Death, Taxes, and Peach Sangria (18 page)

More angry chatter came through the phone.

He grabbed his hair in a death grip now. “Japanese beetles? Damn it! Those bugs don’t
just kill trees; they eat turf, too. They’ll ruin the golf course.”

More loud words came through the phone.

“Tell them I’ll take care of it. Right away.” He paused one last moment. “Right. Thanks.”

He jabbed the button to end the call and set his phone back down on the table. He
looked at me, his expression part incredulous, part panicked. “Some of the trees I
planted in Atlanta are infested with beetles. Shit! I’m always so careful. I inspected
every tree that was planted, for God’s sake! How could this happen?” He looked around
the room as if searching for an answer.

I stood, too. “It’s not your fault, right? You didn’t grow the trees.” The nursery
he’d recently started hadn’t been in business long enough to grow trees from scratch.

“No,” Brett replied. “I got them from another supplier, but I installed them, so it’s
my problem. It’s going to cost thousands of dollars to fix this. The entire nursery
stock could be infected, too. Fuck! This could ruin my reputation.” He kicked one
of his kitchen chairs and it scooted noisily across the floor.

I’d rarely seen Brett so upset, though he had every right to be. He was just breaking
out in his career. If news of the Japanese beetle infestation got out, it could take
him years to recover. Not only did the bugs make him look bad, but the problem also
reflected poorly on Wakefield Designs, the company he worked for. His job might be
at stake along with his reputation.

He seemed to remember that we’d been in the middle of a conversation and turned back
to me. “Look, Tara. I’ve got to deal with this now. Can we have our little talk later?”

Our “little talk” wasn’t going to be so little. But, hell, how could I break up with
Brett now? It wouldn’t only be like kicking a puppy; it would be like kicking a sick,
crippled puppy, one infested with parasites. Like I said, I’m not heartless.

“Sure. We’ll talk later.”
Damn those Japanese beetles!
My hopes sank like a navy ship that had been dive-bombed by a kamikaze pilot.

Nick would be a free man a while longer.

While Brett scurried about, hurriedly packing a bag and making reservations on a red-eye
flight to Atlanta, I gathered up his dogs’ bowls, food, and toys for the pet sitter
and tried not to scream in frustration.

chapter seventeen

Special Delivery

I left Brett’s feeling totally frustrated. Nothing seemed to be going my way lately.

As long as I was out, I figured I’d stop by Zippy’s Liquor and speak to the staff
on the evening shift, ask them about the wire transfers to Honduras. I drove to the
store and parked, retrieving the photos of the terrorists from my briefcase and carrying
them inside with me.

Given that it was a Friday night, the store was packed with people stocking up on
beer, wine, and hard liquor for the weekend. Heck, as long as I was there I figured
I’d snag a couple more bottles of wine. Alicia and I were running low on sangria supplies,
and if ever I needed some sangria it was now.

I grabbed the wine and took my place in line. As I waited I glanced around, noting
the store’s customer base appeared to be largely Latino. Not surprising given that
it was located in a neighborhood populated primarily by emigrants from Mexico and
Central and South America.

Finally, I reached the checkout counter. The woman running the cash register was a
broad-shouldered black woman with high-curving eyebrows that gave her a constant look
of surprise.

“That’ll be sixteen twenty-three.” She slid the wine into a plain paper bag, the glass
bottles clinking against each other as she sat the bag on the counter in front of
me.

I ran my debit card through the machine, typed in my PIN, and accepted the receipt
she handed to me. Our transaction now complete, I flashed my badge. “I’m Special Agent
Tara Holloway with IRS Criminal Investigations. I’d like to ask you some questions
about the store’s money transmissions.”

With her curved brows, the woman’s reaction was hard to gauge. She didn’t look any
more surprised now than she had before I’d told her who I was.

She shrugged. “Okay.”

“Are you Dottie or Gloria?” I asked.

“I’m Dottie.”

“Do you recognize any of these men, Dottie?” I showed her the three photos. “Have
they ever come in the store?”

She looked them over for a moment or two, finally shaking her head. “Hard to say,”
she said. “We get so many people coming through here I couldn’t tell you for sure.
Some nights we’re so busy I hardly have time to look up.”

It seemed like an honest answer.

“Have you handled any wire transfers to Honduras?” I asked.

She chewed her lip and looked down in thought before answering. “Can’t say that I
have.”

“What about your coworker?” I asked, gesturing with my head to a Latino man pushing
a dolly loaded with cases of beer. He stopped near the front windows to replenish
the rapidly dwindling display.

“Couldn’t tell ya.” She stood on tiptoe to look over the crowd. “Israel! Come here
a minute.”

When the man stepped over to the counter, I introduced myself. The two of us stepped
aside so Dottie could ring up the next customer in line.

I showed Israel the photographs of the terrorists. “Do any of these men look familiar
to you?”

His response was as noncommittal as Dottie’s had been. “I don’t know,” he said, his
Spanish accent thick as he spoke. “We have many, many customers every night. We are
very busy.”

I nodded. “I have some questions about the wire transfers to Honduras. Did you handle
those?” It seemed likely. After all, this man spoke Spanish and would be able to communicate
with a recipient in Honduras if need be.

“I do not remember,” he said.

In my experience, an inability to recall information could mean someone was hedging
their bets, not wanting to incriminate themselves yet not wanting to be caught in
a lie if the other party had clear evidence regarding the matter under discussion.

“Let’s take a look at the wire transfer records,” I said. “Maybe that will jog your
memory.”

We went to the store’s tiny, dusty office. Israel retrieved the records and I pointed
out the questionable transactions, including the three four-thousand-dollar cash transfers
that had been performed on the same night.

Israel shook his head. “I do not believe I did those transfers, but we can look at
the schedule to see who worked on those nights.”

He pulled a clipboard from a shelf under the counter and we looked it over. Israel
had not been scheduled to work on any of the nights in question. Though Dottie had
worked on a couple of the nights, Gloria had also worked some of them. The only staff
member consistently on the schedule when the suspicious transactions took place was
Jesús.

“When does Jesús work again?” I asked.

Israel consulted the schedule. “Monday.”

“Great.” I thanked Israel and Dottie for their time and left with my bottles of wine.

Had I found him? Was Jesús the man I was after?

*   *   *

My doorbell rang at nine thirty Saturday morning. Since I was expecting my mother
to arrive soon, I was already up and mostly dressed, lacking only shoes and accessories.
Still, it was a little early for Mom to have already completed the three-hour drive
from Nacogdoches.

I peeked through the peephole. A young man in a FedEx uniform stood on my porch, his
white delivery truck visible at the curb behind him.

Hmm.
I wasn’t expecting a package. Maybe Brett had sent me more of those delicious spiced
peaches the country club’s chef prepared. With all the peach sangria Alicia and I
had been drinking lately, it couldn’t hurt to replenish our supply.

I opened the door.

“Tara Holloway?” the man asked.

I nodded. “That’s me.”

He held out an electronic clipboard and a stylus. “Sign here please.”

I scribbled my name with the digital pen and took the shoebox–sized package he offered
next. The box was too small and too lightweight to contain mason jars of peaches.

“Enjoy.” He gave me a wide, knowing grin, an exaggerated wink, and a hearty chuckle
before turning and heading back to his truck.

What was that about?

I closed the door behind me and carried the package inside. I scanned the label for
the name of the sender. There it was.

Sensual Essentials, Inc.

I didn’t recognize the name of the company. What was this?

I carried the box to the kitchen and set it on the countertop while I rummaged through
my junk drawer for a pair of scissors. Anne hopped onto the counter and sniffed the
box, her little cream-colored head bobbing up and down as her nose made its way from
one end of the box to the other.

I finally found the scissors at the back of the drawer, lodged behind some type of
wrench, a flashlight, and a Phillips-head screwdriver. Ten seconds later, I had the
box open.

Holy crap!

Lying inside the box were two vibrators, one in my signature red, the other in purple,
along with instruction manuals printed in English, French, and, for some reason, Icelandic.
I supposed the device could keep someone warm on those frigid winter nights in Reykjavik.

The box also contained a gift card that read:
Men, who needs them? XO, Christina.

I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. But heck, with the way things had been going
for me lately I could definitely use a laugh. I let loose with a giggle.

I pulled one of the instruction manuals from the box and perused it over a cup of
coffee. Christina had spared no expense in her little gag, ordering us the deluxe
model that promised “whisper quiet” sound and came with three speed settings, an oscillating
feature, and a “jackhammer” button. The manual also came with warnings, advising those
with latex allergies not to use the device and reminding owners that any improper
use would void the warranty. Ironic for a device intended for improper uses, huh?

I returned to my junk drawer, dug out a package of AA batteries, and inserted them
into the gadgets, giggling once again when I activated the jackhammer button. If nothing
else, maybe I could use the thing to pound nails.

Alicia wandered into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes. “What’s so funny? I heard you
laughing.”

I switched the button on the purple device to “oscillate” and handed it to her. The
gadget gave off a soft whirring sound and the tip spun around at an angle.

Alicia blinked drowsily at the thing a few times while Anne swatted at it with her
paw. “Is this what I think it is?”

“That depends,” I said. “What do you think it is?”

She tossed it back into the box. “I think it’s way too early for this, that’s what
I think it is.”

I filled out the two warranty cards that came with the contraptions, listing the owner
as Trish LeGrande and using the TV station’s address. With any luck, she’d be added
to their mailing list or maybe there’d be some type of recall and she’d receive an
embarrassing notice at her office.

Neener-neener.

chapter eighteen

Retail Therapy

Alicia was sprawled on the couch, still wearing her blue satin pajamas and nursing
her third cup of hazelnut coffee, when I heard Mom pull into the driveway an hour
later.

I scurried outside and gave my mother a hug as soon as she climbed out of her car.

Mom was dressed in her best country couture, a straight skirt, riding boots, and a
long-sleeved blouse. She took one look at my face and knew in an instant something
was wrong. “What’s the matter, honey?”

I told her about the preceding day’s events, about opening my heart to Nick, about
Brett and the Japanese beetles. It was enough to make a person consider hari-kari.

Mom gave my hand a squeeze. “It’ll all work out eventually,” she said, trying to reassure
me. Mom was usually right, but nobody had 100 percent accuracy. Sometimes things didn’t
work out. Sometimes things fell apart instead.

“Let me get that for you.” I took her suitcase from her and ushered her inside.

Alicia pulled herself up off the couch and came over to give my mother a hug, too.
“Nice to see you, Mrs. Holloway.”

My mother hugged my friend warmly and stepped back, a hand on each of Alicia’s shoulders.
“Now don’t you fret, either, young lady,” Mom said. “That boy will come crawling back
to you. He just needs some time to sort things out. Trust me. I’ve been there myself.”

Alicia shrugged. “I don’t know. Daniel hasn’t even called. He texted me once to find
out where we keep the ironing board, but that’s it.”

Mom tsked. “Well, sitting around here moping isn’t going to do you any good.” She
dropped her arms from Alicia’s shoulders and pointed up the staircase. “March on up
those stairs and get dressed,” she ordered. “We’re going to Neiman Marcus for some
retail therapy. Let’s do lunch, too. My treat.”

Alicia’s eyes brightened and she scampered up the stairs. Mothers. They know just
the thing to cheer a person up, huh?

My mother set course for the kitchen, probably thirsty after the long drive.

Oh, God!
The vibrators were still on the table!

“Let me fix you a drink!” I cried, rushing after her and cutting her off at the doorway.
I snatched up the devices and dropped them into the bottomless pit that was my purse.
I’d recently upgraded to one of those enormous, shapeless bags when my previous purse
could no longer contain all the junk I’d accumulated. Buying a bigger bag seemed quicker
and easier than cleaning out my stuff. Before long I’d probably have to upgrade again,
maybe to a suitcase or an army trunk.

I moved my purse aside and shoved the box into the bottom of my trash can, pretending
that my actions were intended to accommodate my mother. “Here you go,” I said, pulling
out a kitchen chair for her. “Make yourself comfortable.”