Death, Taxes, and Cheap Sunglasses (A Tara Holloway Novel Book 8) (10 page)

“No,” she said. “I’ve met some of them since. They have social events at the museum pretty often and they always invite the artists.”

“So you’ve met the other people whose work is on exhibit?”

Her expression became sheepish once again. “Yes.”

“And?”

“And what?”

I watched her closely. “What did you think of them?”

“Emily Raggio and I had a lot in common.” Her gaze moved to a spot on the wall behind me for a moment before moving back. “The others…”

I filled in the blank for her. “Not so much?”

“Right.”

“What do you think of their work? The oscillating fan and the hair dryer and the vacuum? The macaroni mosaic? The canvas painted with tears?”

Mallory paused a long moment before offering a small shrug. “Modern art encompasses a broad spectrum.”

I could understand that she didn’t want to be critical, but I wanted her opinion. “Do you think those pieces show talent?” I asked. “Or acquired skills?”

She paused another long moment. “I think they show …
imagination
.”

She’d given me the answer I’d been seeking, even if she’d done it in a very understated way.

“Have you sold any more pieces since selling the one to the Unic?” I asked.

She beamed. “I have. Three more. Two were three-dimensional pieces similar to
Life’s Compost.
The other was a collage.”

“How wonderful.” I offered her a congratulatory smile. “Sounds like you’re on your way.”

“I hope so,” she said, then, apparently feeling a little guilty, added, “I mean, interior decorating can be fun, and I’m happy working here, but if I could work on my art full-time that would be my dream job.”

I already had my dream job. Playing financial detective, carrying a gun, making sure the bad guys paid their fair share to Uncle Sam like everyone else.
What’s not to like?

I thanked Mallory for her time and wished her luck with her art projects.

Once I was back in my car, I aimed it for Bedford. I found Emily Raggio in her studio behind her house. She was dressed in a pair of stretchy black spandex capris and a paint-stained promotional T-shirt for an allergy medication, probably a freebie given to her husband by a pharmaceutical salesman. Her garage door stood wide open, the strains of South American pan flute music pouring out into the yard. She worked inside, sculpting what appeared to be an abstract take on a weeping willow tree. An IV stand with fluid-filled bags and tubing hanging from it formed the trunk and limbs, while latex surgical gloves hung like leaves from the metal posts and hoses.

She was surrounded by shelves laden with spools of wire and string, tubes of assorted glues, and medical supplies including prescription pads, pill bottles, gauze bandages, and scalpels. Better keep an eye on those in case she decided to slit my throat. Then again, my worries about the cartel case were probably just making me paranoid.

“Mrs. Raggio?” I called, stopping at the three-foot wooden fence, removing my cheap red plastic sunglasses, and introducing myself. “I’m IRS Special Agent Tara Holloway. May I come in?”

“Please do. I could use the company.”

I unlatched the gate and entered the yard. A few steps later I was in the garage, winding my way around a gray tabby who sat on her haunches, casually batting a water bug around with a front paw. I might’ve felt sorry for the bug if the darn things didn’t creep me out so much.

Emily stepped back and eyed her piece, then reached out and moved the dangling fingers of a glove into a different position. “There. That’s better.”

I gestured to the sculpture. “Interesting piece.”

“Thanks,” she said. “I think I’m going to call it
Lifelines
.”

“Seems fitting.”

She moved to her right, to something nearly as tall as her that was covered with a hospital bedsheet. “Give me your thoughts on this.”

She grabbed the bottom edge of the sheet and tossed it up and over the piece, revealing a plastic skeleton like those used in an anatomy class. The skeleton wore a ruffled, floor-length dress made from a number of light blue hospital gowns stitched together. Emily stared at me, her face expectant. “How does it make you feel?”

“Honestly?” I said. “Uncomfortable. A little scared, even.”

“Good,” she said. “It should. It’s called
Death’s Beauty Pageant
. It’s a statement about the dangers of anorexia.” She swung the sheet back over the skeleton, wheeled it back against the wall, and turned to me again. “I’m fascinated by life and death, and all we humans do to destroy ourselves or keep death at bay. I like to explore those themes in my art.”

It also explained her fascination with medicine.

Emily began to sway with the pan flute music and executed some type of hands-up pirouette before jabbing the button to turn off the stereo. “Okay, let’s talk.” She offered me a short, square stool that looked as if it could serve as either a seat or a platform for working on taller pieces.

“Did Sharla Fowler call you?” I asked as I sat. “Did she tell you I might be coming to see you?”

“Yes,” Emily said. “She said something about you not believing that the Unic is a real art museum? Accusing her and her son of trying to pull something over on the IRS?”

Unlike Mallory, Emily didn’t seem at all upset or concerned.

I pulled a pad and pen out of my briefcase to take notes. “Would it bother you if someone questioned the value of your art? Or whether it even was true art?”

“Oh, honey.” She tittered. “I wouldn’t last a second in this business if I cared one iota what other people think. There’s always some critic or other telling an artist she’s a no-talent hack, then the next minute there’s another critic calling her the next Georgia O’Keeffe or Mary Cassatt or Polly Morgan.”

I’d heard of the first two artists, but not the latter. “Polly Morgan?”

“British taxidermist and sculptor,” Emily replied. “She uses dead birds, rats, and squirrels in her pieces.”

Art imitating life, I supposed. Or was it art imitating death?

I shifted on the hard stool, trying, unsuccessfully, to find a more comfortable position. “Do you have any thoughts about the other pieces on display at the Unic? About the other artists?”

She offered a patronizing smile. “I have all sorts of thoughts, Miss Holloway. But what do my opinions matter? As long as an artist believes he or she has created something worth making, and as long as someone else decides a piece is worth buying or at least thinking about, hasn’t the purpose of art been fulfilled?”

Hell if I know.

“But you were trained as an artist,” I said. “You wouldn’t have spent the time and money on an art education if you didn’t think it would have value, right?”

“Of course not,” she agreed.

“Then doesn’t it bother you that someone with no training can just throw something together and call themselves an artist?”

“Not at all. I studied art because I wanted to hone my talents and learn more skills and techniques. But even untrained amateurs can have moments of brilliance. It’s like cooking. Restaurants hire professional chefs to make gourmet meals, but people whip up all kinds of yummy stuff from scratch in their kitchens every night, too. It’s just different approaches to the same end.”

I supposed what she said was true. My mother had ordered that dump cakes cookbook after seeing the commercial on TV, and damn if some of those cakes weren’t delicious.

Seeing I’d get nowhere questioning the art itself, I asked Emily how her work had ended up on exhibit at the Unic. She told me that Rodney Fowler had come to her husband’s office to be treated for swimmer’s ear.

“I was installing a piece I’d made specifically for my husband,” she said, pulling out a portfolio of photographs and showing one to me. “See? I painted a half-dozen plastic ear models, posted them on flexible wires, and put them in a vase to resemble a bouquet. I call that one
Listen to Your Doctor.
”

She went on to say that Rodney had commented on the piece, mentioned that he was involved in an arts charity, and asked if she had any pieces available for sale.

“One thing led to another,” she said, closing the book, “and the next thing I knew I had a nice, fat check in my hand.”

“About that check,” I said. “Did it surprise you how much the Unic paid for your work given that you had sold only one piece beforehand? And that you’d sold the earlier piece for much less?”

“On the contrary.” She offered me a grin. “I thought I deserved much, much more.”

A theory was beginning to develop in my mind. Maybe those running the Unic realized they had to spend significant sums on at least a few pieces from unrelated artists in order to give the place the air of legitimacy and to justify the amounts they’d paid for the pieces made by Sharla’s grandson and great-grandson, as well as Rodney’s fianc
é
e.

Although I found Emily interesting on a personal level, it was clear that spending any more time with her would in no way further my case. If anything, I was more confused than ever.

What constitutes art?

What is the purpose of art?

Who has the right to call themselves an artist?

I thanked her and returned to my car, pondering art, life, death, and taxes.

chapter ten

G
one Phishing

Early Thursday morning, I sat at my desk and stared across the hall at Nick’s empty office, missing the hell out of him even though he’d been gone only a short time. His chair sat at attention behind his desk, as if waiting for the return of the firm ass that had graced its seat for the last few months. An aluminum baseball bat leaned against his credenza and a gym bag sat on top of it. I wasn’t the only one who missed Nick. The others on the IRS softball team had pitched a fit when they heard Nick would be gone indefinitely. He was not only the team captain but also their star player. Will Dorsey had stepped up to coach but, without Nick, the chances of the Tax Maniacs winning a game were slim to none.

The situation sucked. All around. Big-time.

Ly’s secretary, Viola, stepped into my doorway with a huge bouquet of red roses interspersed with greenery and baby’s breath. “Special delivery!” she sang as she set them on my desk.

“Wow!” I exclaimed, rising from my seat. “Thanks, Vi.”

As she left my office, I grabbed the card from the plastic holder. Tearing the envelope open, I pulled out the card. It read “I miss my gooey girl. Nick.”

Tears of relief welled up in my eyes as I clutched the card to my chest. These flowers were beautiful, sure, and they smelled great, too. But it was more what they symbolized that had me getting so emotional. These flowers meant El Cuchillo’s knife bore none of Nick’s or Christina’s blood. The two of them were alive and okay.

Or were they?

Just as quickly as the relief had hit me, so did the realization that Nick might not have ordered these flowers today. He might have placed the order on Monday or Tuesday before he’d gone undercover, and simply requested they be delivered today. There was only one way to know for sure.

I picked up the envelope from my desk, sat back down in my chair, and dialed the phone number of the florist listed on the envelope. When the clerk answered, I said, “Hi. I had a question about a floral arrangement from your store. It was ordered by Nick Pratt. Can you tell me when he placed the order?”

The woman hesitated a moment. “Can’t you just ask him?”

Hmm … What can I say that will make her give up the goods?

“He’s actually the one who asked me to call you. He couldn’t remember what day it was. His credit card company said there’d been some fraud on his account. If you can’t verify the date for me he’ll be forced to have the charge reversed.”

I felt absolutely evil, but I knew the best way to get information from someone was to make them believe that the cost of withholding it would be higher. Either this woman would tell me what I wanted to know, or she’d be out $75 or more.

“Just a moment,” she said.

Good.

There was a clicking of keys. “It says here in the computer that he ordered them on Monday. Wait a minute. It also says he paid cash. Why would the credit—”

Click.
I hung up on her.

Though I felt bad both about misleading the florist and hanging up on her, I was dealing with issues of much greater importance. The flowers were still undeniably gorgeous, yet their red blooms no longer bore the message of hope I’d thought they had. In fact, the red blooms seemed suddenly reminiscent of blood, the thorns like tiny little knives along the stems.

I closed my eyes.
Don’t go there, Tara,
I told myself.
Chances are Nick and Christina are fine. Nick wanted you to enjoy these flowers. So do it already!

I could be damned bossy with myself, huh?

I tweaked the arrangement, separating the blooms slightly to let them breathe and spread, and took a deep breath of the nearest blossom.
Heavenly.

Forcing my thoughts back to my work, I pulled my regular cell phone out of my purse. Pulling up my contacts list, I stopped on
Mom and Dad
and hit the button to call home.

My mother didn’t answer until the seventh ring. “Hi, sweetie!”

Ah, mothers. Even if we pack a gun and kick ass for a living, we’ll always be their “sweeties.”

“Hi, Mom. Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“Not at all.” Of course she could’ve just cut her finger off in the garbage disposal and be standing there bleeding to death and she’d still make time to talk to me. That’s the kind of mother she was. “I was just out in the garden, planting tomatoes.”

“Wish I could be there to help you.”

“Me, too, hon. Those bags of garden soil seem to get heavier every year.”

Gardening together had been one of our favorite mother-daughter activities, second only to making road trips from our home in east Texas to the Neiman Marcus flagship store in Dallas. Gardening had always relaxed me. Digging in the ground made me feel, well,
grounded.
Between my long hours on the job and my romantic pursuits, I’d had little time to garden recently. With Nick gone now, maybe I’d find time to work on my flower beds. Brett, a landscape architect I’d dated before Nick, had hired a crew to install and maintain a nice bed in front of my town house. Unfortunately, when the relationship ended, so did my free lawn service. Weeds had snuck in among the plants, many of which had died off over the winter. Time for me to get things spruced up. Besides, the labor would help take my mind off my worries.