Death, Taxes, and a Satin Garter: A Tara Holloway Novel

by Diane Kelly

  I banged a frustrated fist on the glass. Bam! Bam! Bam! “I know you’re in there!” Wuss. “You’re only making things worse for yourself!”

  Alas, my words failed to prove persuasive. Five minutes and fifty bams later, I gave up.

  My luck was no better at the day spa or the gift store. No doubt Flo had been a busy little beaver, placing calls to all of her under-the-table advertisers, telling them not to cooperate, that as long as they stuck together they could defeat the government. Given that Flo was known as a financial guru, she enjoyed a certain amount of respect and authority. People listened to her. Damn them.

  Having gotten nowhere, I decided to return to my office, where I spent the rest of Wednesday on the phone, placing calls to the businesses Flo had promoted on KCSH. Though I realized I might have better luck going to the businesses in person, there simply wasn’t time for me to go traipsing all over the city and surrounding suburbs. I’d only be able to hit a few businesses during a workday if I went door to door, but by phone I could contact dozens of them. Unfortunately, all I got in return for my efforts was vague answers and outright refusals to speak without an attorney present, all of them reading from Flo’s uniform script. I told them all what I’d told the guy at the paint store, that it could be to their advantage to be among the first to come clean. Unfortunately, it seemed they trusted Flo Cash more than they trusted me.

  * * *

  When the end of the day came, I actually found myself looking forward to my date with Morgan Walker that evening, and not just because it would take me one step closer to nailing him but because today had been a total waste of effort and I could really use a night out and a glass of wine.

  Nick sat on the patchwork quilt that covered my bed as I went through my closet, looking for something to wear.

  I found a cute sundress and stepped out of the closet, holding it up in front of me. “What do you think of this?”

  “Bare shoulders and leg?” He frowned. “I don’t like it. Don’t you have an old feed sack and rubber boots you can wear? Maybe cover it all with a plastic rain poncho?”

  I scoffed, “C’mon. You know I have to make an effort or the guy will realize I’m not legit.”

  “All right,” Nick acquiesced. “Just no heels, no miniskirts, and no lace panties.”

  I ventured back into my closet and found a lightweight white cardigan. Not only would it make Nick happier and keep me warm in the restaurant; it also would hide my bruised elbows. “What if I put this over the sundress?”

  “Better,” he said, though he still didn’t look thrilled.

  Once I was dressed, I went to the bathroom to freshen my makeup and hair. I gave myself a quick spritz with lavender body spray and reached for my lip gloss.

  Nick leaned against the door frame, watching me, his arms crossed over his chest. “Absolutely not.”

  “Why?”

  “’Cause I don’t want this bastard looking at your lips. In fact, if he tries to kiss you good night you should knee him in the groin.”

  “You know I can’t make any promises,” I told Nick. “I’ll offer a cheek if he tries to kiss me, but I’m going to have to play this by ear.”

  “Order a meal with lots of garlic and onion,” Nick said. “Then he won’t want to kiss you. Maybe get some spinach in your teeth.”

  “Ew.” Finished, I stepped over to Nick and reached up to put my arms on his shoulders. “You know you’re the only man for me.”

  He pulled me to him for what I expected would be a hug, but instead he rubbed himself against me.

  I pushed him back. “What the heck are you doing?”

  “Marking you with my scent. Maybe he’ll pick up on it subliminally.”

  Men. Sheesh. “I’m not your property, Nick.”

  “Ouch!” He slapped a hand over his heart. “Way to hurt a guy.”

  “You don’t think you’re my property, do you?”

  “Hell, yeah, I do!” He bent down and nuzzled my neck. “I’m all yours,” he whispered in my ear. “Do with me what you will.”

  “That’ll have to wait.” I squeezed past him and headed toward my stairs. “I’ll call you when it’s over.”

  “Better yet,” he said, “come over. I’ll mark you head to toe.”

  “Go home and take a cold shower,” I suggested, descending the steps.

  He followed after me. “Have a terrible time.”

  I grabbed my purse from the table in the foyer. “Thanks. I’ll do that.”

  chapter seventeen

  My Last First Date

  I arrived at the restaurant ten minutes early, unsure whether to go on inside or wait in the car I’d borrowed from the undercover fleet. I decided to check in with Eddie. I pulled out my phone and sent him a quick text: You here yet? While I was trying my best to be brave, my nerves were nonetheless on edge. I was dealing with a possible black belt here. One swing of his bladed hand and he could break my neck. It was more than a little disconcerting.

  Eddie’s reply came a few seconds later: We’re heading in.

  I sent him a second text: Decide on the director job yet?

  Still thinking it over.

  If it were up to Eddie’s wife, he’d take the job. She’d fallen to pieces when he’d been shot in one of our earlier cases and lived in constant fear he’d be hurt again. I wondered if he’d even told her about the job offer: Does Sandra know?

  His only reply was Sh-h-h.

  So he hadn’t told her. Yet. I knew he would eventually. Eddie was a good man and wouldn’t hide something like this from his wife forever. He was probably just waiting to tell her until after he’d sorted through his feelings on the subject. As for my feelings? I was still conflicted, too. Eddie had been my first partner, the only agent who’d agree to take on the scrawny rookie everyone else had seen as a liability. He’d become my trainer, mentor, and friend. I enjoyed working cases with him, too, and would miss his companionship and smart-ass commentary. Not that I thought those things would end if he became director. But it would be on different terms.

  I pulled down my visor, performed a final makeup check in the mirror, and fluffed my hair. Unnecessary, probably. After all, this guy wouldn’t really care whether I was attractive. He was only after my bank account, not me. Still, it wouldn’t hurt anything if he thought I was cute, right? And after my hitting wall after wall today in the Flo Cash investigation, my ego was bruised. Was it so wrong of me to seek a little boost, even if from a criminal?

  Another text came in from Eddie: He’s waiting in the bar.

  This catfisher might be a crook, but at least he was punctual.

  I climbed out of the car and walked to the doors, waiting as a family with three young children entered the restaurant. I stepped inside behind them. As they made their way to the hostess stand, I scanned the foyer and bar area.

  My eyes met those of Morgan Walker as he spotted me across the way. He sat in the bar, a cocktail glass in front of him. When he realized I matched the photo of Sara Galloway on the dating site, his mouth spread in a broad smile and he stood. I raised a hand to wave and headed toward the bar.

  “Sara, right?” he said, extending a hand.

  “Yep. That’s me.” Nope.

  “It’s great to meet you.”

  It’s great to be one step closer to busting you. I gave his hand a shake. “You, too, Morgan.” Who are you, really?

  Morgan wore a stylish brown dress shirt with contrasting black lapels and epaulets, black pants, and shiny black loafers, a look that managed to be both sophisticated yet fun at the same time. His hair was the same ginger color as in his second round of head shots, his eyes chocolate brown behind the eyeglasses. I looked for the telltale edges of a colored contact lens, but his glasses and the dim lighting in the bar made it impossible for me to tell if he was wearing them. The freckle on his jawline near his left ear was unmistakable, though, marking him as the man who’d presented himself as Jack Smirnoff to Leslie Gleason, Julia Valenzuela, and Nataya Law
an. Despite the fact that he was a con artist, I had to admit that the guy was attractive.

  His gaze flickered to my lips. At first, I took it as a sign that he found me attractive and was already scouting the real estate for a potential kiss later on. But when his gaze lingered a bit too long and his nose crinkled slightly, I realized he was staring at the split on my lip, which had yet to fully heal. He seemed a little disgusted by it. Unfair, really, since I wouldn’t have the damn injury if it weren’t for him. I debated telling him not to worry, that it wasn’t a cold sore or a sign of disease, but then I figured what the hell, let him think I had herpes. I didn’t want the guy trying to kiss me anyway, and he’d be far more interested in my bank balance than my health history anyway.

  He finished off the small amount of amber liquid in his cocktail glass and held out a hand to indicate the hostess stand. I found myself analyzing his movements. Is that hand a lethal weapon?

  “Shall we?” he asked.

  “Sure.”

  We proceeded to the hostess stand, where Morgan requested a table for two. A moment later, a woman approached us with menus in her hand. “Right this way.”

  She led us past Eddie and Sandra, who sat at a table in the center of the room, and stopped at a table in a quiet back corner.

  “This is perfect,” Morgan told her with a winning smile. “Thank you.”

  Nice to the waitstaff, huh? That was a plus. Over the years, I’d dated one or two guys who’d been condescending to our servers. Of course I’d only gone out with those guys the one time. Excessive ego was such a turnoff. Besides, one could never be sure whether an irritated waiter had spit in their dinner.

  When Morgan circled around behind me, I found myself instinctively turning to keep him in my sights. When I realized he only intended to push in my chair, not grab me by the throat, I turned forward and took a seat, hoping my paranoia hadn’t been obvious. I hoped, that if anything, he would only think me awkward.

  He made his way to the other side of the table. After taking his seat, he unwrapped his silverware from the cloth napkin and placed the napkin in his lap. Someone had taught this man good manners. I wondered if he, too, had attended something like Miss Cecily’s Charm School.

  He sat up straight and looked across the table at me. “How has your day been going so far, Sara?”

  I’d put some thought into my character on the way over. I realized that staying as close to the truth as possible would make it easier for me to keep my story straight. “Honestly?” I said to this dishonest man. “People seemed bound and determined to drive me nuts today. I asked several of them for the information I need to get my work done, but they all put me off.”

  He eyed me intently. “So they aren’t respectful of your time and schedule, and that causes you to feel frustrated.”

  Wow. This guy gets it. “Exactly!”

  “Why don’t we get some wine?” he asked with a grin. “I find a glass or two is a good cure for frustration.”

  I offered him a smile in return. “I like the way you think, Morgan.”

  This guy certainly had charisma. If I hadn’t been forewarned about him, I could easily succumb to his charms, just like the other women had.

  The waitress came over and Morgan and I placed orders for wine. I chose a light white, while Morgan went for a red. Normally, drinking on duty would be frowned upon, but I had an undercover persona to maintain here. Sara Galloway was no teetotaler. Bottoms up!

  Once the server left, we reviewed our menus.

  “Everything looks good,” I said. “I’m going to have a hard time deciding.”

  “I’m partial to the mushroom ravioli,” he said. “I think I’ll get that.” Having decided on his dinner, Morgan put his menu down on the table, and, as before, his gaze locked on mine. “So today wasn’t great for you,” he said, “but there must be things you like about running a bookkeeping business or you wouldn’t have done it for so many years.”

  Though he hadn’t phrased his comment as a question, it was clear he was attempting to engage me in conversation. I quickly tried to put myself in the place of my alter ego. If I were actually Sara Galloway, bookkeeper extraordinaire, what would I like about my work?

  “I like being my own boss and setting my own hours,” I told Morgan. “The flexibility is fantastic. And, of course, there are no office politics, though I sometimes get into an argument with my printer when it jams.”

  He responded with a light chuckle.

  “On the flip side,” I added, “working by myself from home can leave me feeling a little lonely and isolated at times. I’m not learning many new things, either. I’m doing the same type of work now that I did when I started the business years ago.”

  “You’d like to grow professionally?”

  He’d offered me the perfect opportunity here to plant my seed of feigned innocence. “I would. I mean, I’m proud that I earned an associate’s degree, and bookkeeping is a good profession. There’s always work and I’ve been fortunate to make a good living at it. But sometimes my clients ask me questions about complex financial matters and I don’t know enough to answer them. It’s made me realize that much of what I do is organizing data. I know where the numbers go in the bookkeeping programs and I’m really good about finding discrepancies and reconciling errors, but that’s it. I’d like to learn more about how finances work so that I can help my clients with business decisions and tax planning.”

  He tilted his head. “Are you thinking of going back to school?”

  I nodded. “Since my schedule is flexible, it wouldn’t be hard for me to go back to college and get an accounting degree, maybe pursue a CPA license.”

  “Sounds like a smart plan, Sara.”

  The waitress arrived with our wine. Morgan thanked her and, once she’d gone, raised his glass to me. “To you and your ambition.”

  I clinked my glass against his and took a sip. “What about you? What do you like and dislike about your job?”

  He leaned toward me across the table, lowering his voice. “Substance abuse isn’t pretty. People use drugs or alcohol to escape their problems, but they only end up making them worse.”

  It seemed an ironic thing for him to say, given that only minutes before he’d suggested wine as a cure for frustration.

  “When a client who’s had some success suffers a relapse,” he continued, “it can be heartbreaking. But when a client finally kicks the habit and gets his or her life back on track, it’s a great feeling to know I helped them get there.”

  Liar. He wasn’t helping anyone get their lives back on track. All he was doing was helping unsuspecting women empty their bank accounts. I fought the urge to toss my glass of wine in his face. Instead, I said, “What a noble profession.”

  Counseling was indeed noble, for those who actually did it. But it crossed my mind at that point that maybe he actually provided therapy services for a living. He’d claimed to be a psychologist earlier, and now he professed to be a substance abuse counselor. The women who came to my office all claimed he was a good listener, and so far I had to agree. He appeared to hang on my every word and asked good follow-up questions. Hm-m …

  There was a flurry of activity to my right as the waitress brought a large bowl of salad and a basket of breadsticks to Eddie and Sandra’s table. Though I cast a glance his way, Eddie didn’t make eye contact, keeping our connection discreet.

  The waitress came to our table next, likewise bringing us a salad and breadsticks, along with plates. Once she’d situated everything on the table, she pulled a pad and pen from her apron. “Are you two ready to order?”

  I smiled up at her. “I have it on good authority that the mushroom ravioli is delicious. I’ll try that.”

  Morgan cut a grin my way before handing his menu to the waitress. “I’ll have the same.”

  The waitress left to turn in our order and my date returned his attention to me. “Your profile mentioned you like cats. The one in your profile pic was adorable.”


  “Thanks. I have two cats, but the other one refuses to be photographed with me.”

  “Tell me about them.”

  “Really?” I picked up the tongs and served myself some salad. “Are you sure you want to get me started? My cats are my babies. I could go on for hours.”

  He smiled. “I happen to like cats, too.”

  I returned the tongs to the bowl and turned it to give him access. “The cat you saw in my profile picture is Anastasia,” I told him. Hey, if I had an alias, my pets should, too, right? “But I sometimes call her Annie, or Anna Banana. She’s skittish, but very sweet. Sleeps next to me every night. I adopted her at a shelter a few years ago along with a male Maine coon. His name is Hank.” I’d come up with that name quick, probably because a Hank Williams Jr. song had been playing on the radio on my drive to the restaurant. I took a sip of my wine. “Hank is arrogant. He thinks I exist solely to serve him.”

  Morgan laughed. “I bet you love him anyway.”

  “With all my heart.” It was true. And pathetic. That furry little jackass had me wrapped around his paw. I pulled out my phone and swiped through my pics until I found one of Henry—Hank—lying on my bed pillow, shedding. “This is him.” I held the phone up to show Morgan.

  “He may be arrogant,” Morgan said, “but he’s handsome, too.”

  “I spend more time brushing his hair than I do my own.”

  As I stashed my phone back in my purse, Morgan said, “You showed me yours. Now I have to show you mine.”

  I cut him a grin. “We are still talking about cats, here, right?” Okay, so I was flirting a little. But that was all part of this charade, right?

  Morgan pulled his phone from his pocket and showed me a photograph of a fluffy orange tabby. “Her name is Marmalade. She was my wife’s cat.”

  He paused a moment, as if waiting for me to respond to the fact that he’d mentioned a wife. He certainly has his shtick down.

  “Wife?” I said, purposefully stiffening like I presumably would have had I not expected to hear this. “You have a wife?”

  “I did.” His voice and expression became solemn now. “She passed away a few months ago from an inoperable brain tumor.”