Death, Taxes, and Cheap Sunglasses (A Tara Holloway Novel Book 8) (5 page)

Despite the modest sales price for
Aaah,
the appraiser had valued
Rx: Death
at $18,000. Per the records the audit department had forwarded on to Criminal Investigations, the Unic had paid the artist the full appraised value for the piece.
Shooting Up
had fetched another $9,500. Mallory Sisko had been paid three grand for
Life’s Compost.

But the real question regarding valuation surrounded the other artists. Aly Pelham’s pieces had garnered her a grand total of $60,000. Jackson Reavis, the “air artist,” had been paid $75,000 for his pieces, even though one sucked and the others blew. Hunter Gabbert, the crown prince of pasta, earned forty big ones for his noodle doodle. Heck, maybe I should dig my old grade-school art projects out of the attic and see if the Unic would buy them. I could become an overnight millionaire.

“Let’s not beat around the bush here,” Sharla said. “We’re all busy people. What do I need to tell you people to make you stop wasting my time?”

“Fair enough,” I said.
Hey, my time is valuable, too.
Worth as much, if not more, than
Vacation in Venice.
“Tell me how you found your appraiser.”

“He was personally recommended to me,” Sharla said.

“By whom?” Eddie asked.

“If I could remember”—she glanced his way—“I’d tell you. I interact with so many people in the art community I lose track. I just know his name came up on several occasions.”

I pulled the appraisal from my briefcase. “Weren’t you curious how he came up with such high valuations for all the pieces given that only one of the artists had a previous sale?”

Sharla lifted a noncommittal shoulder. “I trusted him to do his job. Besides, people go nuts for these types of unusual pieces.”

True, in some cases. Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie had paid $1 million for a Banksy. But I doubted the Unic’s pieces carried such artistic weight.

“Have any of your artists sold pieces since?” I asked.

Sharla lifted two noncommittal shoulders this time. “You’d have to ask them.”

I was tempted to say
maybe I will.
But I knew I would definitely sound petty then. Besides, there was no maybe about it. I planned to contact the artists for more information.

“Do you, or anyone associated with the Unic, have a personal relationship with any of the artists?” I asked.

She chuckled condescendingly. “What a ridiculous question. Of course we know these artists. We’ve held galas here at the museum to feature them and their work. I’m sure you’ve seen the photographs on our Web site?”

I had, of course. I’m nothing if not thorough. “I meant
before
the Unic bought their work,” I clarified. “Did anyone associated with the Unic have a personal relationship with any of the artists before their work was purchased?”

She hesitated an instant before snapping, “You think I know everyone that every board member and employee knows?”

More evasiveness, answering my question with a question of her own was not an answer.

“There are only three board members for the Unic,” I pointed out. “And only two employees. You and Josette. That’s not a big number.”

Her eyes flashed. If she’d thought Tara Holloway would back down, she’d thought wrong. More than likely her aggressive tactics had worked on others. I knew they’d worked on the auditor. His personal notes in the file referred to Sharla Fowler’s personality as sharklike.

When Sharla said nothing in response, I picked up the conversation. “Do I need to personally interview every board member and every employee?”

“I don’t know,” she snapped. “Do you?”

Clearly we’d get nowhere with this woman. I’d have to take a different tack. I motioned to Eddie that it was time to call it a day here.

“We’ll be back,” I told her as Eddie and I stood to go.

Sharla Fowler didn’t bother getting up from her chair. “You do what you have to do,” she said, giving us the evil eye. “And so will I.”

chapter four

S
weet Sorrow, My Sweet Ass!

Shakespeare’s a dumbass. Parting isn’t sweet sorrow, it’s agony. Especially when you know that the next time you might see the man you love he could be zipped up in a body bag … assuming his body could even be found.

Nick and I stopped at a strip mall with a Kohl’s store, where I scored a cute pair of bright blue sunglasses for just ten bucks. They weren’t nearly as nice as my Brighton knockoffs, but they’d do for now. Afterward, we went to dinner at his favorite barbecue joint. He downed approximately two thirds of a cow, while I merely pushed some beans around on my plate, poked at my potato salad, and contemplated the fact that cole slaw was essentially the edible equivalent of confetti. Plus mayonnaise.

“It’s going to be okay, Tara,” Nick said, jabbing his fork into an enormous slab of pecan pie. Who could blame him for his gluttony? This could be his last supper.

“I’ll believe that when you come back home.” I pushed my plate away and crossed my arms over my chest. I hated to act like a petulant child, but that’s exactly how I felt. I wasn’t getting my way. If I were, Nick wouldn’t be working the cartel case and he and I would be on vacation in Maui, sitting on a sunny, sandy beach, sipping pi
ñ
a coladas.

“Don’t worry,” Nick said. “I’ll squash La Cucaracha like the filthy, nasty bug he is.”

“It’s El Cuchillo.” I picked up my steak knife and brandished it at him in illustration. “
The knife.
And you damn well know it.”

Ignoring my demonstration, Nick held his bite of pie aloft. “I’m counting on you to be strong for my mother, Tara. She’s going to need reassurance.”

“Don’t worry. I can fake a happy face. See?” I forced my lips into a grin so broad it hurt my cheeks.

“Your eyes still look upset.”

“I’ll wear my new sunglasses.” I reached into my purse, retrieved my bright blue sunglasses, and slid them onto my face. “How’s this?”

“Better,” he said.

I took the sunglasses back off and set them on the table in front of me. I continued poking at my potato salad and rearranging my beans while Nick ate his dessert in silence.

Just as Nick finished his pie, a busboy walked up with an empty plastic bin. He eyed Nick’s empty plate and my messy one. “All done here?”

I nodded.

Holding the bin in one arm, the kid used the other to quickly sweep the plates, cups, and utensils from the table. The items clunk-clunked into the tub, followed by a suspicious crunch.

“Crap.” I looked down into the tub to see my new sunglasses crushed under my still-full plate. The nosepiece had snapped in two and the right lens had popped out. I grabbed the earpiece and pulled them from the wreckage to see if they were salvageable. The bean juice dripping from them said no.

The boy’s eyes went wide. “Sorry! I didn’t see your glasses on the table.”

I tossed the sunglasses back into his bin and raised a palm. “Not your fault. I should’ve put them back in my purse.”

His face relaxed in relief as he headed off to bus another table.

Nick and I walked out to his truck and drove to his town house, which sat just down the street from mine. Close enough to make overnight stays convenient, but far enough to give each of us the illusion of independence.

His dog, Daffodil, greeted us at the door, her tail windmilling behind her so fast it threatened to take her airborne. Daffy was an Australian shepherd mix with gorgeous blue eyes much prettier than mine. Her multicolored fur, which had been missing in spots when Nick recently adopted her from the animal shelter, was filling in nicely. The dog was filling out, too, her ribs no longer easily palpable. Though it had been my idea for Nick to take a look at the dogs available for adoption, I had to admit I was a bit jealous of the attention Nick lavished on Daffodil. I wouldn’t mind him rubbing my tummy or brushing my hair now and then. And I bet Nick would never wipe sleep crud from
my
eyes or clip
my
toenails.

Nick knelt down and gave Daffy’s ears the same ruffle he used to give his sweet old dog Nutty, who had recently gone to the big dog park in the sky. While Nutty had merely wagged his tail in manly appreciation, Daffodil shamelessly licked Nick’s face from chin to forehead and ear to ear. What a suck-up. Then again, maybe he just smelled like barbecue and she was hoping to get a taste.

Nick chuckled and turned his face aside lest she put her tongue in his mouth for a French kiss. “How’s my best girl?” he asked. “Huh? How is she?”

“I’m fine,” I said, though I knew perfectly well he was talking to his dog. “Thanks for asking.”

Nick glanced up at me. “You’re just jealous.”

“I am. You never greet me with that kind of enthusiasm.”

“Neither do you.”

“All right. Next time I see you I’ll lick your face.”

“You can do it right now if you want.”

“After Daffy got her dog germs all over you? Ew. No, thanks.”

Of course I was all bark and no bite. Despite my envy, I knew there were some things only
I
could do for Nick. Besides, it wasn’t the dog’s fault she was an irresistible cutie pie. And even though I might be jealous of her relationship with Nick, I still adored the dog.

I knelt down next to Nick and Daffy’s tongue attacked my face next. “Hi, girl,” I managed between licks. “How ya’ doin’?”

Once Nick and I had been fully cleaned by his dog’s saliva—or sullied, depending on your view—we let her out back for some yard time and headed upstairs to his bedroom.

Nick flopped backward onto his bed. “I’m not sure I can perform after all that food.”

“I told you to skip the pie.”

His mouth spread in a naughty grin. “I
never
skip pie.” He reached out, grabbed my wrist, and pulled me onto the bed, flipping me over until he had me pinned to the spread.

I could give you the details of what happened next, but no sense sharing Nick’s trade secrets and voiding his patent. Suffice it to say that clothing hit the floor, sheets became sweaty, orgasms were exchanged, and a good time was had by all. Nick had even spoken to me in Spanish during the deed. Whether he’d been whispering sweet nothings or talking dirty I wasn’t sure, but either way it had worked its magic.

Though the sex was mind-blowing, as always, it was the tender moments afterward that I treasured even more, those moments of serene intimacy shared in each other’s arms. Tonight, especially, I didn’t want to let him go, wishing I could freeze time and hold on to Nick forever. But, alas, time marched on, stomping all over my heart.

After a few moments in which Nick stroked my hair and nuzzled into my neck, we both knew we had to get moving. We reluctantly dressed, me in the work clothes I’d still had on prior to said rendezvous and Nick in a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. He reached down and retrieved the duffel bag he kept his workout clothes in. Unzipping it, he pulled out a small plastic bag from which he then pulled out two tiny, prepaid phones.

I knew exactly what they were.

A way for the two of us to stay in touch while he was undercover.

He handed one to me. “This could get me in deep shit, you know.”

“I know.” My eyes filled with tears. “Thanks, Nick. I’ll feel better having this.”

No one, not even Lu or the other higher-ups at the IRS, would know the two of us had these untraceable, secret phones. It was a somewhat risky move.

“One rule, though,” he said. “I only contact you, okay? To let you know I’m all right. I can’t risk your call or text coming in at an inopportune time and someone discovering that I’ve got the extra phone.”

“What if it’s an emergency?” I asked.

“Then you call Lu,” he said. “She’ll know how to reach me through the secure network the DEA has arranged for us.”

“How are you going to hide the phone?”

Nick grabbed his left boot, angled it so I could see inside, and pulled out the bottom liner to reveal a jagged-edged compartment he’d cut into the heel, probably with his pocketknife.

“Wow,” I said. “That’s clever. Like
Get Smart
.”

“Let’s only hope I don’t
get caught
.”

chapter five

G
oing Under

Tuesday morning, as I drove down to Nick’s place, my stomach and head seemed to be rotating in opposite directions as if they were playing a game of rubber baby buggy bumpers. The problem was caused in part over my worry about Nick and in part because, last night after I’d returned home, I’d downed two thirds of the pitcher of peach sangria I’d made for Alicia. Talk about trying to drown your sorrows.

Nick stepped out of his house into the gray, drizzly morning with Daffodil dancing on his heels. Poor girl. She probably thought he was taking her for a walk when, in reality, he was taking her for an indefinite stay with grandma.

Nick situated Daffy in the backseat of my car, then slid into the front. He leaned over and gave me a peck on the cheek. “Good morning.”

I didn’t want to be a downer, but I couldn’t minimize my feelings, either. I was nothing if not an emotionally honest person. “I’ve had better.”

“Me, too.” Nick stared out the rain-spotted windshield with a faraway look on his face before turning back to me. “But we’ll have more good ones. Soon. You’ll see.”

I reached over and ran the back of my fingers over the dark stubble on Nick’s cheek. “This is sexy.”

He cut his eyes and a soft smile my way. “Does it make me look tougher?”

“Hell, yeah,” I said.

“Maybe my stubble will stop a bullet if someone tries to shoot me in the face.”

I knew Nick was only trying to lighten the mood, but I didn’t find his attempts at humor to be funny at all. “Stop it. You’re only making me worry more. Besides, it’s not bullets I’m worried about. It’s that knife.”

“There’s just no pleasing some people.” He reached out and gave my knee an affectionate squeeze.

I slid the car into gear and we drove to his mother’s house. As we climbed out of the car, Bonnie opened her front door with a worried frown on her face. Bonnie’s hair was dark like Nick’s, though longer and streaked with hints of silver. Her blue eyes were clouded with worry. Before we could even reach her door, she began to throw a hissy fit like the one I’d thrown the day before.