Death, Taxes, and a Shotgun Wedding

by Diane Kelly

  He slumped back against the seat muttering something. It was probably just as well I didn’t hear.

  As soon as he’d vacated the space between the seats, the middle boy insinuated himself in the space. “What snacks do you have?”

  “Snacks?” Was I not only supposed to drive people around, but feed them, too? Seemed like a lot to ask for the amount of money I was being paid.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Drivers usually have cookies or chips or crackers or something.”

  I moved my briefcase and opened the console. Inside were a handful of cellophane-wrapped fortune cookies that had been sitting there for months. I grabbed three of the cookies and tossed them back to the boys. “There you go.”

  There was an inordinate amount of crinkling and crackling as they unwrapped the cookies and broke them into pieces to eat.

  “Ew! This is stale!” The kid tossed the cookie in the air. Half of it landed in the front passenger seat, the paper fortune sticking out of it.

  “Mine’s stale, too!” cried another boy. “It’s chewy! It’s not supposed to be chewy!”

  The other made a gagging noise as he spat the chewed-up cookie into his hand. “How old are those fortune cookies?”

  I shrugged. “Six months. A year, tops.”

  More gagging noises ensued.

  “I need some water,” one insisted. “Now!”

  I glanced at the GPS readout. We were only ten minutes from their destination. They’d survive. “You can get some water when you arrive at wherever you’re going.”

  “It’s our dad’s house,” the oldest one said. “It’s his visitation night.”

  “Yeah,” said another. “Mom makes us take Backseat Driver because she can’t stand the sight of his face.”

  Despite their bratty attitude, I felt a small twinge of pity for them on hearing that. The pity was soon forgotten when the middle boy said, “I can’t stand the sight of his face, either!”

  The boys shared a laugh that led to a shoving match with them repeatedly kicking the back of my seat. One of them even managed to land a kick on the ceiling.

  “Cut it out!” I demanded. “Now!”

  But they didn’t stop. Instead, one of them yelled, “He’s touching me!”

  Another replied back, “He touched me first!”

  For the love of God. I was tempted to pull out my pepper spray and douse the trio. Seriously, did they have no manners at all?

  My phone rang with an incoming call from Nick. “What’s going on up there?” he asked from his car behind me. “It looks like World War III is taking place in the backseat.”

  “That’s about the gist of it.”

  “Hey!” the oldest boy yelled. “You’re not supposed to be on the phone while you’re driving.”

  “And you’re too old to be acting this way!” I said before returning to the call. “We’re almost there,” I told Nick. “Seven more minutes.”

  I hung up the call and turned on the radio to drown out the noise. It was tuned to my favorite country station. One of the boys reached across the seat in an attempt to change the station. I blocked his reach with my forearm. “My car, my music.”

  The three continued to argue and fight and pummel each other.

  “Don’t make me pull this car over!” I shouted, only to be ignored. I was within a block of their father’s house when my patience officially ran out. I pulled over to the curb and turned the radio off. “Get out.”

  The three looked out the window, then at each other in stunned silence.

  “But we’re not there yet,” the youngest one said meekly.

  “Tough toenails. You can walk from here. Get out.”

  When they made no move to get out, I turned off the engine. “I can sit here all night. I’ve got nothing better to do.”

  “Obviously.” The oldest one snickered. “Or you wouldn’t be a Backseat Driver.”

  The other two snickered, too. Turds.

  Nick pulled up behind me, climbed out of his truck, and came over. When I unrolled the window, he stuck his head in and looked from me to the boys. “What’s the problem?”

  “Who are you?” asked the middle boy.

  I turned around. “He’s the one who’s going to drag your bratty butts out of this car if you don’t get out voluntarily.”

  The oldest one threw up his hands. “Geez! Okay!” He opened the door and climbed out. His brothers followed suit.

  As they headed to their father’s place down the block, I called after them. “Don’t forget to add a tip!”

  We were pulling into Bonnie’s garage when the app sent me another push notification. A REVIEW HAS BEEN POSTED FOR SARA G. I tapped the screen. The three little pigs had reamed me. Sara G is rude and gave us old cookies and made us listen to crappy country music. Worst driver ever!

  Oh, yeah? Well, I could review them right back, give a warning to the other Backseat Drivers. Boys fought constantly and tried to get me to buy them beer. Worst passengers ever!

  Take that, you little shits. Next time you’ll be riding with mommy or daddy.

  I reached over to grab the half-eaten fortune cookie from the passenger seat. Might as well see what the fortune said, right? Maybe it would say something profound and positive that would make up for the last half hour. I yanked on the paper strip and read it.

  Live like you’re dying.

  So much for positive messages, huh? I mean, the advice was good but, really, live like you’re dying? Was this an omen? A warning from the fates?

  Would I soon be dying?

  chapter thirteen

  Are You My Murderer?

  The couple who owned the house Johnny Brewster planned to show me hadn’t called me back. I left another message on their answering machine first thing Thursday morning. I hoped I’d hear from them today so I’d know for certain whether Johnny Brewster was on the up-and-up or whether he was a lying lowlife. I’d just as soon not have to traipse halfway across town to meet with him and see the property if I could clear this matter up quicker and easier with a simple return phone call.

  I met Detective Booth in the parking lot at the Dallas PD headquarters at eight-thirty. While Nick had followed me on the drive over, there was no need for him to remain with me since I’d be teaming up with the detective today. Nick could go to the office and get his work done, and I could feel like less of a burden on everyone.

  He gave me one last, anxious look. “You ladies be careful, okay?”

  “We will,” I promised.

  Booth patted the gun at her hip. “Anyone tries any funny business, we’ll be ready for ’em.”

  Once Nick had rolled up his window and driven off, she gestured to a squad car parked nearby. “Let’s take a cruiser. It’ll come in handy if we make an arrest and need to transport a suspect.”

  “Good idea.” Neither of our usual vehicles were equipped for transport.

  Our first stop would be Amber Hansen’s home. I looked up her address in the driver’s license records and we drove to the house. But rather than a redhead, an Asian woman with glossy black hair came to the door. She looked from me to the detective, a wary expression on her face. “Can I help you?”

  “We’re looking for Amber Hansen,” Booth said. “Is she home?”

  “She doesn’t live here,” the woman said. “I guess she’s the one who lived here before me. I get mail for her occasionally, but I don’t know where she lives now.”

  “So you’re a tenant?” I asked.

  The woman nodded.

  Booth pulled out her notepad. “What’s your landlord’s name and phone number?”

  The woman pulled up her contacts list on her cell phone and rattled off the information. We returned to the car where Booth placed a call to the landlord. Though I could hear only her half of the conversation, I got the gist.

  “When did she move out?” Booth asked. After a short pause, she eyed me. “Four months ago, huh? What forwarding address did she provide?” She jotted it down as she recited it
out loud. The address was in Houston, a four-hour drive to the south. “Got a phone number for her?” Booth jotted the number down, too. “Thanks,” the detective said before ending the call. Booth immediately dialed Amber’s phone number. Apparently she reached a voice mail. “Miss Hansen, this is Detective Booth with the Dallas Police Department. Give me a call as soon as you can.” She left her number.

  Once she was off the phone, I thought things over out loud. “The fact that Amber’s moved away plus the fact that she’s got a kid tells me she’s not the one behind the death threats. She’d have to be stupid or crazy to risk losing her child and going to jail just to seek revenge on the woman who brought down her boyfriend, especially when that boyfriend had been untrue to her.”

  Booth offered an ironic smile. “Agent Holloway, if people weren’t stupid or crazy, you and I would be out of work.”

  I dipped my head in acknowledgment. “Point taken.”

  We aimed for Chelsea Gryder’s new address next. On our way, we passed Pokorny’s Korner Kitchen, a Czech bakery and café. It was located in a red brick building, with white eyelet curtains at the windows. I’d interviewed Mr. and Mrs. Pokorny last year as part of my investigation into Marcos Mendoza. The couple had taken out a high-interest loan from Mendoza, not realizing he was a heartless loan shark. When they’d been late with a payment, he’d sent two goons out to trash their business and beat them senseless. A third young man, who’d avoided jail time by turning state’s witness, had stood watch at the door while the other two did their dirty work.

  “Turn in here,” I told Booth as we approached their lot. “You have to try the Pokornys’ pastries. They’re incredible.”

  We went inside to find Darina Pokorny behind the counter. Darina was an attractive woman in her early fifties, short and pleasantly plump with a round face and pink cheeks. Her hair was blond with white undertones, and it sprang from her head in tight ringlets, as if her head were covered in curling ribbon. She was dressed in white cotton pants, a white shirt, and a red-and-white-checked apron spotted with smudges of chocolate, lemon, blueberry, and cherry, as well as a healthy dusting of confectioner’s sugar.

  She eyed me a moment, her gaze narrowing as she tried to place me. But then her eyes and mouth went wide with recognition. “Agent Holloway! So good to see you!” She came around the counter and took my hand in both of hers. “How have you been?”

  “Busy,” I told her.

  She nodded, giving me a knowing look and pointing into my face. “Busy catching crooks, I bet.”

  “Yep.” I introduced her to Detective Booth and the two shook hands.

  She circled to the back of a glass case. “You can’t fight crime if you’re hungry. I’m sending a dozen kolaches with you.” She proceeded to fill a box with the fruit-filled pastries. When she finished, she called back to her husband Jakub, who was busy in the kitchen. “Jakub! Come say hello.”

  He poked his head out of the curtains. Like his wife, he was dressed in white. He had a sturdy build and fair features, along with a thick mustache and short hair. The Saint Christopher medallion I’d noticed when I’d first met him still hung around his neck. “Agent Holloway!” He stepped out from behind the curtain. “We are not in trouble with the IRS, I hope?”

  “The only trouble I’ve brought is a big appetite,” I replied with a smile. “But your wife is taking care of that.”

  Darina held up the box of kolaches to punctuate my point. When she went to hand them to me, she noticed my ring. “You’re getting married? How wonderful!”

  I told her that Nick and I planned to tie the knot in early October.

  “Be sure to come by afterward,” Darina said. “I want to see pictures.”

  “I can do you one better, if you’re interested.” I reached into my purse and pulled out one of the extra invitations I’d tucked inside. I handed it to her. “We’d love to have you come if you’re able.”

  Darina smiled. “Of course! We owe you our lives. We’d love to celebrate with you.”

  Booth and I left with a dozen kolaches. Of course I’d insisted on paying for them. We IRS agents were not allowed to take anything of value from a taxpayer, even if the gift was their idea. We’d eaten half of them by the time we arrived at Chelsea’s new home in Allen.

  “You weren’t kidding,” Booth said, licking apricot filling from her finger. “These are delicious.”

  They were probably fattening as heck, too, but we’d ignore that little fact.

  My research had told me that Chelsea had already remarried, once again choosing a much older man. Her new husband was an oil-industry executive named Howard Capps who’d had three wives and five children before hooking up with the former Mrs. Gryder. Yep, Chelsea was the consummate gold digger and Capps seemed to be the consummate dirty old man.

  I hadn’t warned Chelsea that we were coming, figuring it would be best to catch her off guard. Maybe she’d do something stupid, like leave the red marker she’d used to pen my death threats lying in plain sight on her coffee table. It sure would be nice to find some obvious clue that would lead to an immediate arrest and resolution of this matter.

  Her new home was beautiful, a recently built two-story custom model of gray stone. A pavestone pathway lined with azalea bushes led from the sidewalk to the front porch. The double doors had oval glass insets with fancy scrolled ironwork over them for both appearance and safety.

  There were no cars in the drive, but I’d bet dollars to doughnuts—or quarters to kolaches—that she had a new sports car parked in one of the bays and herself parked in a king-sized bed. Kept women had no reason to get up before noon.

  We stepped up to the door and rang the bell. A few seconds later, a woman in her sixties answered the door. She was dressed all in black, a feather duster in her hand.

  “Hi,” I said, handing the woman my business card. “I’m Special Agent Tara Holloway with the IRS.” I held out a hand to indicate Booth. “Detective Booth with the Dallas Police Department.”

  The woman looked down at my card before speaking. “I’m Edna, the housekeeper. Nanny, too, when the kids are here.” She cocked her head. “Can I help you with something?”

  “We need to speak with Chelsea.”

  A look flitted across Edna’s face, one that told me she found some delight in Chelsea’s potential troubles. She stepped back to allow us into the spacious foyer. “Come on in. I’ll go wake her.”

  As we waited by the door, Edna disappeared down a hallway to the right. We heard her knock on a door. “Mrs. Capps? You have visitors.” There was a brief pause, followed by more knocking. “Mrs. Capps?” she repeated, louder this time. “You have visitors waiting for you out here.”

  I was glad she didn’t tell Chelsea exactly who was waiting for her. If the young woman knew it was two members of law enforcement, she might have tried to make a break for it, sneak out a back window.

  Edna returned a moment later. “She’ll be right with you.”

  A minute later, Chelsea careened down the hall in a loosely tied red satin bathrobe that revealed more of her cleavage and thighs than I’d ever want to see. Her blond hair sat like a tangled tumbleweed atop her scalp. She had a hand on her head as if trying to keep it from rolling off her neck. Her eyes were bloodshot and she reeked of booze. She wasn’t just hungover. She was still drunk.

  She looked at me, squinting as if trying to identify me, then unsquinting when doing so evidently exacerbated her headache. “You’re that lady from the IRS, aren’t you? The one who arrested Michael?”

  I know who I am, thank you very much. “Special Agent Holloway,” I reminded her.

  She looked from me to Booth. “Are you from the IRS, too?”

  “No,” Booth replied. “Dallas PD.”

  Chelsea’s bloodshot gaze ping-ponged back and forth between us. “Why are you here?”

  No point in beating around the bush. “We came to find out if you’ve been trying to kill me.”

  She snorted a laugh. “Kill yo
u? Are you serious?”

  “Perfectly serious,” I said back.

  A variety of emotions crossed her face in quick succession. Confusion. Then back to amusement. Then alarm. But, yeah, mostly confusion.

  She’s not the one. Even if this young woman had wanted me dead, it seemed clear she lacked the initiative to make it happen. Booth seemed to sense the same thing. She let out a slow, soft breath.

  Chelsea narrowed her eyes at me again, but this time it seemed as if she were trying to see why I’d consider her a suspect. “Why would I want to kill you?”

  “Because I ruined your marriage to Michael Gryder.”

  She shrugged, the movement of her shoulders causing her robe to shift, giving us an unfettered view of a nipple now. “It was probably for the best. We’d gotten bored with each other already. Besides—” She gestured around the foyer and thankfully the robe shifted again, covering things back up. “Look where I landed. Five bedrooms, four baths, a swimming pool, hot tub. We’ve got a game room with a huge TV and a wet bar, too. No more traveling to stupid places like Tulsa or Boise, either.”

  Sheesh. I’d bet Tulsa and Boise would have some unflattering things to say about her, too.

  “Where were you early Tuesday evening?” I asked. Might as well find out where she was when the silver coupe had followed me.

  “Tuesday?” She looked up in thought before returning her eyes to me. “I was here,” she said. “At home.”

  Edna, who’d been pretending to dust nearby but had actually been eavesdropping, concurred. “I can vouch for her. From three in the afternoon until at least ten that night she was lying on the couch binge-watching those housewives shows. She had me bring her potato chips and wine.” She cut Chelsea a disapproving look. “Lots of wine.”

  Chelsea looked from Edna back to me. “See? Told you.”

  Behind her, Edna rolled her eyes.

  I exchanged glances with the detective. She was already backing toward the door. In other words, this is fruitless, so let’s move on.

  “All right,” I told Chelsea. “Thanks for speaking with us.”