Tara Holloway 01 - Death, Taxes, and a French Manicure (19 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

My Redneck Roots

The next morning, I quietly packed my things and slipped outside to Pinky, noting Ajay’s expensive spinners were gone. Hoped he had a low insurance deductible.

Fighting sleep, I headed east on Interstate 20, making my way home in the Caddie. Mom and Dad would get a kick out of the tacky car.

The landscape slowly evolved from flat grasslands to the tall piney woods of east Texas. I exited the freeway, heading south down Highway 259 to Nacogdoches. I drove past the dense, lush woods, looking forward to being home again and spending some time with my family. Maybe getting some distance from Brett for the weekend would help me gain some perspective, see things more clearly.

The confusion and uncertainty were killing me. I wanted to get to know Brett better, to be closer to him. He had all the qualities I’d been looking for in a man. But I couldn’t simply ignore the facts. Whether knowingly or not, Brett had already played a role in the XChange Investments scheme by shuttling the funds from the lake house to the bank. Without more, that minimal role wasn’t likely to support an indictment against him. But there was more, wasn’t there? Huddling with Gryder and Shelton at the Rangers game, the covert meetings at the bank. Was I dating a criminal? Or was there some other explanation?

Unfortunately, even if I resolved my uncertainties about Brett, our relationship wouldn’t be totally problem-free. There was still the issue of my job, his feelings about my special agent position. If anything, as my career progressed, I’d be assigned bigger, more dangerous cases. How would he deal with that? But I wouldn’t—couldn’t—change who I was for him. He’d either have to find a way to deal with the situation or …

I sighed. I didn’t want to think about the
or
.

People could have differences and still make a good couple, couldn’t they? Sure. My parents were proof of that. Dad came from a blue-collar family and didn’t need much in the way of material things to be happy. My mother’s aspirations were somewhat higher, though she’d found my father’s gray-blue eyes, easygoing demeanor, and broad, rock-hard shoulders irresistible. The two had compromised. In return for being permitted to dip snuff in the barn and watch every Dallas Cowboys game without interruption, my father indulged my mother, wearing the monogrammed shirts she bought him, forcing down the occasional escargot, spending his weekends on the never-ending projects required to keep up the ancient Victorian farmhouse my mother insisted on buying just days before it was to be condemned.

My clever mother had named the house Holloway Manor and obtained an economic development grant to finance a large part of the renovations. The house was painted a soft blue, with ivory trim and shutters and a shiny tin roof. A large floral wreath graced the wide front door, while white curtains of Battenburg lace adorned each window. A half-dozen mismatched wooden rockers lined the front porch, giving the house a folksy, homey feel. My mother earned a tidy sum renting out the downstairs for bridal showers, wedding receptions, and Red Hat Society teas. The old house had even been featured once in
Southern Living
magazine, a good part of the article focusing on Dad’s antique gun collection, displayed in a glass case in the study. A framed clipping of the article now hung in the foyer.

Dad looked over from his perch on the riding lawn mower as I pulled into the long gravel drive, the rocks
plink-plinking
against the car’s undercarriage. Dad wore his standard canvas work pants and worn leather boots, along with a loose blue cotton shirt and a straw cowboy hat to keep the sun out of his eyes. He did a double take when he realized it was me driving the pink monstrosity, a welcoming grin spreading across his weathered face as he waved to me.

Mom was out front, kneeling on a folded blue tarp in the flower bed. Beside her sat a rusty Radio Flyer wagon filled with yellow lantana, red salvia, and purple-flowered Mexican heather, the staples of Texas landscaping. Like me, Mom was petite with brown hair. She sported a pair of pale green Capri pants, a short-sleeved yellow shirt, and a red bandanna on her head to hold her shoulder-length hair out of her face. She stood, smiling, sliding her feet into a pair of waterproof gardening clogs. She walked over to the car to give me a hug and kiss, careful to avoid touching me with her dirty garden gloves.

She gestured toward the car. “What in the world is this?”

“I’m on a stakeout,” I said. “The car is part of our cover.”

Dad pulled up on the mower, cut the engine, and climbed off, giving me a big bear hug. He smelled like hard work and fresh-cut grass. While Dad fanned himself with his hat, I gave him and Mom the scoop on our impending bust. Forcing a smile, Mom tried to hide her concern.

Dad shook his head and put his hat back on. “Well, don’t that beat all. If you can’t trust the ice-cream man, who can you trust?”

After Dad carried my bags inside, I grabbed a spare pair of white garden gloves and a red-handled trowel from the barn and knelt down next to my mom in the flower bed. I’d always enjoyed gardening with her, the satisfying physical work of digging and planting, the fresh, raw smell of the earth.

After a few minutes of digging, I came across a fat grub in the dirt. I tossed the offender into the grass, sat back on my heels, and looked over at my mother. She turned my way, her expression expectant.

“I don’t know what to do, Mom.” Tears welled up in my eyes. “Brett may be involved with a con artist.” I told her everything I knew, all of which was circumstantial, but still enough to raise reasonable doubts.

Her face appeared thoughtful for a moment, then she gave a small shrug. “Believe none of what you hear, hon, and only half that you see.”

I wasn’t sure where that left me. “Got anything better’n that?”

“Wish I did, hon. I hate to see you upset.” She patted my knee. “Time will tell, Tara.”

But what would time tell me about Brett?

Mom stood and held out a hand to help me up. “Let’s go have a praline.”

*   *   *

Mom and I spent the rest of the afternoon cleaning the house and preparing for a rehearsal dinner that was to be held in the main dining room later that evening. The caterers arrived at four and took over the kitchen and downstairs. Mom and I slid into our boots—mine old, worn ropers and hers new, oiled English riding boots despite our lack of horses—and headed out to the barn behind the house.

We’d never raised livestock, but the barn had provided shelter for a dozen or so cats and dogs, all strays we’d collected one way or another over the years, as well as three goats we’d inherited when the farmer next door had passed away. A family member had asked if we might care for the goats temporarily until they could figure something out. We’d had those sweet, coarse-haired, round-bellied goats going on eleven years now, and weren’t about to cut them loose even on the slim chance the family ever did come back for them. I fed each of the goats a handful of raw peanuts, their soft lips tickling the palm of my hand, and scratched them in their favorite spot at the base of their horns.

It felt good to be home. The feel of my old worn boots, the smell of fresh hay in the barn, the taste of Mom’s tea, so sweet your glucose levels skyrocketed after just one glass.

When Dad finished mowing our ten acres, he grabbed a quick shower and the two of us climbed into his pickup, heading out to the county expo center for the gun show. Dad had searched high and low for an M1860 Army revolver to add to his Civil War collection and he’d tracked down a dealer who’d promised to bring one to the show. Last Christmas I’d surprised him with an M1851 Navy revolver I’d found in a pawn shop in Fort Worth. The octagonal barrel had been scratched some, but Dad didn’t seem to mind. “A gun in mint condition lacks history,” he’d said. The M1860 was the last gun he needed to complete the set.

We wandered up and down the makeshift aisles spread throughout the expansive metal building, admiring the ornate styling of some antique rifles, as well as the sleek sophistication of the latest handgun designs, some so small they’d fit in the palm of your hand.

Though I’d been raised around guns and wasn’t intimidated by firearms, I was admittedly a bit disturbed by how easily and readily guns changed hands at these shows. Thanks to what was known as “the gun show loophole,” private individuals who sold guns on an occasional basis only in their home state were exempt from the record-keeping requirements imposed on interstate gun dealers. Nor were these sellers required to perform background checks on their customers. Criminals could easily pick up guns at these shows with law enforcement being none the wiser. Given that I was now a member of law enforcement, the loophole rankled. But with the NRA being the powerful lobby that it is, it was unlikely the loophole would be closed any time soon.

“There he is.” Dad lifted his chin to gesture two booths down at an older man with a thin beard of gray stubble and a faded red and black western-cut shirt. A yellow nylon banner hung behind him, advertising Civil War–era guns, replicas, and memorabilia. We made our way through the crowd to the booth. Dad stuck out his hand. “Harlan Holloway.”

The man shook Dad’s hand, then reached under the counter and pulled out a small black case. “Gotcher gun right here.” He unsnapped the locks and opened the lid, revealing a shiny revolver with a polished wood grip, blued barrel, and shiny brass frame. “Not many of this model left these days.”

Dad maintained a poker face, but I knew on the inside he was as giddy as a kid on a Tilt-A-Whirl. He carefully picked up the gun and inspected it closely for several moments before laying it back in its case. “How much you askin’?”

“Sixteen hundred.”

Dad paused as if considering, though I knew he’d pay the asking price if he had to. “Would you take fourteen?”

After a minute or two spent dickering over the price, the men eventually agreed on fifteen hundred. Dad wrote the man a check and his collection was now complete.

We rounded out the day with a little father-daughter bonding activity, spending half an hour on the improvised firing range at the back of the expo center. As usual, each of my shots landed precisely in the center of the paper target.

My dad beamed. “You haven’t lost your touch.”

“What can I say?” I winked at Dad, took aim again, and landed my final shot. “I learned from the best.”

*   *   *

Mom, Dad, and I holed up upstairs while a rehearsal dinner went on downstairs. We watched some television, then I went to my room, which hadn’t changed since I’d left for college almost a decade ago. Silk mum corsages from high school homecoming games still hung from the posts of my rice bed, their royal-blue streamers dangling down the posts. A thick crocheted afghan in hues of green and gold covered the bed. My sizable collection of Breyer horses posed proudly atop the pine bookcase my father had built for me.

A multicolored braided rug covered the original wood floor, left unrefinished at my request. The scratches, gouges, and scuffs implied a fantastic history had taken place right there in my bedroom. In high school, I used to sit on the floor and examine the scars in the wood, wondering how they’d gotten there, dreaming up romantic stories of a winsome country girl swept up into the arms of a rugged, handsome cowboy, the passionate lovers oblivious to the scratches his spurs made on the wood floor as he carried the young woman to bed for a night of raw passion. Yep, my hormones were pretty much raging back then.

The showpiece of my room was an enormous, intricately carved cherry wardrobe that stood imposingly in the corner. I remembered when Mom brought the piece home in the back of Dad’s pickup. The armoire had been coated with dirt and cobwebs. One of the doors had split and hung precariously off to one side. Most of the wooden knobs were missing and the few that remained were cracked.

I’d stood at the end of the truck’s bed, wondering if my mother had lost her mind. “Where’d you get this piece of junk?”

Mom lowered the tailgate. “Yard sale.”

“How much did you pay for it?”

“Forty bucks.”

“You got ripped off.”

Mom shot me one of her looks, the one that said I’d soon be eating my words. The look also said to meet her in the barn in ten minutes ready to work my butt off for the rest of the afternoon. We spent five hours cleaning, stripping, sanding, gluing, and staining the piece, then removing the broken knobs and replacing them with a set of ivory porcelain pulls.

When we were done the piece was gorgeous, the crack in the wood visible only on intimate inspection. In fact, my mom was later offered two grand for the armoire by a woman who’d rented the house for a bridal shower. But she’d refused to sell it, knowing I’d fallen in love with the piece, not only because it was so beautiful, but because Mom and I had made it beautiful together. At one point, I’d considered moving the armoire to my town house in Dallas, but it belonged here, and seeing it when I came home was like visiting an old friend.

My collection of nineties-vintage country music CDs, everything from Alan Jackson to George Strait, lay stacked in the CD rack on my dresser next to my CD player. I slipped some classic Garth Brooks into the stereo and grabbed my photo album from the shelf. Inside were photos of me and friends from high school, an inordinate number of them showing us in the back of pickups with cans of beer in our hands. But, heck, it isn’t like there’s a lot to do in east Texas.

I spent a lot of time in the back of pickups back then. I’d even lost my virginity in the bed of a pickup truck, my high-school sweetheart and I just about wearing out the shocks on his dad’s Silverado. My boyfriend had been a lot of fun, but all he’d wanted to do after high school was stay in town and work in the oil fields. I knew I could never be fully satisfied with that kind of life. We’d grown apart when I went off to college and eventually he’d married another local girl better suited for him. I hoped he still thought of me occasionally, though, perhaps in the middle of a really rocking orgasm. Selfish, I know. What can I say?