How Hard Can It Be? (12 page)
“You made me wet my pants again,” Shoshanna laughed. “We need to copyright your warped brain.”
“I’m pretty sure you won’t make any money off that”—I grinned—“but it could land you a suite in the mental hospital.”
“And those products! Were any of those real?”
“Nope,” I grinned. “Just in case this pile of poo backfires and lands on us, I don’t want to get sued.”
“Brilliant,” Shoshanna cackled and clapped her hands. “It makes the skanky ho look even stupider than she already is. Goddamn, it would be terrifyingly fucking awesome if we could get her to publicly go on record endorsing Smeerbeer and Bucky’s Fried Chicken.”
“Yep,” I giggled.
“You know, if we could focus your ideas, you might make a fine writer one day.”
“And if I turn around three times and click my heels together, little green munchkins will jump out of my ass.” I rolled my eyes and hugged her. “I’m a terrible writer and I know that. It’s just that I’m not happy being an accountant . . . I think I’m searching for a place to feel good and worthwhile. I love numbers, but as you can imagine, I don’t fit in very well in the stuffed-shirt corporate world.”
“I can’t see someone with your mouth working out too well in an office setting,” she smirked.
“Hmm, coming from a woman who touts butt plugs, ass-less leather chaps, and uses the word fuck as a noun, verb, pronoun, and adjective, I’ll take that as a compliment,” I giggled.
LeHump took a bow. “It was meant as one . . . Rena, I was thinking, you probably won’t get paid until we finish. Do you need a loan for a car? I’d be happy to help you out and you can pay me back whenever. No worries.”
My stomach clenched and my eyes welled with tears. She was trying to help me escape the Viper without having to reveal anything. I loved her so much it made my teeth hurt.
“Um, no, but thanks. My Aunt Phyllis gave me the money.”
“The one with the aliens in the gas tank?” she asked.
“One and the same.” I grinned, hoping she didn’t notice how glassy my eyes had become.
“She sounds like a lovely lady.”
“I’m very lucky.” I looked directly at Shoshanna. “I am blessed with some very special women in my life. Women I would be lost without.”
“Awww, get over here, you little fucker.” She pulled me in for a bear hug. “I know a couple of women who would be lost without you, too.”
I smiled and let my tears fall onto her Minnesota Vikings sweatshirt. Life may be complicated, but it’s still pretty good.
Chapter 12
S
aturday morning rolled around bright, sunny, and fucking cold. Poppy Harriet seemed to enjoy the cooler temperatures. Her house was freezing.
aturday morning rolled around bright, sunny, and fucking cold. Poppy Harriet seemed to enjoy the cooler temperatures. Her house was freezing.
“Would you like a sweater?” she kindly asked. I was sure my blue lips prompted her offer.
“Sure,” I smiled, taking the hot pink fuzzy sweater from her. Not really my color, but it was nipple-puckering cold in there.
“I’m trying to save money,” she apologized for the frigid conditions. “I’m on a fixed income and it’s a bit tight right now.”
“I love a nice chilly room,” I lied. “It keeps me on my toes.” The same ones I feared losing to frostbite.
“The girls should be here any minute.” She moved nervously around her cute little home rearranging her chintz pillows and crocheted afghans.
“Why are the ladies coming?” My gut clenched in disappointment. They didn’t trust me. Possibly my use of the words
johnson
and
skin flute
might have misled them into believing I had a tiny brain. It still made me feel bad that they felt the need to babysit.
johnson
and
skin flute
might have misled them into believing I had a tiny brain. It still made me feel bad that they felt the need to babysit.
“This is going to be a hard day for me, Rena. I need their support. My life is a little . . . ahhh, messy.”
Oh shit, that did not sound good. I’d arrived with a light heart and now it was sinking fast. There was so much more to this story than a few name changes. I had a bad feeling today would lead to more illegal activity on my part. Having a kind-of sort-of date with a cop tonight only made everything worse.
“Do you want to tell me anything before the gals get here?” I asked, hoping to find out what crime I was about to commit.
“No.”
“Do you want to give me the paperwork so I can get started?”
“No.”
“Do you want to cut a hole in your floor and do some ice fishing?”
“No,” Poppy Harriet laughed, tossing me one of the many afghans placed around the room. “Rena, I’m sorry. I’m nervous and a bit gassy from stress.”
A little too much information, but she was truly distressed. A change of subject was in order. “So Poppy Harriet, have you ever been married?”
“No, I was never lucky enough to have any gentlemen suitors.” She dropped her eyes to the carpet to hide her embarrassment.
God, I felt like an ass. I should probably stick to the weather. With Poppy Harriet looking away, I was really able to study her. She was attractive in a big-boned way, fit, stylish. I loved the little neck scarves she always wore. She must have a ton. Every time I saw her, she was wearing a color-coordinated neck scarf tied in a jaunty little knot at her throat. Her personality was a hoot; she was funny and loving and kind. What in the hell was wrong with men? I wondered if her upper lip had been a source of ridicule when she was younger. I would love for her to let me wax it . . . She did get a tad touchy about things. Bringing up her hairy upper lip might send her into a tailspin.
“What do you write?” I asked, hoping that this subject would cheer her up. I realized I had no idea what her genre was. I knew Nancy was a cookbook queen and Shoshanna loved the whips and chains, but Joanne and Poppy Harriet were still a mystery to me.
She blushed a sweet pink and lowered her eyes. “Last month my amorous tool manual came out.”
“Amorous tools?”
“Love tools,” she giggled.
“You mean like vibrators and stuff?” I asked out of sheer politeness. I feared her answer the same way I feared Bryant Gumbel.
“Oh, mercy me, no. I’m talking about garden-variety things you can find at your local hardware store to spice up your love life.”
“Like what?” Why did my mouth keep moving before my brain could stop it? Although, it was fascinating. Train wreck fascinating.
“Paintbrushes, garden hoses, lawn gnomes.”
“Wow,” I feigned interest. Thankfully I was able to stop myself from asking how one would use a lawn gnome during sex. Unfortunately I knew I would ponder that one for years to come.
“It’s the only thing I can publish that she doesn’t want.” Her voice broke and she fiddled with her neck scarf.
“You mean Evangeline?”
“Yes,” she said flatly. “What I really write is beautiful sweeping sagas about Highlanders. Historicals with breathtakingly brave heroines and handsome, complicated heroes. I adore complex stories where not everything is as it initially seems. My villains are evil, though not at first; eventually they always go down. Violent deaths are a specialty of mine, as well as romantic sex scenes. I’m so in love with Ireland and Scotland. I set most of my novels there because of the mystical beauty and the magnificent landscapes.”
“Can I read one?” I asked, blown away by her description. Her books sounded amazing. There was so much more to her than met the eye.
“If you go to O in the romance section of the bookstore, you’ll see ten of my novels.” Her eyes clouded with tears and her voice was soft.
“I don’t understand.”
Before she could answer, the front door flew open and the babysitting brigade arrived.
“Holy fucking hell,” Shoshanna grunted. “It’s colder than a witch’s tit in here.”
“Poppy dear”—Nancy shivered—“you really must turn the heat up. I’m afraid you’ll catch pneumonia.”
“Holy Lutheran Jesus,” Joanne moaned, bringing up the rear. “I can see my breath. It’s warmer outside.”
“I’m sorry, girls, but you know I’m on a budget,” Poppy Harriet reminded them.
Shoshanna, in a fit of pique, slapped a wad of bills on the table. “My treat, turn up the damn thermostat.”
“Fine,” Poppy Harriet laughed. “This wasn’t such a problem when you ladies were in menopause.”
“That was about twenty years ago,” Joanne muttered, turning the temperature up to eighty.
“I made a cheese log and I’ve got some chili going in the Crock-Pot. Does anyone want something to drink?” Poppy Harriet asked.
“Coffee.” Nancy was still shivering. “Come on, dear. I’ll help you make it.”
I wrapped the afghan tighter around me, wishing I’d worn more appropriate clothes, but I hadn’t known I’d be visiting Antarctica. LeHump and Joanne grabbed fleece blankets from a stash behind the couch and hunkered down next to me.
“This sucks,” LeHump moaned. “How in the hell does she live like this?”
“I have no idea.” Joanne was trembling.
“Hey, why are Poppy Harriet’s Highlander books in the O section?” I asked, moving closer to Joanne, hoping her larger frame would give off more heat than tiny little Shoshanna’s.
“Because they’re under O’Hara. Evangeline Slag-ass O’Hara,” Joanne fumed. “That horrid woman stole ten books from Poppy Harriet and now she can barely afford to heat her house.”
A wave of nausea washed through me and my mood veered sharply to anger. “You’re kidding me.”
“No, I’m not.” She shook her head regretfully. “I wish I was. And now the damn IRS is after her.”
“I told her she can come live with me now that Kevin is moving out, but she won’t hear of selling her house. It belonged to her mother.” Shoshanna shrugged her shoulders and burrowed deeper into her blanket.
IRS. Shit. Maybe I could figure out a way she could get some money back from the government . . . she said she’d paid her taxes, so if she was being truthful, the IRS couldn’t touch her. Faking more confidence than I felt, I got up and went to Poppy Harriet’s desk. I assumed the large box labeled IRS Bastards would be a good place to start. The ladies turned on the TV and got immersed in Jerry Springer, and I went to work. I was grateful no one was looking over my shoulder. Maybe they did trust me.
The “bastard” box was filled with unopened letters from the Internal Revenue Service and the state of Minnesota Treasury Department. There must have been forty or so sealed envelopes there, dating back almost twenty years. WTF? That was odd, but even more strange, they were addressed to Walter Garski. Who in the hell was Walter Garski? Did Poppy Harriet file with her husband? Wait, she’d said she was never married. Had she lied? Maybe he was an abusive son of a bitch and she pretended he didn’t exist . . . maybe he was a serial fornicator like my Uncle Fucker and she refused to acknowledge their union . . . maybe she’d filed illegally with a friend named Walter. Why in the hell would she do that? Had to be a husband.
“Guys, what’s Poppy Harriet’s legal name?” I asked, searching her desk for more clues.
“Garski,” Shoshanna said, while shushing me with her hands. “Jerry’s about to reveal the baby daddy.”
“I think it’s Carlos,” Joanne whispered, eyes glued to the television.
“No,” LeHump insisted, “it’s Sean. He has a lot of tattoos.” The silence, while Jerry took his time opening the paternity test, was killing the ladies. “Open the fucking thing,” Shoshanna hissed at the TV. “No goddamn way,” she shouted, “I didn’t think Billy Bob was even in the running.”
“I feel taken advantage of,” Joanne huffed.
Oh my God. They’re crazy, but at least my suspicions were confirmed. Poppy Harriet had been married. I was a little stymied as to why she didn’t want to tell me, but we’d cross that bridge over coffee. Maybe he was dead. I felt uncomfortable opening a strange, possibly deceased man’s mail, but if I was going to help, I needed to see what the hell the IRS wanted. Opening someone else’s mail was a federal offense. Hopefully my crime spree would be limited to only this.
Envelope after envelope contained checks. Refund checks made out to Walter Garski. And there were letters, inquiring why the checks had not been cashed. I wondered if there was a statute of limitations on the checks. There had to be close to a hundred thousand dollars in undeposited checks there. If Poppy Harriet wanted to live a far more comfortable life, she would have to acknowledge her marriage to Walter Garski. And if he was dead, I’d need a death certificate and a marriage license. This might turn out to be a no-brainer.
“Poppy Harriet could have saved herself a lot of stress if she had opened these.” I held the wad of envelopes up to the couch potatoes.
“She never opened anything?” LeHump sounded surprised.
“Nope, she just assumed the IRS was after her.” I grinned, happy to have figured this out so quickly. “Can you guys tell me anything about her husband?”
“Her husband?” Joanne choked out, looking as if I’d asked to skin her alive. Clearly this Walter Garski was a very bad man. No wonder Poppy Harriet wanted to pretend she’d never married. “Um . . . well, she ahh . . .” Joanne yanked violently at the newly grown fuzz of her eyebrows.
“Hey, it’s okay,” I said, letting her know I suspected the worst of Poppy Harriet’s ex or current husband. “I’m assuming this Garski guy was or is a class A fucker. Poppy Harriet pretends she’s never been married. I get it. I just have to get her to admit to their union so we can cash these checks. There’s around a hundred thousand dollars here. Is he alive?”
“Um, yes.” Shoshanna’s eyes were wide.
God, is he as awful as Evangeline?
“LeHump”—Joanne bounced with excitement—“that sounds like enough for the operation.”
“Not now,” Shoshanna told her.
“Oh my God,” I gasped, “does Poppy Harriet need an operation?”
“Not exactly,” Shoshanna muttered vaguely.
Jesus Christ in high heels, what in the hell was going on here? Were they hiding Poppy Harriet’s illness from me because they thought I couldn’t handle it? My hurt and worry dissolved into anger. The ladies needed to cough up the info, or I was out of here.
“Then who needs an operation?”
“Walter Garski does.” LeHump refused to meet my eyes.
“Her husband?” I asked, determined to get an answer.
“He’s not her husband,” Joanne whispered, trying to find more eyebrow fuzz to pull out.
“Then who in the fuck is Walter Garski?” I shouted.
The crash in the kitchen was loud, but the shrieks were louder. A freaked-out Poppy Harriet trailed by a wild-eyed Nancy came barreling into the room.
“What have you done?” Poppy Harriet sobbed, pacing the room like a caged animal.
“We haven’t done anything,” Shoshanna snapped. “Now sit your ass down. This IRS crap ends today.”
“And so does my life,” Poppy Harriet wailed.
“You’re fine,” Joanne shouted so she could be heard over the ear splitting blubbering. “We trust her. You trust her. She’s going to save us from the Viper Bitch Whore from Hell.”
I was fairly sure she was referring to me and of course Evangeline. It was nice to know they trusted me. But what secret could be so awful that Poppy Harriet found it necessary to moan and rock as if the world was ending? They all started talking at once. I was this close to having an aneurysm.
“Everyone be quiet,” I bellowed. The chatter ceased. Wide eyes peered at me. They looked like naughty toddlers and I bit back inappropriate laughter. “I’ll start . . . Poppy Harriet, the IRS is not after you. You are not going to jail, at least not for tax evasion.” I did wonder if maybe she had killed or maimed Walter Garski and that’s what all the fuss was about. Maybe they all had something to do with it. Fuck, not going to go there. I was going to stick to the facts I’d found in the IRS Bastard box. “Apparently your husband or brother or some kind of relation, Walter Garski, hasn’t cashed his refund checks for almost twenty years . . . to the tune of a hundred thousand dollars. I’m not sure if the checks are still good, but I’m sure they can be reissued with proof of backup tax returns. I’m going to take a guess he’s not dead because his last refund check is from this year, which means he filed. Am I correct?”
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