Tara Holloway 01 - Death, Taxes, and a French Manicure (7 page)

“Nope,” I said. “Not a thing.”

Christina shook her head.

The cruiser rolled on.

“Lying to cops,” Christina muttered. “Our karma is so screwed.”

We were about to climb into the pink Caddie again when we heard the warbling bars of ice-cream truck music in the distance.

My gaze met Christina’s. “Joe Cool?”

She bobbed her head affirmatively.

I opened my purse and pulled out my wallet. No bills. Shoot. Given that cash was virtually obsolete these days, I rarely bothered to carry any. “Got any singles?”

Christina rummaged through her purse and checked her wallet. “
¡Ay caramba!
I’ve only got sixteen cents.” She held up a Visa card. “You think he takes plastic?”

Some undercover agents we were.

We searched the Cadillac’s ashtray and floorboards. Nothing. The attendant at the impound lot had likely cleared out anything of value in the car.

The music grew louder and several blocks down an ice-cream truck came around the corner, its once-red paint now oxidized to a flat, rusty orange in the Texas sun. The truck headed slowly up the street toward us. At two o’clock in the afternoon on a school day, only a handful of customers presented themselves. A thin black woman in a flowered housedress came out of a house five doors down and waved at the van. A toddler wearing only a diaper followed her to the truck, wobbling on his chubby legs. A few seconds later, the woman backed away holding two ice-cream bars and handed one to the kid.

Christina hopped onto the trunk of the Cadillac, putting her feet on the bumper and leaning back suggestively. I didn’t have time to strike such a seductive pose, and even if I had, with my short build and flat chest I could never achieve quite the same effect. I chose to simply lean back against the fender.

The ice-cream truck started up again, rolling toward us at the whopping rate of three miles per hour. A pair of black speakers mounted on top of the truck continued to blare the silly children’s tune.

I snapped my fingers as recognition kicked in. “I know that song. My kindergarten teacher taught it to the class.”

“Mine, too.”

Christina and I launched into song. “‘Do your ears hang low? Do they wobble to and fro?’” We added the motions we’d learned years ago, pretending to tie knots and bows.

Finally, the truck rolled up to our house. The driver glanced over at me and Christina and slowed, the truck’s engine sputtering, its brakes giving off an earsplitting screech as it came to a stop.

The driver turned his face to us. Sure enough, it was Joseph “Joe Cool” Cullen, complete with the zit-pocked face and greasy mullet he’d sported in the photo we’d seen earlier. He flashed a sleazy grin as his gaze locked on Christina’s breasts.

I leaned her way and whispered, “Bet his ears aren’t the only thing he’s got that hangs low and wobbles to and fro.”

She groaned softly at me and waggled her fingers at Joe.

“Hey, there,” Joe called from his truck.

Christina gave him a “hey” back, drawing the word out into three syllables as only true Texans can.

Joe stood up and came to the window. “Ice cream?”

“Don’t got no money,” Christina said.

I mentally cringed at her abuse of the English language, but her butchered grammar made her sound as trashy as she looked.

Joe gestured for the two of us to come over. Christina slowly slid down the trunk of the car, stretching her long legs out in front of her. She sauntered over to the truck with me tagging along behind like a pesky puppy.

Joe was even more repulsive up close. Across his nose was a sprinkling of what at first appeared to be freckles but on closer inspection turned out to be blackheads. Nasty.

“Haven’t seen the two of you before,” Joe said.

“Just moved in today.” Christina leaned sideways against the truck, running a finger along the plunging neckline of her tank top, pulling it down slightly to give Joe more cleavage to ogle. The guy practically drooled.

A few seconds later, he turned to me, taking in my still-red face and puffy eyes. “What happened to you? Piss off your boyfriend?”

My blood instantly turned to molten lava. It wasn’t just his words that enraged me, it was the nonchalant way he referred to domestic violence. I fought an ironic urge to yank him out of the truck and shove his face in the festering garbage at the curb. I took a calming breath. “Nah. Just allergies.”

Joe leaned out of the window, putting himself as close as he could to Christina without getting out of the truck. “Today’s ice cream is on the house. Consider it a welcome gift.”

Christina shot Joe a coy smile, then stepped back to scope out the choices pictured on the side of the van. “Hmm. I can’t decide.” She bent over unnecessarily, pretending to take a closer look. She stuck her ass out, making sure Joe got a nice view, proving just what she’d do for a Klondike bar.

His mouth hung open in a gaping grin, revealing a collection of silver-filled teeth and a lifetime of substandard dental hygiene. If he didn’t close his lips soon, he’d start collecting flies.

After a few seconds, Christina stood back up. “I’ll have a Fudgsicle.”

Joe handed her an ice-cream bar, then glanced over at me. “How about you?”

“Bomb Pop.”

He rummaged through the waist-high freezer, then handed the popsicle to me.

“Thanks.”

“No problem.”

I unwrapped my Bomb Pop and took a big bite off the top. Yee-ow! Brain freeze.

Christina turned and walked back to the Cadillac, swinging her hips just enough to give Joe a show. I followed her. After Christina resumed her position on the trunk of the car, Joe flopped back into the driver’s seat and started the truck. He took one last look at Christina before easing the van into gear. Poor, stupid guy. Here he was welcoming us to the ’hood with free ice cream when the whole reason we were here was to bust his sorry ass. I almost felt sorry for him.

Almost.

CHAPTER EIGHT

First Date

Brett phoned as I arrived home from work and asked me out to dinner. Initially, I was tempted to decline. As much as I wanted to see him again, the dating advice in
Cosmo
said a girl shouldn’t make herself available on short notice. But the frozen pizza in my freezer was coated with frost and the only things in my pantry were a box of Fruity Pebbles and a bag of kitty kibble. The kibble was fresh, but a quick taste test indicated the cereal had grown stale.

“You’re in luck,” I told Brett. “George Clooney had to cancel. He caught the flu.”

“What a coincidence,” Brett replied. “Megan Fox canceled on me for the same reason.”

He could give as good as he took. That was promising.

I agonized for half an hour over what to wear and changed outfits five times, finally settling on a light blue cowl-necked sweater, skinny jeans, and mules. Cute without looking like I was trying too hard to impress him. I sat on the couch with Annie, watching the early news and waiting for Brett to arrive. At the sound of a car pulling into the driveway, my pulse quickened and Annie’s ears pricked up. When Brett knocked on the door, the cat leaped off my lap and darted under the sofa.

I took a deep breath and opened my front door. Brett stood on the porch, dressed in jeans, a long-sleeved green Henley, and sporty tan loafers. He looked just as yummy in his casual gear as he had Friday night in his tux. In his hands he held an African violet in a small pot shaped like a frog. He held it out to me. “For you.”

“How sweet, Brett. Thanks. I’ve got the perfect place for it.” I took the plant from him, carried it to the kitchen, and situated it next to the sink, where it would receive indirect sunlight.

He leaned back against the counter. “What sounds good for dinner?”

I’d been raised on a strict Southern diet of chicken-fried steak and mashed potatoes and had been thrilled to discover the variety of ethnic cuisine available in Dallas. Still, I knew some people were squeamish about certain foods. “You eat sushi?”

“Love the stuff.”

Not a wuss about food. Another point in his favor.

We climbed into Brett’s black Lincoln Navigator and drove to a hole-in-the-wall sushi bar a few blocks from my place. The pretty Asian waitress led us to two seats near the far end of the bar. Once we were seated, Brett tore the paper off his wooden chopsticks, pulled them apart, and drummed a quick version of the “Wipeout” drum solo on the edge of his plate.

“Impressive,” I said.

“Played percussion in my high school marching band.”

“A band geek, huh?”

He chuckled. “Yeah. You?”

“Nah. I have no musical talent whatsoever,” I said. “I was more the type to hang out under the bleachers and drink beer.”

He emitted a teasing tsk-tsk and shook his head. “My mother warned me about girls like you.”

I smiled. “Yep, we’re nothing but trouble.”

He cocked his head and narrowed his eyes, assessing me. “Sometimes a little trouble can be a lot of fun.”

Oh, yeah.

I chased the California roll with a glass of sweet plum wine, while Brett braved a cup of hot sake. Over dinner, we learned more about each other. Like me, he was the youngest in his family, though he had only one older sibling to my two. He’d grown up in Highland Park, an exclusive area of Dallas, and had attended a top-notch private school. I’d grown up in a dilapidated farmhouse in east Texas and attended public schools. Clearly we’d been raised in very different environments. Still, we’d ended up here together, sharing our stories, a platter of sushi, and a pleasant evening.

Fate, perhaps?

The two of us overdosed on wasabi, using our chopsticks to load the green blobs onto our sushi, grimacing when the lethal stuff kicked in, then doing it all over again.

Brett finagled more wasabi onto his avocado roll. “This stuff is addictive.”

I fanned my hand in front of my face in a vain attempt to relieve the stinging sensation in my sinuses. “Total masochism.” I took a long drink of water. Now that I knew a little about Brett’s upbringing, I was curious how he’d chosen a career in landscape design. “When did you decide you wanted to be a landscape architect?”

He gave me a sheepish grin. “After I wrecked my father’s golf cart.” Brett explained that, at the age of fifteen, he and some buddies sneaked their fathers’ golf carts out in the middle of the night and took them out on the course at the nearby country club to race. Brett was winning when he swerved to avoid a sand trap, lost control, and drove straight into a water hazard. “The engine was ruined.”

I laughed. “Were you punished?”

“Grounded for an entire month. To pay for a new cart, my father canceled the lawn service and made me take care of the yard. Ironically, that’s when I discovered how much I enjoyed landscaping work. I added some bushes out front, expanded the patio, built an archway into the backyard. I did such a good job on my parents’ yard that several of our neighbors hired me to do their lawns, too. I made a small fortune.”

I shook a finger at him. “I hope you paid taxes on that income.”

“Of course. Wouldn’t want the mean old IRS coming after me.” He shot me a wink.

As we each snagged a final piece of sushi, we found we shared a fondness for British television.

Brett dipped his sushi in soy sauce. “You watch
MI-5
?”

“Own the complete set on DVD.” The suspenseful show featured a team of British counterterrorism agents who had to spy, scheme, and kick major ass to achieve their missions. Naturally, I loved it.

Brett eyed me, his expression hopeful, his lip curled up in a mischievous grin. “The only polite thing would be to invite me back to your place to watch an episode.”

I held my
kappamaki
aloft and gave him a coy smile in return. “Is that so?”

*   *   *

After dinner, we returned to my town house. Let it never be said that Tara Holloway failed to follow proper etiquette. As we came in the door, Annie peeked out from under the couch. When she noticed Brett she jerked her head back out of sight.
Stranger danger.

“Who’s the fraidy cat?” Brett asked.

“That’s Annie,” I said. “She has trust issues.” She’d been dumped at a shelter with a half-dozen littermates. Who could blame her? I gestured to Henry, lying on his side atop the armoire, napping in his roost. “The overfed, narcissistic lump of fur up there is Henry.”

Henry partially opened one eye, glanced our way, and, seeing nothing of any interest, twitched his whiskers and went back to his nap.

While Brett loaded the first of the season one DVDs into the player, I went to the kitchen. The African violet that had been so pretty and perfect only two hours ago now bore jagged-edged leaves, a telltale sign my cats had been happily chomping on the plant while we’d been out to dinner. Bad kitties. Good thing it wasn’t toxic.

I uncorked a bottle of my best merlot, a $5.99 bottle I’d picked up on sale at the grocery store. As much as I enjoyed the stuff, I could tell little difference between the cheap brands and more expensive varieties. A buzz is a buzz. I poured two glasses, plunking a maraschino cherry into mine.

When I returned to the living room, I found Brett sitting on the couch with Henry draped across one leg. Brett appeared intact, no bites or claw marks.

“How’d you manage to get him down without losing an eye?”

Brett smiled. “Trade secret.” He scratched the cat behind the ears and Henry closed his eyes in kitty bliss.

“I’m jealous.” The rotten cat rarely let me touch him. Never mind that I fed, brushed, and spoiled him. Maybe it was a guy thing and the two were engaged in some sort of interspecies male-bonding ritual.

I settled on the sofa, leaving two feet between me and Brett. Far enough away not to seem eager, but close enough to be conveniently accessible should a romantic mood develop. Five minutes into the show, Brett shifted closer and settled his arm on the back of the couch behind me. Henry gave me an eat-litter-and-die look, hopped down from the couch, and trotted off. Ten minutes into the show, Brett’s arm slid down around my shoulders. Twenty minutes into the first episode, he whispered, “The suspense is killing me.”

I turned to him. “You mean the show?”

He shook his head and gave me a seductive grin. “No. Not the show.” He put a finger under my chin, lifted my face to his, and pressed his lips to mine.

Mmm.
His mouth was soft, warm, and wonderful. My God, the guy knew how to kiss a woman. I could only guess at his other talents—it was far too soon for things to get physical—but if he was as skilled with the rest of his body as he was with his mouth, I’d be in for a real treat if this relationship continued.

The episode ended. I came up for breath and checked the clock. Ten. Dang.

“I think we better call it a night.” Tomorrow was a workday, after all.

Brett sighed but acquiesced. He left me with another warm kiss. I would’ve killed for a dozen more.