Death, Taxes, and Peach Sangria (25 page)

“Neener-neener,” I told Nick. “Have fun babysitting the Puma.” With a final
meow,
I climbed out of the car and followed Eddie down the block and across a four-lane
road to the Denny’s parking lot.

My partner and I crouched behind a utility box on the grass median surrounding the
restaurant and used a hand-me-down pair of my father’s field glasses to look through
the windows. We saw my parents seated side by side at a table in the back. Beauregard
sat at the table, too, inputting data into a laptop. A portable printer sat next to
the computer.

“It’s probably best if we split up in case he makes a break for it,” Eddie said.

“Good idea.”

I headed down to one end of the parking lot while Eddie headed to the other.

A half hour later, my parents walked out of Denny’s and made their way to Nick’s truck.
Though my mother kept her head aimed toward the truck, her eyes darted around, seeking
me out. I peeked out from behind a Volkswagen and gave her the “okay” sign, letting
her know things were going as anticipated.

A few minutes later, Beauregard exited the diner, a laptop bag in one hand, his printer
tucked under his other arm. His clip-on tie had been crammed into the breast pocket
of his white dress shirt now that his work was finished.

As he headed for his SUV, Eddie approached quietly from one direction and I approached
from the other. A horn honked in the parking lot behind us and Beauregard glanced
back. He did a double take when he noticed my eyes on him. He sped up, his long legs
eating pavement quickly. There was no way I could keep up unless I ran. So I did.

Eddie began running, too. “Stop, Beauregard!” Eddie ordered. “You’re under arrest!”

By that time Beau had reached the curb of the four-lane road. Eddie and I were nearly
on him, closing in from both sides. With heavy traffic in both directions, Beau had
nowhere to go. Or at least I’d thought so. He dropped his laptop and his printer and
ran into the street.

Beeeeep!

A MINI Cooper narrowly missed plowing Beau down in the street. He continued across
the road, dodging cars, getting sideswiped by a city bus, but somehow continuing on.
Cursing, Eddie and I ventured into the street, waving our arms, trying to make it
across the street after him. Our efforts earned us three honks, two middle fingers,
and one shout of, “Fucking morons!”

By the time we’d made it to the other side, Beauregard was already down the block,
opening the door to his SUV. In a move that would have made his high-school football
coach proud, Nick rushed Beau and tackled him, taking him down to the asphalt.

As the two wrangled on the road ahead of us, a black Dodge Charger came up the street
from the other direction, making no effort to slow down as it approached Nick and
Beau.

Holy shit!
The driver didn’t see them!

A scream tore from my throat as I realized Nick was about to become roadkill.

At the last second, Nick and Beau apparently noticed the car and realized the driver
had no intention of stopping. They split apart in the nick of time, Beau rolling toward
his SUV and Nick rolling to the curb on the other side.

Thank God!

“Idiot!” I hurled my pepper spray at the car’s windshield as it approached me and
Eddie.

Bam!

The teenage boy at the wheel looked up from the cell phone he’d been texting on, gave
me the third middle finger I’d seen in the last two minutes, and continued on. Dumb
little shit.

When I turned back to Beau, he’d climbed into his Suburban. The brake lights came
on as Nick, Eddie, and I reached him.

Nick banged on the driver’s window and Eddie grabbed a door handle just as Beau floored
the gas pedal. Eddie was forced to let go as the Suburban sped off. “Damn!”

Screeech.
Beau braked to a stop a hundred feet down the road when he realized his camper hadn’t
followed him. I glanced back at the trailer. Sure enough, Nick had disengaged the
trailer hitch.

Smart move.

When the three of us began running after the Suburban, Beau apparently decided it
was best to leave his home behind. He floored the gas pedal again, sending up a spray
of dust and pebbles.

As I waved the dust out of my face I debated shooting out Beau’s tires. Problem was,
any unnecessary use of my weapons could lead to disciplinary action. Better not to
risk it. My internal affairs file was thick enough already and Lu had a hissy fit
every time I shot my gun.

Nick hurried over with the keys to the fleet car and we jumped in to follow Beau.
We nearly caught him as he turned onto the four-lane road right in front of a plumbing
truck. Unfortunately, we didn’t have a siren, so oncoming traffic didn’t yield to
us. By the time we could safely merge into traffic, Beau’s car was no longer in sight.

Eddie banged an angry fist against the door. “I don’t believe it! He got away again!”

I called Dallas PD and requested assistance. The dispatcher sent out an APB, but I
didn’t hold out much hope. The ratio of police cruisers to cars wasn’t in our favor.

We drove back to the Denny’s parking lot, rounded up my parents, and went to inspect
the camper. Looked like it belonged to the IRS now. Beauregard would have to take
up residence under a park bench.

The door of the trailer was locked, but one of the windows was open. Nick gestured
to the window with his chin, intertwined his fingers to create a stirrup, and gave
me a boost up. I tried not to think how firm his shoulder muscles felt under my fingers
as I used him for leverage. I reached up, pulled off the flimsy window screen, and
wriggled through the small opening. Hey, if Beau could do it, so could I.

I found myself in the RV’s sleeping quarters. I dropped to the bed and rolled off,
heading for the door. I let Nick, Eddie, and my parents inside.

The trailer was tiny and spare but clean. More oil and gas pamphlets were stacked
on the small dinette table next to a plastic bin full of tax returns. A new copy of
a tax primer, this one a current version, lay on a cushioned seat.

Dad glanced around the small room. “An RV like this sure would come in handy for my
fishing trips.”

“Or mine,” Nick said, raising a brow in challenge.

The two had engaged in a bidding war over a rifle at an earlier government auction.
Looked like they might go head-to-head again when Beau’s camper went up on the auction
block.

Mom poked a finger in Dad’s chest. “You are
not
buying a camper. If you had something comfortable like this to sleep in you’d be
hunting or fishing every weekend and I’d never see you again.”

Dad looked sheepish.
Busted.

“Don’t worry, Harlan,” Nick said. “You can hang with me.”

“Booyah!” Dad raised his hand and he and Nick exchanged a high five.

Mom narrowed her eyes at Nick.

“Uh-oh,” I said. “You’re in trouble now.” He’d made it onto Mom’s shit list. I’d been
on it dozens of times myself. Getting off the list was no easy feat, though I’d learned
that asking my mother if she’d lost weight tended to speed up the process.

Nick’s truck was outfitted with a trailer hitch, so we hooked it up to Beau’s trailer.
While Dad and Nick hauled the camper to the government’s impound lot, Eddie headed
back home to his family and Mom and I headed to the salon for manicures. Afterward,
we ran by the grocery store to pick up the ingredients for Dad’s Killer Chili and
Nick’s mother’s peach sangria. Heck, I’d need a full pitcher of the stuff to dull
the shame of being outsmarted—again!—by Richard “the Unibrow” Beauregard.

chapter twenty-six

Something Fishy Is Going On

Mom and I spent the late afternoon in the kitchen, doing our best to duplicate Dad’s
Killer Chili recipe. Nick had tried it recently and, once he’d sampled a taste of
the caustic stuff, begged for more. The guy must be a masochist. But even though my
mother and I used all the right ingredients on the list Dad had given us, our attempts
fell short. With six kinds of peppers, onions, and chili powder, the stuff was hot,
sure. Still, our batch lacked Dad’s usual kick.

“You think he sneaks in another secret ingredient?” I asked Mom.

“It wouldn’t surprise me.”

If there was anything southerners prized above all else, it was secret recipes. Both
Mom and Nick’s mother had chicken-fried steak recipes they refused to share, even
with their own children. I supposed I should consider myself lucky that Nick’s mom
had offered me her sangria recipe.

“I bet Dad puts a cup of gasoline in the chili when we aren’t looking,” I said. “Or
maybe some gunpowder.” I made a mental note to take a match to the stuff next time
he made it to see if it caught fire.

While Mom tended to the simmering chili, I looked over the return Richard Beauregard
had prepared for my parents. Sure enough, it reflected his usual MO. He’d claimed
a bogus fuel tax credit in the amount of four grand. He’d be in for a big surprise
when he attempted to cash my parents’ check, however. I’d already notified his bank
that the check they’d written for the alleged gas well was bogus. Just like Beau’s
imaginary fuel and insurance companies, the Bank of Hard Knox didn’t exist. The idiot
really should have taken a closer look at the check.

Alicia returned from her apartment and brought in the clothes, jewelry, and toiletries
she’d rounded up. Once she finished unpacking, she joined us in the kitchen.

I poured another glass of sangria and handed it to her. “Have you checked your responses
on the Big D site?”

She nodded. “All twelve responded with interest.”

I raised my hand for a high five, but unlike the resounding
smack
my father had given Nick a few minutes earlier, Alicia’s slap was less than enthusiastic.

“What’s wrong?”

She lifted a shoulder. “Being back in the apartment today was … hard. I’m not sure
I’m ready to date yet. I don’t think I’m over Daniel.”

Mom gave the chili another stir. “Want a bowl of chili? This stuff will take your
mind off your man troubles.”

It would also take the paint off walls.

“Thanks, but no,” Alicia said. “Last time I tried Mr. Holloway’s chili I was tempted
to check myself into the burn unit.”

Brett hadn’t tolerated the stuff well, either. The chili had brought tears to his
eyes. Nick, on the other hand, had spooned up the stuff like it was chocolate pudding.
He must have a cast-iron stomach and a high pain tolerance.

Dad and Nick returned at eight o’clock, honking twice from the driveway to roust us
from the house. Alicia, Mom, and I ventured outside. The two men stood in the yard,
grinning from ear to ear.

Though the night was dark, Dad had turned on his truck’s headlights to provide illumination.
Attached to Nick’s hail-dented pickup was a brand-new, gleaming twenty-one-foot bronze
bass boat, complete with padded seats, a large casting deck, and a built-in ice chest.
The pointed nose was designed for speed, allowing avid anglers to quickly move from
one part of a lake to another where the fish were biting better.

“Check this out,” Nick said, opening a compartment in the back. “It’s got a forty-four-gallon
livewell capacity.”

“Sweet,” I said, though frankly I was more excited by the ice chest. It would be the
perfect place to store pitchers of peach sangria while I sunbathed on the boat’s flat
deck or water-skied behind it. Fishing wasn’t really my thing. I’d worked at a bait
shop during high school and gotten more than my fill of slimy worms.

Mom waved the men inside. “Come have some chili.”

“Your recipe?” Nick asked my father as we headed in.

“More or less,” he said.

I’d bet on
less.
I eyed him, but he quickly looked away, probably to hide the guilty look in his eyes.
Yep, he’d definitely left out an ingredient. What was it? Propane? Kerosene? Lighter
fluid?

The five of us gathered around my kitchen table. Alicia opted for a frozen waffle
instead of my father’s chili. Dad might have been insulted if he hadn’t considered
his hot chili more a test of character than an actual food source.

My cell phone rang in the middle of dinner. Nick watched me while he scooped up another
spoonful of chili. I ignored the phone and let it go to voice mail, knowing the caller
was most likely Brett. Besides, Mom would have chastised me for taking a call during
supper. It wouldn’t be proper. She hadn’t spent all that hard-earned money to send
me to Miss Cecily’s Charm School only to have me ignore everything I’d been taught.
Besides, if I violated any of Miss Cecily’s Ten Tenets of Decorum, my mother would
likely sign me up for a refresher course.

When dinner was over, Dad plopped himself down on the couch to watch the news and
Alicia and my mother set about washing the dishes. I walked Nick to the door. He grabbed
me by the wrist and pulled me onto my porch, closing the door behind us.

He said nothing, just stared down at me for a moment before swatting away a pesky
moth attracted by the porch light. I swatted away another pesky moth, stared at Nick,
and said nothing right back. But what was there to say, really? We were at an impasse.
Until I could talk with Brett in person, things with Nick would remain stalled.

We stood there, totally still, simply gazing at each other for several moments. I
could feel his body heat in the cool night and yearned to press myself up against
him. But until I talked to Brett, until we worked out a deal, I knew I’d feel like
a low-down, cheating skank if I acted on my desires.

Finally, Nick blew out a long breath, took a step backward, and cracked a smile. “Well,
it was good for me. Was it good for you, too?”

I returned the smile. “Best I ever had.”

He reached out and put a hand on my cheek. “Good night, Tara.”

I put my hand over his and leaned into his touch. “Good night, Nick.”