Death, Taxes, and Cheap Sunglasses (A Tara Holloway Novel Book 8) (19 page)

Alicia set her coffee mug back on the table. “Whoa. That had to be
beyond
awkward.”

“Totally.” I swallowed the second bite. “It was embarrassing to be there alone. Brett bought me dessert. I think he felt a little guilty or sorry for me or something. He told me about the engagement and the baby and then he asked about Nick and…” I shrugged, letting my shoulders finish the sentence for me.

She watched me intently for a moment. “You and Nick will get there, too. You just need more time.”

“I’m not in a hurry,” I said, and I meant it. Not a
big
hurry anyway. Still, I’d have liked to know for certain that we were headed in that direction. I couldn’t imagine anything coming between me and Nick, but it would be nice to have a crystal ball and be able to see for sure that we’d end up together. Then again, Nick had been engaged before, to a pretty schoolteacher who’d taken good care of him. Heck, she even
cooked
for him on a regular basis. Nonetheless, he’d broken things off before they made it to the altar. He’d told me she was overbearing, treated him like a child, and that he simply couldn’t take it anymore. But had there been more to it? Had Nick not been ready to settle down then? Would he be ready soon?
Or ever?

I slugged back a big chug of coffee.
No.
I couldn’t let myself get all paranoid. Nick being gone had just made me overly anxious. He wouldn’t have moved into a rental on my street if he were afraid of getting too close, right? Of course not. He and I were soul mates. We were meant to be together. No doubt about it. Right?

Alicia finished her cinnamon roll and poured the rest of her coffee into a travel mug, adding some hot coffee from the pot to fill it to the brim. “I’m off to work.
Again.
Darn tax returns. Darn IRS.”

She offered me a teasing grin and I offered her a sympathetic smile. “See ya.”

As I watched her grab her purse and head out the door, a sense of loneliness and melancholy seized me. I felt as if I were losing everyone who meant anything to me. Nick was gone indefinitely. Alicia worked such long hours we’d hardly seen each other lately, and once she got married two months from now I’d see her even less. Christina was gone, too, off working the case with Nick. She, too, was engaged, though she and Ajay had yet to set a date. I was beginning to feel like the odd man out. Or odd woman.

But no sense throwing myself a pity party. What would that accomplish?

The rest of the morning was occupied with mopping, dishes, and toilet scrubbing, the trifecta of disinfecting. Once these tasks were completed, I dusted, vacuumed up what seemed to be an inordinate amount of cat hair, and picked up the clutter strewn about the house. I even spent an hour weeding my long-neglected flower beds.

Though I planned to engage in more yard work at Nick’s mother’s house, I couldn’t very well show up already covered in sweat and grime. After a shower and blow-dry, I pulled my hair up into an easy ponytail that would keep my locks out of my face. I threw on a pair of jeans, tennis shoes, and a long-sleeved tee, and drove over to see Bonnie and Daffodil, stopping on the way to buy yet another cheap pair of sunglasses. I got this wraparound pair at a convenience store. They made me look like a cross between the Terminator and Geordi La Forge from
Star Trek: The Next Generation.

As I climbed out of my car in Bonnie’s driveway, the curtains in the front window moved. Daffodil’s nose emerged from between the panels as she peeked out to see who dared invade her protected territory. She sounded the alarm, alerting Bonnie to my arrival.
Arf! Arf-arf! Arf-arf-arf!

Bonnie had the door open before I even reached the porch. “Good morning!” she called. “I hope you’re ready to work hard, because I’ve got ten weeds per square foot out back.”

“Hard work’ll do me good,” I said. I hadn’t been to the gym since Nick left, and last night’s softball game, most of which I spent sitting on the bench, could hardly qualify as a workout. I could use the exercise.

We headed out back, Daffodil trotting along beside us.

“Here.” Bonnie promptly armed me with some type of odd-looking weed-digging device with multiple metal reels and something on the end that resembled a bayonet. “I ordered this from the TV.”

I looked the thing over. “How does it work?”

“Heck if I know,” she said. “I was hoping you could figure it out and show me.”

I spent a minute or two with the device, inadvertently digging several holes in her garden before finally mastering it. I had to admit it worked pretty well. In ten minutes I’d carried out death sentences on three dozen dandelions. No commuted capital punishments for these weeds.

As I passed the white cross in Bonnie’s pea patch that marked Nutty’s grave, I paused in silent tribute to the dog who was buried beneath it. Losing Nutty had broken Nick’s heart. Though Nick would always mourn his first dog, Daffodil had helped Nick’s heart mend. It was clear she’d grown as attached to him in the short time they’d been housemates as he’d become to her. She’d brought one of his old shirts with her when Nick had transported her here, and she was still carrying the thing around like a security blanket. She flopped down on the back patio, her face resting on the shirt, and emitted a long, lonely sigh.

I stepped over and stroked her back. “I’m right there with you, girl.”

Bonnie and I worked for three hours. After we finished weeding, we prepared her garden for spring planting by pulling out the dead plants, tilling the soil, and adding several bags of stinky composted cow manure, a virtual shitload of shit.

The last thing I did was retrieve her trimmer from the garage. The grass around the perimeter of her yard needed some attention.

I plugged the extension cord into the outside wall outlet and set about my task.
Zzzt. Zzzzzzt. Zzzzzzzt.
As I drew close to her azalea bushes, I bent over to carefully guide the trimmer lest I damage the bushes. As I tilted my head, my wraparound sunglasses slid from my face. Before I could release the trigger on the trimmer handle—
zzzt-crackle-zzt
—the glasses had fallen into the path of the trimmer line and been pulverized.
Jeez.
This pair had lasted me only a matter of hours.

Our muscles tired and sore, Bonnie and I headed inside for a tall glass of peach sangria.

“How’s this sound for dinner?” Bonnie handed me a three-month-old copy of
Better Homes and Gardens.
The magazine was opened to a page featuring a recipe for a fried tomato salad.

“Delicious.”

While she retrieved the ingredients from her pantry and refrigerator, I flipped through the magazine, stopping to peruse an article on uses for a dead Christmas tree. One of the suggestions was to submerge it in a lake to provide an egg-laying area for bottom-feeding fish. I wondered if the Kuykendahls were aware of this useful little tidbit. It could come in handy in their fishing-guide business.

Three pages after the article was an ad for a feminine hygiene product that promised to keep users fresh as a daisy. The ad featured a photograph of a backyard covered in white and yellow daisies. Atop the daisies was a trampoline, and hovering over the trampoline—defying gravity like the witch from
Wicked
—was none other than Laurel Brandeis in her airborne, spread-eagle pose, proudly exhibiting her flower-fresh lady bits to the world.

Aha!

Now I knew why she’d looked so familiar when I’d seen her photograph on the bogus charity’s Facebook page. Still, I found the ad a little overdone. It would take more than a feminine care product to get me so excited I’d leap into the air or spontaneously turn cartwheels. But Nick returning home from the cartel case unscathed? Heck, that would have me doing back handsprings.

I held up the magazine. “Mind if I tear out this ad?”

Bonnie’s eyes blinked and a look of concern crossed her face. “Um … okay.”

I glanced back at the ad, realizing she must have made some very embarrassing assumptions about my girly parts.

“Oh, no. It’s not for me!” I said. “I mean…” I figured there was no better, and more convincing, way to explain things to her than to show her the Facebook page for the U.S. Red Cross. I retrieved my phone from my purse, pulled up the page, and showed her the image for Laurel Brandeis. “It’s the same photo. See?”

“Why, it sure is!” Her surprised expression morphed into one of consternation. “Isn’t that copyright infringement for the Web site to use the photo?”

“Good point,” I said. If I caught this guy, I’d turn his information over to the Daisy Fresh Feminine Hygiene Company and let their lawyers take a few swings at him, too.

While Daffodil lay on her bed in the corner and watched us, Bonnie and I worked side by side in her kitchen, slicing and breading the tomatoes, chopping three types of lettuce, dicing olives, and, of course, sipping peach sangria. Bonnie was an easygoing woman, and it was nice to spend time with her. I found myself imagining the two of us baking Christmas cookies along with a rug rat or two. In my daydream, Nick helped our children sprinkle green-colored sugar onto tree-shaped cookies, glancing up to give me a soft, loving smile.

Would it ever be?

If Nick survived the cartel investigation, my fantasies of familial bliss could be a real possibility, right? But if he didn’t, I would be left with a broken heart and Bonnie would be left with only a sweet, furry dog.

I couldn’t let that happen.

The only problem was, given that I had no idea where Nick was and what danger he might be in, what could I do about it?

Nothing.
That’s what.

chapter eighteen

A
rt, Art Thou?

After leaving Bonnie’s place, I swung back by my town house to clean up and change clothes for the gallery opening. I slipped into my go-to black dress and a pair of slingbacks. The beautiful ruby drop earrings Nick had given me adorned my ears.

When I finished, I took a look at myself in the mirror. Not bad. But not great, either. Knowing a group of artists were sure to be stylishly dressed, I didn’t want to look too bland.

I wandered into my guest bedroom. Alicia was a master fashionista with a constantly changing and evolving wardrobe. I added to mine on a fairly regular basis, but I also tended to hang on to my favorite older pieces. Jeans in my closet had been with me since high school and had seen me through some very fun times. My old pair of ropers were hopelessly out of date now, too, though when Alicia had pointed that out to me I insisted the boots were “classic.”

Alicia wouldn’t mind if I raided her accessory drawer. She was always generous and willing to share, especially with her bestie. I pulled the drawer open and poked around.

A lime-green headband.
Nope.

A whimsical female necktie in pale pink satin.
Nope.

An infinity scarf in a red and white houndstooth check pattern.
Yep, that’s the ticket
. The scarf would add some interest and texture, and would also tie in with my ruby earrings.

Fully accessorized and fashionable now, I gave each of my cats a kiss on the head, plucked their stray furs from my lipstick, and went out to my garage. I slid into my car, punched the button on the remote to open the door, and took off.

The gallery sat at the edge of the Bishop Arts District, an electric and thriving area in Oak Cliff, which was a few miles to the southwest of downtown. The district was known for its unusual boutiques, good restaurants, and its regularly scheduled wine crawls, where patrons could purchase an empty wine glass and have it filled with a different wine at each shop they chose to visit. By the end of the night, shoppers often found their wallets lighter, their arms laden with unique purchases, and their minds fuzzy from a blend of merlots, cabernets, and pinot noirs. I should know. I’d attended the crawls a time or two with Alicia. We always invited her old neighbor, a teetotaler who didn’t mind being the designated driver, especially since we always sprung for her dinner.

The small lot at the converted church was full, so I had to take a spot at the curb on the next block, near the Dude, Sweet chocolate store. As I approached the church building, I gave it a thorough once-over. Though its steeple and colorful stained-glass windows made it readily apparent that the building had once been a house of God, the robin’s-egg-blue exterior let passersby know those days had passed, its congregation having outgrown the relatively small space and moved on to a larger facility. An enormous white stone sculpture in the shape of a dragonfly sat at an angle in the small side yard, a lush bed of kudzu sprawling beneath it.

The night was fresh and cool, and a number of the gallery patrons had spilled onto the front steps with their champagne and hors d’oeuvres. As I approached the open double doors, the sounds of chatter, laughter, and harp music drifted out into the night. The people here were happy, having a good time. None of them had to worry whether their boyfriend was currently being sliced, diced, or filleted by El Cuchillo.

As I stepped inside the building, a waiter with flutes of champagne on a tray approached me. “Would you like some champagne?”

“Don’t mind if I do.” I accepted a glass and gave him a polite nod.

Drink in hand, I ventured through the shallow foyer and into the more open space of what had at one time been the church sanctuary.

Now this is what an art gallery should be.

The perimeter walls featured painting after drawing after mosaic, spaced far enough apart to enable patrons to assess each piece individually, yet close enough to make good use of the available wall space. Six movable, hinged, zigzagging walls were set up in the center, providing more display space for the works. Pedestals, set off with velvet ropes, featured three-dimensional pieces and sculptures.

Though many of the pieces here could be considered modern, the artists’ skill and talents were obvious, even to my untrained eye. The choices of color, shading, shape, material, and texture implied a sense of purpose and direction and theme and mood.