3 Death, Taxes, and Extra-Hold Hairspray

by Diane Kelly

  I knelt down to greet the dog. His orange snout bore the telltale white hair of a canine entering his twilight years, his eyes the cloudiness of cataracts. He appeared to be part golden retriever, with some mixed lineage tossed in. I let him sniff my hand and, when he’d become acquainted with me, gave him a two-handed scratch behind the ears. “Hey there, old boy. What’s your name?”

  “Nutty,” Nick replied for the dog.

  “Is that a comment on his character?”

  “No,” Nick said. “It’s short for Sir Nutlicker of Buttmunch.”

  “Ew.” I scrunched my nose and looked up at Nick. “That’s disgusting. What were you thinking?”

  “Give me a break. I was eighteen when I got him.”

  “Guess I can’t fault you too much,” I said, standing. “We’ve got a barn cat back home named Pukey.”

  Nick unclipped the dog’s leash and hung it from the doorknob. “He can’t see too well anymore, but his hearing’s as good as ever. If anyone tries to sneak in here, he’ll let us know.”

  I wasn’t sure the old dog would be much help, but if nothing else maybe an intruder would trip over him.

  Nick slid the duffel off his shoulder and tossed it onto my couch. “I want to hear those messages. Where’s your answering machine?”

  Nick’s half-blind dog stopped in front of the TV, raised his snout in the air, and sniffed, trying to locate the source of the cat scent. Henry stood up from his perch atop the armoire, arched his back, and hissed down at the dog.

  “Mind your manners, Henry,” I admonished my cat as I stepped past. “Nutty’s our guest.”

  I led Nick to the kitchen. He twisted the top off one of the bottles of beer and stowed the rest in the fridge. Nutty toddled in and snuffled around the perimeter of the room, eventually finding Henry and Anne’s food bowl on the mat by the sink. He helped himself to a snack, crunching down the kibble. Henry had climbed down from his perch and sat in the doorway now, a death glare locked on the dog. Nick and I stood at the counter for the next few minutes, Nick sipping his beer, me sipping a second glass of wine, both of us listening to a bunch of ranting lunatics review a litany of my alleged sins.

  When they were done, Nick turned to me. “Uncle Sam’s whore?”

  I raised a palm. “That’s me.”

  “This is bullshit,” Nick said, putting a hand to the back of his neck. “Complete and utter bullshit.”

  “You didn’t get any calls?”

  “Not a one.”

  Not surprising, I guess. His face hadn’t been splattered all over the news and, besides, the guy lived with his mother and didn’t have a landline in his name. He’d done some house hunting since he returned from Mexico, but hadn’t yet found the right place. He didn’t seem to be in a hurry. Having been in forced exile for three years, he was making up for lost time with his mom.

  “I called the police like you said,” I told him. “They’re going to have a patrol come by every hour or so.”

  “Good.” Nick unplugged my answering machine. “I’ll drop this by the district attorney’s office tomorrow. I don’t think any of the messages are threatening enough for them to take action but they should know this is going on.”

  “I’ll call the phone company tomorrow and have the line disconnected, too.” I used my cell phone almost exclusively these days. I couldn’t think of any good reason to keep the landline.

  Nick jerked his head to indicate my living room. “Mind if I turn on the Rangers game?”

  “Suit yourself. I’m going to soak in a bath.”

  A sexy smile spread across his lips. “Want some company?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Some whore you are.”

  “I’ll work on it.”

  Nick reached out and cupped my chin in his hand. I tried not to notice how warm and strong and reassuring his touch felt. He lifted my face, forcing me to look at him, at the worry in his eyes.

  Worry about me.

  His voice was soft now. “You okay, Tara?”

  My eyes began to tear up. I closed them and nodded.

  With Nick there, I was more than okay.

  “Your guest bed still lumpy?”

  “Yep. Sorry.”

  “Darn.”

  He’d stayed at my place the first night after Christina and I smuggled him out of Mexico.

  He’d complained about the mattress then, too, though then his solution had been to climb into my bed with me during the night. Nothing had happened between us. I’d been so exhausted I hadn’t even realized I wasn’t alone until I awoke the next morning and found his warm, muscular body glued to my back, his morning wood giving new meaning to the term “rise and shine.”

  The memory had me feeling warm all over. Better make this bath a cold one.

  Annie summoned all her courage, darted out from under the couch and past Nutty, and trotted up the stairs with me, following me into the bathroom. I turned on the water and dumped a large capful of gardenia-scented bubble bath into the tub. Using the cheap plastic lighter I kept stashed in the drawer, I lit the three scented pillar candles on the countertop. After I undressed, I pulled my hair up in a ponytail, turned off the lights, and eased myself into the hot, steamy water.

  The soft light and warm bath felt so luxurious, so relaxing, I could almost forget about the pushy reporters, about the nasty names those people had called me, about the love rhombus I was involved in.

  But I couldn’t forget about the luscious, brown-haired cowboy on the couch downstairs.

  If those religious zealots ever dared lay a hand on me, they’d be sorry. But I wouldn’t mind a good, hard spanking from Nick.

  Just say the word.

  Ugh.

  When the water grew cold, I climbed out and slipped into my ratty gym shorts and LONGHORN T-shirt. I was tempted to lock the door to my room, to put another barrier between me and Nick to help prevent us from doing something stupid, but I had to leave the door cracked so Henry could get to the litter box if needed.

  God help me if Nick came into my room tonight. Under the circumstances, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to resist him. The guy could be damn irritating, but he seemed to know what I needed and gave it to me willingly. Still, I had to be careful what I took from him.

  I turned on my bedside lamp, climbed under the covers, and picked up a paperback from the nightstand. Hmm. It seemed a little dangerous to read a sensuous romance at the moment, especially when this particular author’s sex scenes were so hot it’s a miracle her books didn’t self-combust. I returned the book to the table and chose the thriller instead. Nothing sexy about a psychopathic hot dog vendor who laced his sauerkraut with cyanide, right? Then again, the book contained a few too many references to foot-long wieners, references which got me wondering whether what Nick had said at the church about being hung like a horse was true.

  Sheez. I was hopeless, huh?

  I turned out the light and snuggled in, Anne lying curled in a ball against my side.

  * * *

  I slept surprisingly well and awoke the next morning with a warm body pressed against my back.

  Nick had done it again, climbed into my bed uninvited, though I’d have to plead the Fifth if asked whether the intrusion was unwelcome. At least he wasn’t spooning me and poking me in the back with a stiffy this time.

  He gave a soft snore, which I found endearing. I lay quietly for a moment, feigning sleep while secretly enjoying the feel of his body pressed against mine.

  He shifted in his sleep, and had apparently turned his head, his warm breath now feathering the back of my neck, sending a sensual shiver down my spine. Lord help me, but I felt my body respond, my nipples hardening, a pleasant tingle erupting lower down.

  He sighed and stretched behind me, apparently waking up. The next thing I knew a warm, wet tongue licked the back of my neck. Mmm. But as good as the sensuous touch felt, he’d taken things too far.

  “Stop, Nick. Please.” I sat up and turned to face him.

&nbs
p; But it wasn’t Nick. It was Nutty.

  Urk! I’d been turned on by a dog!

  There was a knock at my bedroom door and Nick pushed it open. He was dressed in navy pants and socks, his starched white dress shirt buttoned but not yet tucked in.

  I felt a little exposed in my threadbare tee, especially since I wasn’t wearing a bra, but this wasn’t the first time Nick had seen me in my night clothes.

  “Up and at ’em, lazybones.” He bore a cookie sheet loaded with a bowl of Fruity Pebbles and a glass of orange juice. He glanced down at the tray. “I’m not much of a cook.”

  “Good enough for me.” It was the gesture that counted, not the cuisine. My guess was this breakfast was his way of apologizing for taking over my case, for leaving me holding the metaphorical bag with all those callers yesterday.

  I propped my pillow against the brass headboard behind me and pulled the patchwork quilt up to cover my chest.

  “I couldn’t find a tray,” he said, carefully settling the cookie sheet on my lap.

  “This was sweet of you.” It almost made up for the fact that I’d taken all the heat for Noah Fischer’s arrest.

  “Sweet? You best keep your mouth shut, woman. I can’t have word getting out that I’m sweet. It’ll ruin my badass reputation.”

  I gave him a conspiratorial smile. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

  He sat down on the bed next to me, stretching his long legs out in front of him. Nick smelled of the citrus soap I kept in the guest bathroom and his hair was still damp from the shower. I fought the urge to reach out and touch a wet tendril that had curled up behind his ear.

  “Did I hear you talking to Nutty before I came in?” he asked.

  I spooned up some cereal. “Yeah. He licked the back of my neck.”

  “He’s a romantic, like me. I’ve taught him my best moves.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Maybe you should consider getting yourself neutered, too.”

  He chuckled but cut serious eyes my way. “I’m going to stay here another night or two. Until we’re sure none of Fischer’s followers is going to do something crazy.”

  “No need,” I told him. “I think those people are all bark and no bite. Besides, I can stay at Brett’s place.”

  The thought hadn’t occurred to me last night. But I realized now that Brett’s house would be the perfect place for me to hide out temporarily. I knew he wouldn’t mind and I’d have no trouble getting in. I could use the spare key he kept hidden under the birdhouse on his porch.

  Nick slid his legs off the bed and stood, his posture rigid. “All righty then. Sounds like you’ve got it all worked out and don’t need me anymore.”

  I’d thought Nick would be relieved that he could go back home tonight but he seemed insulted, hurt even.

  I climbed out of bed and grabbed his arm as he headed out of the room. “Nick, wait. I need to thank you. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you last night.”

  That little comment seemed to do the trick. His shoulders relaxed. His whiskey eyes bored into mine. “Anytime you need me, Tara, I’m just a phone call away.”

  He chucked my chin and was gone.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  God’s Pep Squad

  I stopped for gas in the morning, eyeing the self-service newspaper stand as my tank filled. Fischer’s arrest was front-page news. The cover bore a full-color close-up of his face under the headline “They Know Not What They Do.” He’d managed to give the photographer his best tolerant-despite-unrighteous-persecution smile. I fought the urge to kick the machine.

  It was ten minutes after nine when I turned onto Commerce Street.

  Holy.

  Moly.

  Not only were there a dozen reporters in front of the federal building today, but there were also at least a hundred people carrying signs, marching back and forth on the sidewalk. Their mouths were moving, but with my Kenny Chesney CD playing I couldn’t hear what they were saying.

  I jabbed the button to turn the music off, grabbed the golden-blond bob wig from the bag on the passenger seat, and plunked the wig on my head. The last thing I needed was these people recognizing me and running into the street, surrounding my car, maybe flipping it over with me in it or setting it on fire. With a full tank of gas it would burst into flame lickety-split. Okay, maybe I was being paranoid, but I didn’t know what these people were capable of. I certainly hadn’t expected this kind of demonstration.

  I put on my Brighton knockoff sunglasses for extra anonymity and drove slowly by. A large wooden cross on wheels had been erected in the center of the sidewalk. Have cross, will travel.

  I took in the slogans scrawled on the signs the protestors carried.

  IRS = INHIBITING RELIGIOUS SERVICE.

  Puh-lease.

  DON’T TAX OUR PROPHETS!

  Okay, even I had to admit that one was clever.

  UNCLE SAM—KEEP YOUR HAND OUT OF OUR COLLECTION PLATE!!!

  I eyed the woman holding that sign, wondering if she was the overzealous congregant who’d called me Uncle Sam’s whore. If the three exclamation points were any indication, I’d say she was. While her mouth screamed the chant, the tight skin on her face screamed plastic surgery.

  Another woman wearing a short skirt with a matching sleeveless sweater put a megaphone to her mouth and yelled, “What do we want?”

  The crowd responded at the top of their lungs. “Religious freedom!”

  “When do we want it?”

  They raised their fists in the air. “Now!”

  This mantra was repeated ad nauseam as my car crept slowly forward in the heavy downtown traffic.

  I rolled my eyes. Nothing we’d done infringed on their right to worship as they pleased. All we’d done was try to make sure their pastor wasn’t using the church as his own private ATM. We were trying to protect the church’s coffers, make sure the money was spent where it should be, on religious programs. Heck, we were trying to keep contributors—and God himself!—from being ripped off.

  But they’d never see it that way. Pastor Fischer had pulled the wool over the eyes of his sheep.

  Oh, dear Lord. I was closer now and recognized the woman with the megaphone. It was Judy Jolly. She’d seemed so sweet last Sunday. Today? Not so much. The benign sock monkey had become a rabid gorilla.

  Judy changed chants now, moving on to, “We’ve got the holy spirit, yes we do, we’ve got the holy spirit, why don’t you?” At the “why don’t you,” the crowd pointed up at the federal building.

  Several Dallas police officers were making their way up the sidewalk. Ever since the bombing in Oklahoma City, law enforcement had been extra vigilant about protecting federal buildings. Such a large group of protestors would never be allowed this close. Clearly, these churchgoers were picketing without a permit.

  I parked in my usual spot in the lot and hurried into the building, noting a lime-green VW Bug parked near the doors in the space historically occupied by Viola’s white Chevy Malibu. I left the wig and sunglasses on in case any of those loonies had managed to get inside.

  The sheriff’s deputy working the security screening stopped me as I attempted to go through the expedited employee lane. He’d seen me nearly every weekday morning for several months now, but he didn’t recognize me today in my getup.

  “It’s me, Special Agent Holloway,” I whispered, lowering my sunglasses. I jerked my head toward the crowd outside the front windows. “I didn’t want them to recognize me.”

  “Gotcha.” He winked at me. “Don’t worry. They’ll be out of here soon.” His eyes flicked to the wig again. “You look good as a blonde.”

  What was it with men and blond hair?

  I rode the elevator up to my floor. Viola, Eddie, Nick, and Josh stood at the window near Viola’s desk, looking down at the crowd picketing below. Josh pulled something small and black out of his pocket and held it up to his eyes.

  Nick glanced over at him. “Those some kind of miniature binoculars?”

  J
osh nodded. “They’ve got a built-in camera, too.”

  The guy was a regular Inspector Gadget.

  I stepped up beside them. They all did a double take when they noticed the blond wig.

  “It’s for Lu,” I said. “I’m still trying to find a strawberry-blond beehive, but I thought this might hold her over.”

  The new clerk from the records department walked up, a stack of files in her arms, a bright pink feather weaved into her black-dyed hair, skintight leggings hugging her slender thighs. I couldn’t say much for her choice of office attire, but given that she’d managed once again to snag Viola’s choice parking spot, the girl must be responsible enough to get to work early.

  The clerk ignored the hairy eyeball coming from Vi and looked at me instead. “You going for the Gwen Stefani look? Christina Aguilera? Pink?”

  “No,” I said. “Just trying not to look like me.”

  “Whatever,” she tossed over her shoulder as she continued down the hall. “It looks hot.”

  “Thanks … I think.” Was it good to be complimented when you didn’t look like yourself? Not sure about that one.

  Eddie looked down at the mob on the sidewalk. “Can you believe this?”

  Viola shook her gray curls. “In all my years with the IRS I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Below, an officer had hooked his hands under the armpits of Judy Jolly, who’d gone limp and was being dragged to the paddy wagon. A couple other protestors had taken a similar tack and lain down on the sidewalk. The cops paired up to deal with those people, one picking up the person’s arms, the other grabbing the person’s legs. Meanwhile, the reporters and cameramen caught it all on tape. No doubt the arrests would be the top story on today’s newscasts.

  Eddie put a worried hand on the top of his head. “This is out of control. The police are arresting those people.”

  “It’s their own damn fault,” Nick said, squeezing the stress ball in his hand. “The cops told them to leave and they didn’t do it.”