Death, Taxes, and Peach Sangria (19 page)

She gave me a smile and dropped into the seat. “Thanks, hon.”

I snatched a glass from the cabinet, filled it with ice and tap water, and set it
on the table in front of her. “So, what’s up back in Nacogdoches?” I asked, sliding
into the chair across from her.

Mom filled me in on the latest hometown news and gossip. A new boutique had opened
downtown. Clara Humphreys, a fellow member of the town’s historical society, was recovering
from surgery on an ingrown toenail. “The way she was carrying on,” Mom said, “you’d
have thought she’d lost a limb.”

My high school’s football team was doing well this season. Rumor had it the quarterback,
a senior, was being courted by the coach at the University of Oklahoma, the chief
rival to my college.

“Say it isn’t so.” A graduate from my high school thinking about becoming a Sooner?
How could he?

Mom shook her head. “He must’ve lost his mind.”

Alicia came to the kitchen doorway and declared herself “ready to go.”

A half hour later, the three of us arrived at Neiman Marcus and headed directly to
the cosmetics counter. Both Alicia and I needed under-eye cream to hide the dark,
puffy circles we’d accumulated from nights of restless sleep.

When we arrived the clerk took one look at us and cringed. “Might I suggest full makeovers?”

Alicia and I readily agreed. We could both use some attention, even if it was only
from a salesclerk looking for a nice commission.

When the makeup artist finished, we eyed ourselves in hand mirrors.

“We might feel awful,” I told Alicia, tilting my head to look at the other side of
my face, “but we look awesome.”

In addition to the eye cream, I stocked up on foundation, blush, and mascara while
Alicia purchased eyeliner and shadow.

Properly made up now, we spent two hours browsing the women’s, shoe, and lingerie
departments. Mom found a cute, clingy dress in a muted pastel print that would be
perfect for her upcoming high-school reunion. She firmed, flattened, and rearranged
her figure with a strategic pair of Spanx, slid her feet into a pair of shiny gray
sling-backs, and stood in front of the three-way mirror.

“Wow, Mrs. H.” Alicia stepped up behind my mother as she turned to and fro. “You’ve
still got it.”

Alicia was right. My mother looked fantastic. “Dad’s going to love it.” Maybe Randall
would, too. Candy Cummings could eat her heart out.

We meandered over to the jewelry department and found the perfect pair of earrings
and a necklace to complete Mom’s outfit. After a light lunch of salads and mimosas
at Neiman’s café, we headed back to my BMW, shopping bags in hand.

“As long as we’re out, do you two mind if I make a quick stop?” One of the MSBs on
my list was only a few miles away.

Mom and Alicia said they didn’t mind coming along for the ride. None of us had anything
better to do that afternoon and it would give us a chance to chat some more on the
drive.

The place was a head shop called Huff-N-Puff, located on the back side of a strip
center in a seedy part of town. A run-down apartment complex flanked the property,
its parking lot filled with beater cars, its Dumpster overloaded and spilling garbage
onto the parking lot. Crows pecked at something that had spilled from an open bag.

I pulled into a spot and cut my engine.

Alicia glanced around and crinkled her nose in distaste. “This looks like a questionable
neighborhood.”

The question being “Why the hell would anyone want to live here?”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m armed.”

We climbed out of the car and headed inside. Thanks to the eighty-six varieties of
tobacco the store carried in stock, the space smelled earthy and herby, not unlike
the warehouse at Brett’s nursery where he stored compost and potting soil.

Alicia waved a hand in front of her face. “It smells like a petting zoo in here.”

Mom turned to me. “Remember that petting zoo Dad and I took you and your brothers
to when you were little?”

“How could I forget? A goat bit me in the butt.” I’d been five years old and traumatized,
at least until my dad bought me a grape snow cone. But I’d learned an important lesson.
Don’t put a box of Cracker Jacks in your back pocket.

I left Alicia and my mother to take a look around while I made my way past a display
of colorful glass hookah pipes and down an aisle of natural supplements, including
one called Horny Goat Weed that claimed to support sexual vitality.
Not for use by pregnant women,
according to the label.
Hmm.
Maybe I should snag a bottle for Josh.

“Can I help you?” A woman with stringy brown hair that hung past her butt swished
up the aisle in her long, loose peasant skirt.

I identified myself and showed her my badge. “I need to look at your records for the
prepaid Visa cards.”

She gave me a long-suffering look. No doubt she received plenty of hassles from
The Man,
local cops, and whatnot.

I raised a hand to placate her. “I’m not here to give you a hard time. I’m just trying
to find out who might have helped some men move funds overseas.”

A perplexed look flickered over her face, but she gestured for me to follow her. “This
way.” She led me past a display of “Legal Highs” to the stockroom. A computer sat
on a desk in the corner. Cheap shelves were mounted on the wall over the desk. A series
of blue notebooks sat on the shelves, white labels on their spines identifying their
contents.
Tobacco Inventory. Pipe Inventory. Miscellaneous.

She showed me how to access their online sales records and retrieved the
Miscellaneous
notebook, flipping to the section that documented their orders of prepaid Visa cards.
“Here you go.”

“Thanks.”

I spent half an hour looking through the data. Everything appeared to be in order.
Darn!
The lack of progress was eating away at me. Every day that passed without us finding
the person who’d moved the funds meant more people might die, more families might
be torn apart, more bright yellow school buses might drive over an improvised explosive
device.

I returned the notebook to the shelf and wandered back into the store, waiting until
the manager had finished assisting a black man with a Jamaican accent who was buying
what appeared to be a lifetime supply of rolling papers. I envied how relaxed he looked.
A little ganja each day keeps the worries away, huh?

“The records looked fine,” I told her once the man had left. “Just one more thing
before I go.” I pulled the photos of Algafari, Nasser, and Homsi from my purse. “Do
you recognize any of these men?”

The woman took the photos, squinting her eyes at them before sliding on a pair of
outdated eyeglasses with large, round frames. Finally, she shook her head. “I don’t
think so. We get quite a few Indians who shop here for their hookah supplies, but
I don’t think any of our shoppers were these men.”

I thanked the woman for her time and walked outside, finding Alicia and my mother
standing on the sidewalk.

“Look what I bought,” Mom said, reaching into her bag. “A hummingbird feeder.” She
held up a red glass bong.

Alicia and I exchanged glances. Maybe my mother shouldn’t have had that third mimosa
at lunch.

“That’s not a hummingbird feeder, Mom,” I said. “That’s a bong.”

“A bong?” She looked at me and looked back at the water pipe. “Is that the thing those
two guys smoked in those Cheech and Chong movies back in the seventies?”

As teenagers, my brothers and I had watched edited-for-television reruns of the movies
on some obscure cable channel. I nodded.

“Well, darn.” Her gaze went to a sign in the window.

ALL SALES FINAL. NO REFUNDS.

My mother shrugged. “I’m still going to use it to feed the hummingbirds.”

No doubt the birds would be happily buzzed, flying high.

After we climbed back into the car, my mother asked about my other pending cases.
I told her about Richard Beauregard and his disappearing act. “It was totally humiliating.
He’s made me and Eddie look like idiots.”

She frowned. “We can’t have that. Let’s go find him.”

We decided to visit a couple of the campgrounds at area lakes and state parks to see
if Beauregard had set up base at one of the sites. I used my phone to search the Net
and determine which campsites had water and electric hookups for trailers. We made
the rounds, looking for a trailer with a Puma logo, but had no luck. This time, the
closest I got to a Puma was a fluffy red chow chained to a tree. He gave us a quick
bark as we drove past the pop-up camper he was guarding, but quickly realized we posed
no threat to his modest estate and went back to chewing on a ratty tennis shoe.

Near sundown we stopped at a campground and removed our shoes, venturing out onto
a fishing dock to dangle our toes in the water and watch the pretty orange sunset.
The air was cool but tolerable. The site was secluded and, other than the rhythmic
chirp of crickets and the occasional croak of a bullfrog, peacefully quiet. I’d have
to remember this place. It had all sorts of romantic potential. What I wouldn’t have
given to have a glass of peach sangria in my hand and Nick Pratt by my side—or vice
versa.

We three women sat in silence, each of us thinking her own thoughts. I suppose it
would have been impossible for us to think each other’s thoughts, though, huh?

Alicia’s thoughts were on Daniel. She’d been upset when she’d arrived at my town house
Tuesday night. But as the week went on with virtually no contact from him, she’d become
withdrawn. She lay back on the pier and sighed, looking up at the dark sky. “I’ve
been a fool, haven’t I? Wasting years on a guy who can’t even be bothered to call
and check on me.”

“Sign up at that online dating site,” I suggested for at least the tenth time. If
it could find a suitable guy for the Lobo, it could surely find a match for Alicia.

“That’s not a bad idea,” my mother agreed, kicking her toes in the water as she glanced
over at my friend. “A girl as pretty and smart as you would have lots of dates in
no time.”

My thoughts bounced between Brett and Nick, of course. When would Brett return from
Atlanta so we could have our talk? Would Nick meet someone special before I could
speak to Brett? I lay back on the dock and sighed, too. “Why is fate being such a
vicious bitch to me?”

Alicia turned her head my way. “Maybe she’s suffering from PMS.”

Mom was thinking of Dad, I supposed. Or maybe Randall. Or maybe Candy Cummings. Whoever
she was thinking about, Mom was lucky. She and Dad had been contentedly married for
nearly four decades. They’d raised three rambunctious kids, worked side by side to
fix up the ancient Victorian farmhouse I grew up in, planned to grow old together.
I wasn’t ready for kids, maybe not even quite ready for marriage, but eventually I’d
like to have what my parents had. A fulfilling life with a person I adored, respected,
and felt passionate about.

Mom gazed up at a star as if pondering a wish. “I wonder if I could lose ten pounds
before the reunion.”

“I’ve heard you can order tapeworms online,” I said. “Rumor has it some of the supermodels
use them.”

“Dear Lord!” Mom replied. “I’d rather be chubby than full of worms.”

The hungry mosquitoes eventually became unbearable and we were forced to abandon our
refuge lest we be eaten alive. We slid out of our thoughts, into our shoes, and headed
home.

*   *   *

Saturday evening, Mom, Alicia, and I lazed around my living room in our pajamas, eating
boxed pasta I’d whipped up and drinking peach sangria.

Although a romantic comedy played on the TV screen, none of us paid much attention
to the movie. Mom worked her Bedazzler, applying a line of pink sequins around the
hem of a tiny pair of jeans that belonged to my five-year-old niece, Jesse. Alicia
read through a self-help book that offered advice on rebuilding your life after a
breakup. I went through the terrorist file yet again, looking over each item of information
carefully, trying to determine if there were any hidden clues we might have missed.
Nothing caught my eye.

My cell phone rang. It was Brett calling. I excused myself and took the phone into
the kitchen to speak with him.

Our conversation was brief. The weather in Atlanta was unseasonably warm and humid,
making his work outdoors nearly unbearable. Fortunately, the club’s chef had taken
pity on Brett and his crew and brought fresh-squeezed lemonade outside to them. The
chef also served them special dinners each night in the club’s private dining room,
the most recent of which included honey-glazed salmon. Brett might die of heatstroke
in Atlanta, but he sure wouldn’t die of hunger. The chef had even asked Brett’s input
on the dishes, using him as a taste tester for new recipes.

“How’s everything going back there?” Brett asked.

“Same old same old,” I said. “Working my butt off and getting nowhere.”

Brett and I used to talk on the phone for hours, about everything and nothing at all.
But now I had trouble thinking of anything to say to him and the only thing he seemed
to want to discuss was the club’s food. Our conversation felt strained and awkward,
which didn’t go unnoticed by Brett.

“Is everything okay?” he asked, a hint of suspicion in his voice.

No. Everything was not okay. Not at all. But I didn’t want to get into it on the phone.
“I’m just not in a talkative mood, I guess.”

He was quiet for a moment, but he didn’t press me for further explanation. Could he
sense that things had gone awry? That I was no longer 100 percent invested in our
relationship?

“I’ll let you go, then,” he said. “Stay safe, okay?”

“I’ll do my best.”

My phone call completed, I turned back to the file. Would we ever find out who had
helped the terrorists funnel money overseas? Like my attempts to talk things out with
Brett, the case was beginning to feel like a lost cause.