Tara Holloway 03 - Death, Taxes, and Extra-Hold Hairspray (7 page)

“Is it good news or bad news?”

“It’s good,” he said, but there was a slight hesitancy in his voice.

I stepped toward him, putting my hands on his chest and looking up into his eyes. “What is it?”

He grinned modestly. “I landed a new job today.”

Brett was an award-winning landscape architect. His hard work and creative, distinctive designs had earned him quite a reputation. Each job he landed was larger, more prestigious. This guy was going places.

“That’s great.” I slid my hands up from his chest to encircle his neck. “Tell me all about it.”

“It’s a new country club,” he said. “I’ll be landscaping the clubhouse, pool area, and tennis courts. Around the golf course, too. They also want me to design an outdoor pavilion for weddings, that kind of thing.”

“This sounds like a huge project.”

“My biggest so far.”

I still sensed the hesitancy. I slid my hands back to his chest. “What aren’t you telling me?”

He exhaled slowly. “The job’s in Atlanta.”

That meant he’d have to travel. But when? And for how long?

These questions were quickly answered. “I’ll be gone for a full month. I leave tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” My hands dropped to my sides and I took a small step backward. My brain seemed to be spinning inside my skull. “How can they expect you to be there tomorrow when they just hired you today?”

Brett reached out and took my hands, pulling me back toward him. “I’m replacing the first guy they hired. He’s tied up with another project, overbooked himself.”

“But…”
But you can’t leave me! I want you here! I need you here!

As much as I wanted to, I knew I couldn’t say such things. I had no right. I’d recently handled a very demanding, very dangerous case, a case that had left me little time to spend with Brett. He hadn’t exactly been happy about it, but he’d supported me through the entire ordeal, even when it was clear it was the last thing he wanted to do. I owed it to him to provide the same support in return, didn’t I? This project was big. A new country club in a rapidly expanding urban area. No doubt this would lead to more work, more projects.

Projects that might repeatedly take Brett away from me.

“But what?” he asked.

“But nothing,” I said softly. “I’ll miss you is all.”

He pulled me full against him, kissing the top of my head. “I’ll miss you, too. We’ll talk every day. And we can Skype, too, as often as possible.”

My heart slumped inside my chest. This wasn’t what I wanted at all. But there was no point whining about it, was there? Better to accept it and try to make the best of it.

I pushed my pelvis forward, grinding myself against him, and looked up at him with bedroom eyes. “If you’re going to be gone for an entire month,” I demanded in my best sultry voice, “you’d better give me a month’s worth of loving tonight.”

And he did.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Hey There, Lonely Girl

Saturday morning, I woke to find Brett staring at me from his pillow. I wondered how long he’d been watching me, hoped I hadn’t snored or drooled in my sleep.

He propped himself up on his elbow, looking absolutely adorable with his sandy bed head, his hair sticking up in crazy spikes. “Are you angry at me?”

Yes, I was. But I wasn’t about to tell him that. I’d sound petty, hypocritical. It was ridiculous to be angry at him for taking on a project that would surely further his career. But emotions aren’t exactly logical, are they? I decided to play dumb. “Why do you ask?”

“Because my balls feel bruised.”

Not surprising. I’d insisted on being on top when we’d made love—against doctor’s orders—for the second time last night. I’d claimed my superior positioning protected the injury on my thigh, but it was probably more a subconscious attempt to dominate him, bend him to my will, punish him for leaving me. I’d ridden the poor guy like a pogo stick.

I wasn’t sure what to tell him, but figured I couldn’t go wrong with, “Sorry about your balls. I couldn’t help myself. You’re so damn good in bed I lose all control.”

His concerned expression melted into a grin. Sheez, men are so easy. “If you kiss them,” he said, “it might make them feel better.”

“Nice try.” I threw back the covers. “No more nooky until I’ve had some coffee.”

*   *   *

Later that morning, we drove out to a property Brett owned outside the city. He’d launched a landscape supply business there, though for all practical purposes he was his own silent partner. He’d hired a manager to take care of the day-to-day operations. Brett dropped by occasionally simply to check in on his investment.

The manager, a middle-aged guy named Dennis, did an excellent job. The place had been in business only a matter of weeks and was already breaking even. No doubt the enterprise would be well in the black before long.

Brett routinely took his dogs out to the nursery when he went, and the dogs and Dennis had become quite fond of each other. Dennis had offered to watch Napoleon and Reggie while Brett was gone to Atlanta. I would’ve liked to help out, but my busy and erratic work schedule would make it difficult to run by Brett’s on a regular basis to check on his pets. I shared my townhouse with two cats, one skittish, the other intolerant, so taking the dogs to my place was out of the question.

I drove along the country road until we reached the white wooden fence lining the front of the property and turned in by the large sign that read
ELLINGTON NURSERIES
. Two king-cab dually pickups were parked in the small lot, the flatbed trailers attached to them loaded with drought-tolerant summer flowers. Petunias. Mexican heather. Dianthus. Yep, it was that time of year, when the flowers planted in spring had since burned up in the hot summer sun and fresh replacements were needed.

Dennis stood next to one of the trailers. He was stocky, with thick, reddish-brown hair and a matching, neatly trimmed beard. He placed a large flat of purple petunias on one of the trailers and waved a gloved hand in greeting. Brett and I raised our hands back at him.

The dogs hopped out of my BMW the instant I opened the back door. The duo ran over to Dennis, their tails wagging furiously. He knelt down to pet the two, pulling off his thick suede work gloves so he could give them a nice scratch under the chin. “Hey, boys.”

Napoleon latched onto one of the gloves in Dennis’s hand and yanked it free, holding it in his teeth and furiously shaking the glove back and forth.

“Give me that, you little troublemaker.” Dennis chuckled as he gently pulled the soggy glove from the dog’s mouth.

“Is everything ready to go to the Habitat house?” Brett asked Dennis.

Dennis nodded. “Got the delivery truck loaded and a driver lined up for later this afternoon.”

“Great,” Brett said. “Tell the driver to ask for Trish LeGrande. She’s got a copy of my landscaping plans.”

I bet Brett’s designs weren’t the only thing Trish would like to get her hands on. “Why does Trish have a copy of your plans?” I asked.

“She’s the coordinator for our latest project,” Brett explained. “She keeps a copy of all the paperwork to make sure everyone’s on the same page.”

Hmm. What he said made sense. But just because it made sense didn’t mean I had to like it.

So much for setting aside my petty jealousy, huh?

The dogs now situated, I drove Brett to the busy Dallas-Fort Worth airport. As we drove, a sense of emptiness and dread settled over me. The next month would be a long one without Brett.

I pulled to a stop at the curb in front of the noisy airport. No sense in me going inside since I wouldn’t be able to make it past security without a ticket.

I popped the back hatch, climbed out of my car, and stood on the sidewalk. Brett reached into the open trunk and pulled out his luggage and his golf clubs, packed in a hard-sided travel case. This month would be hell for me but for Brett it would be heaven. Though the country club in Atlanta had not yet opened, the course was already in place. He’d be able to play all the free golf he could find time for and never have to deal with a crowded fairway.

Brett set his stuff down on the sidewalk, closed the trunk, and stepped in front of me. “I’m going to miss the heck out of you.”

“You better,” I said, looking up at him.

He smiled down at me. “You better miss me, too.”

I gave him a soft kiss followed by a tight hug, holding on as if I’d never let him go. “I already do.”

*   *   *

Saturday evening I had dinner at an Italian place with my best friend Alicia and her boyfriend, Daniel.

“Working on any interesting cases?” I asked Daniel as I passed him the bread basket.

Daniel was an associate with a large, prestigious law firm. He focused primarily on commercial litigation—breaches of contract, trademark infringement, antitrust suits, that type of thing. His firm routinely hired CPAs from Martin and McGee to perform financial analyses for their cases, compute complicated damage amounts, and provide expert testimony in financial matters. In fact, Alicia and Daniel had first met when our boss at the CPA firm had assigned me and Alicia to review financial records in a court case Daniel was working on. For the two of them, it had been love at first
suit.

An odd look passed between my two dinner companions before Daniel answered my question. “I’ve got one interesting case in the works,” he said. “A big one. But it’s not something I can discuss with you.”

I raised a palm, letting him know I understood and took no offense at his secrecy. “Client confidentiality. I get it.” I was subject to similar restrictions.

We chatted amiably through the meal, the three of us sharing a cannoli for dessert.

Though I knew the two didn’t mind having me along at dinner, without Brett I nonetheless felt like a third wheel, an intruder. When they invited me back to their downtown loft for a movie afterward, I begged off, instead going home to wallow in loneliness. Well, relative loneliness. My creamy white cat, Anne, was thrilled to have me all to herself and curled up, purring, in my lap. Henry, a robust and furry Maine Coon, maintained his usual post atop the armoire that housed my television, occasionally reaching out to swat at an errant fly that had sneaked into the house with me.

When the ten o’clock news concluded, I went upstairs to my room. I felt lonely in my bed, forlorn, forsaken. It was odd, really, given that Brett and I didn’t spend every night together and I often slept alone. I guess there’s a psychological difference between being alone by choice and having solitude forced on you.

Sheez. What a whiner, huh?

I turned off my lamp and turned onto my side, lifting up the patchwork quilt so Anne could climb under it with me. She tiptoed under the covers, turning to poke her head out the top, and lay down next to me. I cuddled her to my chest, the vibration of her purr against me a welcome comfort. Brett might be half a continent away, but I’d always have my Annie girl. I kissed the top of her milky head.

CHAPTER NINE

Get Me to the Church on Time

My landline rang at nine the next morning. Probably a telemarketer. I put my pillow over my head and tried to go back to sleep. Seconds later, my cell phone bleeped from the nightstand. Dang. Whoever was trying to reach me knew my private cell number. Not a solicitor, then. I only gave my mobile number to a select group of people.

Without opening my eyes, I picked up the phone, punched the accept button, and held it to my ear. “Hello?” I croaked.

“You sound like a frog.” It was Nick’s voice. Why would he be calling so early on a Sunday?

“I was asleep. This better be important.”

“Rise and shine, lazybones. You and I are going to church.”

My eyes opened again and I sat up. “What are you talking about?”

“The Ark Temple of Worship,” Nick said. “Let’s go check it out. They’ve got a ten-thirty service.”

Not only had Nick woken me up, he’d gotten my ire up, too. “The Ark is
my
case,” I reminded him. “
I’m
the lead agent.
I
make the decisions.”

“All righty, then. What say you and I head over there? Your decision, boss.”

“I suppose it can’t hurt.” The guy may have pissed me off, but his suggestion was nonetheless a good one. Nick and I had a meeting scheduled for tomorrow afternoon with Pastor Fischer. It couldn’t hurt to get a sneak preview of the man we’d be dealing with. Maybe we’d learn a thing or two to give us an edge tomorrow. It wouldn’t be an easy meeting. We planned to take one last shot at securing the Ark’s agreement to comply with their tax reporting requirements, to give Fischer a final chance to pay his long-outstanding bill. This game had gone on long enough.

“I’ll swing by in an hour to pick you up,” Nick said. “Make yourself purty.”

*   *   *

The Ark Temple of Worship was a behemoth of biblical proportions, no pun intended. The church property fronted one of Dallas’s many highways, stretching back a full half mile to encompass a sprawling parking lot as well as the extensive parsonage and grounds.

According to the information I’d read in his file, Noah Fischer had obtained the capital needed to buy the land and build the church from a wealthy elderly spinster whose soul Fischer allegedly saved mere weeks before her death. Perfect timing, huh? She’d revised her will to leave the bulk of her estate to Fischer’s then-fledgling ministry.

The façade of the church building was designed to look like an enormous wooden boat. Though I understood the church was going for a theme here, I found the design to be a bit tacky. The place looked less like a place of worship and more like something you’d find in an amusement park. But who was I to say such things.
Judge not,
right?

Nick drove up and down the lanes, searching for an available spot. Several of the people making their way to the building did a double take as we passed. Nick’s battered pickup didn’t fit in among the luxury cars parked in the lot. The place was a virtual sea of Jaguars, Lexuses, and Mercedeses. Heck, I even spotted a Ferrari among the vehicles. This church certainly had an upscale clientele.