Death, Taxes, and Pecan Pie Read online

  “Got her card by any chance?” I asked.

  “No,” the woman said.

  “How does she spell her name?” I asked. “I could look her up online.”

  “The usual way, I guess,” Cathy said with a shrug. “I don’t remember her name having an unusual spelling. If you leave me your e-mail address, I can send you her contact information. She’s been a delight to work with. I’m sure she’d appreciate me sending her some business.”

  I doubted the alleged Mary Smith would appreciate this woman sending me and Nick her way but, again, no sense pointing that out. I reached into my purse and pulled out a business card I’d had printed for Sara Galloway, an alias I’d used on numerous occasions in the past.

  The woman took it from me and looked down at it. “It’s been nice talking to you, Sara, but I’ve got to skedaddle now. Word has it the beer booth is running low on ice.”

  Texans considered serving warm beer a mortal sin, right up there with murder.

  As Cathy dashed off, I used my phone to log into the website for the State Board of Public Accountancy and performed a licensee search. Nine licensees name Mary Smith popped up. None of them had any disciplinary history. Is one of them the accountant Cathy had hired? Is Mary Smith even the woman’s real name?

  I turned to Nick. “The woman in the straw hat must be ‘Mary Smith.’ Or at least she knows Mary.” And while we didn’t know where the woman in the hat was at the moment, I did know the location of the trailer where the results had been tabulated. Was the woman inside? Was that where she’d been when I couldn’t find her earlier?

  I set off, motioning for Nick to follow.

  “Where are you going?” he called after me.

  “Come on!” I called back over my shoulder, breaking into a jog. “I’ll tell you along the way!”

  Between panting breaths, I explained as we trotted along. “The trailer”—pant-pant—“is where the assistant”—pant-pant—“took the scores”—pant-pant—“for tabulating.” I really need to spend more time on the treadmill, don’t I?

  Nick wasn’t out of breath at all, jogging along with no more effort than walking. Minutes later, we were hunkered down between the same two food booths I’d hidden between earlier. My chest rose and fell as I tried to catch my breath.

  Nick cast a glance at the silver RV. Though the blinds were closed, it was clear that lights were on inside. “Who do you think is in there? You think it’s really a CPA named Mary Smith?”

  “I have no idea.” But I did have one way to find out. I raised my phone, activated the camera, and zoomed in on the attached SUV’s license plate, which, as it turned out, was a Missouri plate. After snapping a photo, I texted the pic to Josh Schmidt, one of the other special agents from the Dallas Criminal Investigations Division, along with a message that read: I’m at a fair with Nick and don’t have access to the DMV databases. Something strange is going on. Can you tell me ASAP who owns this trailer?

  I could see the dots telling me Josh had read my text and was preparing a response. C’mon! I thought. Hurry up! Persistence was one of my virtues, but patience most definitely was not.

  A couple minutes later, he came back with a name. Merry Smith. It’s registered at a St. Louis address.

  Aha! I showed the display to Nick. It was possible Cathy hadn’t noticed the unusual spelling of the woman’s first name. But it seemed more possible that this Merry Smith had used the more traditional spelling in her communications with the Pecan Palooza Planning Committee in order to mask her true identity.

  I texted Josh back. See if she has a criminal record.

  The dots floated on my screen for a few seconds before his message came back. Ok.

  My heart pounded as we waited. If Merry Smith had a criminal record, it would bolster our case and give us grounds for searching the trailer. If she didn’t, this investigation could be a lost cause. After all, I’d seen no money directly change hands, nor could I definitively link the woman in the straw hat to the trailer. The evidence I had was circumstantial, at best.

  “C’mon!” I whispered at my screen. “Seriously! C’mon!”

  My phone sprang to life, Siri speaking at full volume. “Searching for places to buy condoms near you.”

  Oh, dear Lord, she might as well have been screaming over the loudspeakers! I’d never been able to get my phone’s voice control to activate before, and it decides to spring into action now? With that? I slapped at my phone as if that would shut Siri up. Nick grabbed the phone from me and turned the volume down and the voice control off. We could only pray that whoever was in the trailer hadn’t heard the voice and peeked through the blinds to see what might be going on outside.

  Three minutes later, Josh sent a text.

  BINGO!

  “Bingo!” I cried to Nick. “It says ‘Bingo’!”

  Nick leaned in for a closer look. The text included a mug shot of a woman with a long face and brown hair, as well as a screenshot from the government’s criminal information system and a link to a news article. Merry Elisabeth Smith had been born on Christmas Day forty-eight years ago. That explained the spelling of her name. She not only shared a birthday with Jesus, but she had also been convicted five years ago in Missouri for fraud related to “work from home” ventures. She’d taken in over a hundred and fifty grand from people with the purported purpose of helping them set up websites to make online sales of weight-loss products and herbal supplements. Turned out there were no such products and the sites were shams that diverted the sales proceeds into Merry’s pocket.

  “I knew it!” I said. “I knew something was going on.”

  “You do seem to have a sixth sense about these things,” Nick acknowledged.

  I slid the phone into my purse. “I’ve got to get a search warrant and get into that trailer.”

  Chapter Eight: Rock ’n’ Roll

  Nick nodded. “I’ll stay here and keep an eye on the Airstream.”

  Given that it was Saturday, no judge would be at the county courthouse on the square. But the local police would know how I could get in touch with a criminal judge. I marched over to the mobile police headquarters and knocked on the door. Rap-rap-rap.

  A moment later, a fortyish officer with golden hair opened the door and looked down on me. The name badge pinned to her uniform read ROSE. “Can I help you with something?”

  “Hi, Officer Rose.” I pulled my badge from my purse and flashed it at her. “Special Agent Tara Holloway. IRS.”

  “A fed?” She stepped back. “Come on in.”

  I climbed up the metal stairs and stepped into the trailer, pulling the door shut behind me. The only other person in the trailer was an officer who was seated on a small sofa, drinking his soda and watching television.

  Officer Rose cocked her head and eyed me. “What’s up?”

  I told her everything. From Pauline Lang’s switched cup, to Rosario Garza dropping something into the tote bag, to Wyatt Coleman and the porta-potty.

  Her blonde brows rose. “We’ve got ourselves a contest conspiracy, huh? Don’t that beat all. This is the most exciting thing that’s happened out here since I can’t remember when.”

  Without looking up, the officer on the couch said, “We had that shootout last week.”

  “Shootout?” She cast him an incredulous look before turning back to me. “It was three little boys armed with big plastic water guns.”

  A mischievous smile played about the officer’s lips. “That’s not how I tell it to the ladies.”

  Officer Rose rolled her eyes. “See what I have to deal with here? Male chauvinist pigs, each and every one.” She shook her head. “You were saying, Agent Holloway?”

  I returned to my story. “Of course I can’t prove anything yet. I need to get into that trailer to see if there’s any evidence.”

  “So you want to get yourself a search warrant?”

  “You read my mind.”

  She gestured toward the door. “I saw one of the country criminal court ju
dges on the Tilt-A-Whirl earlier. Let me see if I can track him down for ya.” She pushed the button on her shoulder-mounted radio. “Anybody at the festival got eyes on Judge Dixon?”

  There was a short pause before a man’s voice came back. “He’s in line for barbecue.”

  The officer dipped her head. “There you go. He’s a big black feller. Bald. Couldn’t miss ’im if you tried.”

  “Thanks.”

  As I turned to go, she stepped forward and said, “Know what? I’ll come along. With any luck, maybe this’ll get interesting.”

  Something about me tended to bring out the crazy in people, and I’d faced more than my share of assaults and murder attempts. I considered myself lucky when things didn’t get interesting. But I supposed in a small town like Pecan Crossing things were fairly boring most days. I couldn’t blame Officer Rose for wanting to see a little action, though I doubted we’d have any. Merry Smith had no history of violence in her record. She hadn’t been charged with resisting arrest in her earlier case, either.

  Officer Rose and I left the mobile command center and weaved our way through the crowd. Sure enough, a large, bald black man stood at the counter of the barbecue stand, accepting a heavy-duty paper-plate platter of sauce-slathered ribs.

  “Judge Dixon?” called the cop as we approached. “You got a second?”

  He turned our way. “Long as I can eat these ribs while we talk.”

  “No problem,” I said, holding out a hand and introducing myself. “IRS Special Agent Tara Holloway. I’m with the Criminal Investigations Division in Dallas.”

  He shook my hand and waved us over to a picnic table so he could start in on his food.

  As we sat down, a voice came over the loudspeakers. “It’s that time, folks! Straight up eight o’clock and time for the Pecan Princess evening gown competition. Right after, we’ll be announcing the winner and the runners-up. Head on over. You won’t want to miss it!”

  Looked like we’d be missing the final event. Though I wasn’t much into pageants, I had to admit I was disappointed that I wouldn’t see the end of this one.

  The judge picked up a rib. “What are you doing all the way out here from Dallas, Agent Holloway?”

  “I grew up in East Texas,” I explained. “My family still lives in Nacogdoches. We’ve met up here at the festival the last few years.” It was nearly equidistant for all of us, so it was a good place to get together. “My mom and mother-in-law entered the pie contest this year. Mom tried for the praline prize, too. Neither of them won. I suspect the contests may have been rigged.”

  The judge ripped meat off the bone with his teeth, chewed, and swallowed, then asked, “You sure they’re not just sore losers?”

  “No,” I assured him. “It’s more than that.”

  I went on to tell him about the woman in the straw hat, how she’d crossed paths with the winners from both the pie and praline contests, as well as Wyatt Coleman. “My guess is he might be trying to buy his daughter Cassidy the title of Pecan Princess.” Along with all the rights and privileges thereto, including the pecan and crystal-encrusted tiara.

  “I know the Colemans,” Officer Rose said. “They live in my neighborhood. Their girl drives a brand-new convertible Mustang. I’ve given her more warnings than I can count for speeding, running stop signs, and whatnot. Written her at least three tickets, too. Her daddy just keeps on paying ’em. He seems to think she can do no wrong.”

  Cassidy’s father seemed to be teaching her that she was both the center of the universe and above the law, neither of which would serve her well when she grew up and ventured out into the real word.

  I went on to tell the judge about the owner of the trailer, Merry Smith. “She’s got a fraud conviction in Missouri. The festival’s volunteer coordinator told me Smith contacted them claiming to be an accountant who would tabulate the scores for them, to make everything look unbiased and legitimate. But I’m fairly certain she and the woman in the straw hat are working together. Or maybe even one and the same.”

  Judge Dixon licked barbecue sauce off his thumb. “But you can’t prove that unless you see what’s in the trailer?”

  “Right.”

  He mulled things over while he took another bite of barbecue. “Okeydoke,” he said once he’d swallowed. “I think you’ve got enough to justify a search.” The judge wiped his hands on his napkin. “Got some paper and a pen? I’ll write a warrant up for you.”

  Though I had a pen in my purse, I had no paper. Ugh! I stood. “I’ll go find some paper.”

  “No need.” The judge motioned for me to hand him the pen and scribbled a warrant on the napkin. He then handed both the pen and the improvised warrant to me. “Let me know how it turns out.”

  “Will do.”

  Armed with the warrant, Officer Rose and I set off toward the trailer. My phone pinged on the way. Nick had sent me a text. Saw woman in straw hat at snow cone booth. Following.

  As we approached the trailer, I noticed it bounce slightly. Someone’s moving around inside.

  We stepped up and I knocked on the door, which had a window in it. Though nobody said anything, we could tell from the shadow behind the covered glass that someone had come to the door to look out. That person was probably peeking around the blinds. That person was not, however, making any move to open the door.

  Officer Rose made a fist and pounded the side of it on the door. “Pecan Crossing PD. Open up. We’ve got a search warrant and we know you’re in there.”

  A female voice came from behind the door. “I’m not opening this door until you show me the warrant.”

  I held it up.

  “That’s not a warrant,” the woman said. “That’s a dirty napkin. I can see barbecue sauce on it.”

  “It’s still valid,” I told her. “A local judge here at the fair just signed it.”

  We waited for her to respond, but she said nothing more. The trailer began to bounce again as the woman inside moved about.

  Rose tried the door but it was locked. She yanked on it as hard as she could but it was no use.

  “She could be destroying evidence,” I said. “We’ve got to get in there!”

  “I’ll get a crowbar!” Rose called as she rushed off. “Hang tight!” She ran over to the police trailer, bounded up the steps, and disappeared inside, returning only seconds later crowbar in hand. She banged on the Airstream’s metal door with it. Clang-clang-clang! “Last chance!” she hollered. “Open up or we’re ripping the door off!”

  By this time, a couple of the carnies who’d been taking a break had gathered to watch us, the smell of cigarette smoke drifting over, the lighted tips glowing in the dusk. Fortunately, we were far enough from the midway that those at the festival couldn’t see what was going on. With the noise of the rides and games, all of our knocking and banging and clanging would blend right in, too. Good. We didn’t need a larger audience. You never knew when things might get dangerous.

  “Stay back,” I warned the carnies as the cop shoved the end of the crowbar into the small space between the door and its frame.

  The men took a step or two backward to give us more space.

  Once the bar was in place, Rose put her palms against it and pushed. The door bowed out a few inches. As she shoved the crowbar farther in, I joined her, and together we slammed the bar against the side of the trailer. Clang! The door bowed out more, the lock breaking with a snap! Brandishing the crowbar, the officer kicked the door open and climbed inside. I climbed in after her, inadvertently forcing her aside in the small space.

  A brown-haired, long-faced Caucasian woman stood at the gas range inside. She held a stack of papers in her hand and was holding them to the flame, lighting the judges’ score sheets on fire. I recognized her from her mug shot—Merry Elisabeth Smith.

  “Stop!” I couldn’t let her destroy the evidence. I hurled myself at her, shoving the woman sideways into the fold-down tabletop and tearing the flaming papers from her hand. I tossed them into the sink and t
urned on the faucet, dousing them with water. The water might smear the ink but I had no choice. I had to try to preserve the score sheets. With any luck, they would still be legible, would provide proof that she had manipulated the scores.

  With a primal shriek, Smith leveraged her legs against the table and jumped at me. I turned to face her only to be knocked backward into Officer Rose. We went down like dominos, the three of us forming a human pile in the narrow space.

  I put my hands on Merry’s shoulders and shoved with all my might. “Get off me!”

  While she budged an inch or two for an instant or two, she had gravity on her side, pinning me and Officer Rose down with her body weight. She wriggled around on top of us, turning and attempting to slide backward out the open, busted door.

  If she thinks she’s going to escape, she’s sorely mistaken.

  “Oh, no you don’t!” I grabbed her by the hair and held on with both hands as she slid down the steps. Her weight pulled me toward the door. Fortunately, it also pulled me off Officer Rose, who was finally able to get up.

  Smith slapped at my hands. “Let go of my hair!” she screeched. “Let go of my hair!”

  Outside, two more carnies joined their friends and, despite my earlier admonishment to stay back, they all came close for a better look.

  “What the hell is going on in there?” one of them asked, craning his neck to see inside.

  “Catfight,” said another.

  “Should we stop it?” the first guy asked.

  “Don’t think we’re supposed to,” said the other. “One of them’s a cop.”

  “Besides,” said another with a snicker, “I get off on girl-on-girl action.”

  Sheesh.

  I maintained my grip on the woman’s hair and put a foot on either side of the doorframe to brace myself and keep from being pulled outside. When she realized that slapping my hands was getting her nowhere, she tried a different tack, climbing up the steps and launching herself at me headfirst like a human cannonball. I jerked my torso aside just in time for her head to smash into the bathroom door.