others involved in TradingPost.com did, too. They had no idea they were actually dealing with a modern-day snake oil salesman.

  As he left the office to return to the sales floor, I clicked on the tab. What product or service should I search for? Hm-m … How about exterminators? I typed in “exterminator” in the search box. Sure enough, Cowtown Critter Control, the service that had provided the termite treatment at Flo’s house, popped up as one of the options. Next I tried “chiropractor.” Yep, Dr. Keele had listed his services on the site, too. I even found a listing for Szechuan Express, the Chinese restaurant that had delivered to the radio station. My mind flickered back to the fortune cookie. The empty vessel makes the loudest sound. Seriously, what does that mean?

  I spent several minutes reviewing the offerings. They were extensive and varied, including everything from acupuncture to medical supplies to Zen gardens. Heck, virtually anything a person might need on any given day was listed on the site. No wonder Flo had been able to survive on such a small salary. With a barter network like this, who needed cash?

  When I’d finished looking over the listings, I opened another search tab to verify that Flo Cash owned the Web site. Unfortunately, she’d paid extra for the privacy option. The domain was listed only in the name of the company from which she’d purchased it.

  I painstakingly perused the site, page by page, printing them out for evidence. All kinds of people and businesses had listed things on the site, some noting as well the specific things they were looking to trade for. A dentist offered to exchange dental cleanings for maid service at his home. A tree-trimming service offered to keep power lines clear of limbs and branches. A mechanic agreed to trade oil changes and engine work for a date to his high school reunion. And, of course, an unnamed local radio station offered on-air promotion.

  When I finished, I gathered the tall stack of printouts from the tray and stashed them in my briefcase.

  You made your bed, Flo Cash. Now you’re going to lie in it.

  chapter twenty-three

  Bachelorette Bash

  I was wakened around ten Saturday morning when a ting sounded from my bedside table, where three cell phones lay charging. My personal cell. My government-issued phone. And the burner phone that belonged to my alter ego, Sara Galloway.

  I rubbed my eyes, sat up, and looked at the table to determine which phone was active. A text had come in on Sara Galloway’s cell.

  Hi, Sara. It’s Morgan. Hope you are doing well! I’ve been thinking a lot about you. I admire you for running your own business. You’ve got me thinking that maybe I should open an independent counseling practice when I move to Dallas. What do you think makes you so successful?

  Clearly, he was trying to both flatter me and get me to open up. I ha
d to give him credit that he’d picked up on the importance of Sara Galloway’s career to her. That was something Sara and I had in common. But I wished he’d have let Sara sleep in. Another thing Sara and I had in common was that we liked to sleep late on the weekends. So did Sara’s cat Anastasia/my cat Anne. She yawned, stretched out a paw, and turned over, curling into a ball and covering her eyes to shut out the sunlight. I felt like doing the same. But instead I wrote a reply, revising it several times before sending it.

  It’s simple, really. I think success in business requires really listening to your client’s needs. You already know how to do that.:) It also requires some marketing savvy. And honesty. Deliver what you promise.

  Yeah. Like don’t try to pass yourself off as a straight man seeking a real relationship with a woman when you’re actually a gay con artist only looking for victims. I sent the text. A reply came only minutes later.

  I believe in honesty, too. And as long as I’m being honest, I should tell you that you looked very pretty the other night.

  He’d probably have called me pretty even if I’d worn the rubber boots, feed sack, and rain poncho Nick had suggested.

  That’s sweet of you to say. How’s Marmalade?

  He came back with: She’s as spoiled as ever.

  Another smart ploy on his part. A cat lover like me would be impressed by a guy who treated his cat well. I’d bet dollars to donuts—make that Barter Bucks to Doo-Wop Donuts—that his furry feline was fictitious. Are you on a break from work? I wrote back.

  Patient running late, he texted back. Oh, she’s here now. Talk later?

  I had a busy day planned, getting ready for the evening’s festivities. How about tomorrow evening? 8:00ish?

  He ended our exchange with: Sounds good. I’ll call then.

  * * *

  All day long, Alicia pestered me for details about the bachelorette party. “Where are we going? What are we doing? How are we getting there?”

  I gave her no answers, only a coy smile. “You’ll see, bride-to-be.”

  Tonight, Alicia would enjoy a final night of debauchery before she tied the knot two weeks from tomorrow. Alicia had extended family coming in a week early for the wedding and didn’t want to risk looking green and hung over in her wedding photos, so we’d scheduled the party early when we could celebrate with no worries.

  Around six, the doorbell began to ring with friends arriving for the bachelorette party, gift bags and boxes in tow. Coworkers from Martin & McGee. A couple old friends from college who worked in other industries in the Dallas area. Alicia’s snooty cousin Melody, a constant complainer but someone I’d been forced to invite as a courtesy. Also along for the fun tonight was Christina Marquez, the Latina bombshell and DEA agent I’d worked with on several cases, the one who was engaged to Dr. Ajay. Christina and I had become good friends and, through me, she and Alicia had become friends, too.

  The usual pleasantries were exchanged.

  “Welcome!”

  “Cute shoes!”

  “Your hair looks great!”

  In return, everyone was handed a glass of peach sangria to start off the night.

  As soon as everyone had arrived, I reached into a bag from the party store and pulled out a white sash trimmed in silver glitter. The sash read: “BRIDE-TO-BE.” I draped it over Alicia’s shoulders. I reached into the bag and pulled out a tiara with a long train of white netting attached. “Your crown, m’lady.” Christina helped me situate it on Alicia’s head.

  “Now that you’re properly attired,” I said, “it’s time for some improper attire.”

  “Uh-oh!” Alicia said. “That sounds naughty!”

  I directed Alicia to her bridal “throne,” a chair in my living room, over which soared a half-dozen white and silver balloons. “Here you go!” I called, patting the seat. “Your special spot.”

  Once she was seated, I handed her my bag first and took a seat on the couch next to Christina.

  Alicia pulled the bag up onto her lap and looked down at it. “I’m afraid!”

  “You should be!” Christina cried, laughing and chugging back her sangria.

  Alicia pulled out the paper and tossed it to the floor, where Anne promptly pounced on it. Alicia reached into the bag and pulled out a black crotch-less see-through teddy, a whip, and a pair of handcuffs. “Daniel’s going to love this!”

  While the rest of us whooped it up, snooty Melody, who sat on the other side of Christina, turned up her nose. “I guess that’s okay, if you want to look cheap.”

  Every party needs a pooper, right?

  Christina gave Melody a not-so-soft nudge with her elbow. “Lighten up, Mel! It’s a party!”

  While Melody scowled, the rest of us raised our glasses in solidarity and whooped again.

  Alicia moved on to the next gift, which contained an assortment of scented massage oils. Sandalwood. Musk. Brown sugar vanilla. “Fun!”

  Christina’s gift was next. “Ajay helped me pick it out.”

  Alicia tore the paper off the rectangular gift. “The Kama Sutra!”

  Christina grinned. “I’ve dog-eared some of the pages for you.”

  Melody picked up an oversized box from the coffee table and thrust it at her cousin. “Open mine next.”

  Alicia set the book aside, took the box from her cousin, and tore off the wrap. She lifted the lid to find a white ankle-length robe and a pair of long-sleeved, high-necked pajamas in a pale-yellow hue. Could sleepwear be any more boring?

  Christina leaned my way and whispered, “Is frigidity contagious?”

  By the time Alicia had finished opening her gifts, she’d accumulated five pairs of sexy thong panties, three nighties, a pair of high-heeled satin slippers, the massage oil, some kind of sex toy that none of us really knew what to do with, and my teddy, whip, and handcuffs.

  “Thanks, everyone!” Alicia cried. “Y’all are the best!”

  A knock-knock-knock sounded from my front door. I went to the door and opened it. A handsome man in a black suit and hat stood on my porch.

  Alicia took one look and squealed. “Is he a stripper?”

  The guy chuckled. “Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m just the limo driver.”

  Alicia squealed a second time. “We’ve got a limo?”

  I sent a smile her way. “Only the best for my bestie!” I knew Alicia would enjoy being chauffeured around the city in a shiny stretch limo. Even so, part of my reason for hiring a limo was admittedly selfish. No way did I want to be a designated driver tonight.

  Once we’d all settled into the white limo and I’d poured everyone a glass of pink champagne from the car’s mini-fridge, I reached into my purse and pulled out the padded envelope full of the sexy lace garters. “Party favors!” I called, retrieving one from the envelope and twirling it on my index finger.

  Alicia grabbed it from me. “That’s the sexy garter we saw online!”

  “Yep. I’ve got one for everybody.”

  “I love it!” Alicia said, sliding hers up her leg and letting it show just below the hem of her miniskirt.

  I passed them around and soon all of us were wearing garters, guzzling champagne, and dancing in our seats as the speakers blared Katy Perry’s latest party tune.

  Our first stop was Alicia’s favorite restaurant downtown, where we stuffed ourselves silly and polished off five bottles of chardonnay. Next, we spent a couple of hours at a noisy, crowded dance club. As Christina and I waited at the bar for drinks, my gaze ran over the display of bottles behind the bar. There was the usual Tanqueray gin. Bacardi rum. Grey Goose and Smirnoff vodkas. Captain Morgan rum. Jack Daniel’s Tennessee Whiskey. Johnnie Walker Black Label. Wait a second—

  Naturally, the name Smirnoff had brought vodka to mind. But Jack, Morgan, and Walker were more common names used in liquors, too. Had the catfisher devised all of his aliases from brands of spirits? Right in front of me was eighty-proof proof. But did it mean anything? Maybe he worked in a liquor store.

  I had no time
to finish pondering the question before the bartender handed me three sugar-rimmed lemon drop martinis. One for Christina, one for me, and one for the bride-to-be. “Thanks!” I hollered over the music.

  An hour later, when we’d danced enough to build up a sweat and drunk enough to build up our nerve, we headed back out to the limo.

  “Where now?” asked the driver.

  I threw a fist in the air. “LaBare!”

  My proclamation was followed by hoots and hollers from the gaggle of girls around me. Even Melody had taken Christina’s advice to lighten up and sent up a, “Woot-woot!”

  We piled back into the car for the short drive. Minutes later, the limo pulled up in front of LaBare and filled with the giggles and shrieks of half-drunk women. The driver came around to open the doors, a smile on his face as we paraded past him on our way out of the car. “You ladies have fun.”

  “We will!” Alicia cried, giving the guy a high five.

  Inside, the club was dark with flashing lights and loud music with a throbbing bass line. A male dancer with a waxed chest and a white lab coat moved around the stage, swinging a blood pressure device. He might not have a real medical license, but he definitely knew how to operate and he had our blood pressure rocketing to near stroke levels.

  Alicia glanced up at the stage and turned back to me, wobbling a little in her heels. “I think I need a checkup!”

  We found an empty table alongside the stage. I reached into my purse, this time pulling out a big stack of assorted bills and holding them up. “Table dances on me!”

  As far as what took place the rest of the night, I plead the Fifth. Suffice it to say it involved many glasses of liquor, a leather G-string, and a dancer named Fiero. I wonder if I could convince Nick to get flames tattooed up his arm.…

  We closed the place down at 2:00 AM, and the limo driver dropped us off at my place shortly thereafter. As the last of us exited the vehicle, he gave the group a knowing look and smile. “You ladies sure know how to have fun. But don’t worry. I’ll keep your secrets.”

  I gave him a huge tip. “Thanks for putting up with us all night.”