Tara Holloway 03 - Death, Taxes, and Extra-Hold Hairspray by Diane Kelly Page A

and eased the truck to the edge of the driveway, leaving room for a car to pass if needed.
    After we climbed out of the truck, Nick stepped up to the security keypad, used his index finger to punch in 666, and turned his head to watch the gate. Nothing happened. He shrugged. “It was worth a shot.”
    We walked along the iron fence that demarcated the grounds. The enclosed yard was precisely one acre, a small acknowledgment of the state’s property tax law, which imposed a one-acre limit on the exemption for a parsonage.
    “This place is beautiful,” I said.
    “The Lord will provide.”
    I glanced up at Nick. “You sure know your Bible verses.”
    He shrugged. “Where I grew up there wasn’t much to do in the summer other than attend vacation Bible school. For each verse you learned, you’d get a jelly bean.”
    “We got cupcakes at my church.” What the Lord didn’t provide, the church ladies would.
    We continued on, waving away a swarm of pesky gnats that flitted around our faces. Too bad I didn’t have any of Lu’s extra-hold hairspray with me. That caustic stuff would’ve taken care of the gnats in short order.
    When we rounded the back of the property, Nick stopped and whistled. “Boy howdy, take a look at that.”
    The back of the house was nearly all windows. Two sets of French doors opened onto an extensive covered patio, complete with half a dozen white ceiling fans and cushioned white wicker furniture. An enormous built-in red brick fireplace ran along one side of the patio, an outdoor kitchen, complete with a large propane grill and minifridge, along the other.
    Crystal-clear water beckoned from a large swimming pool built in the shape of a cross, a diving board mounted where the crown of thorns would normally appear. A freestanding brick bathhouse sat at an angle at the top of the pool. An automatic vacuum with a long hose snaked along the bottom of the pool, leaving a small ripple in its wake. A covered hot tub sat between two trees off to the side.
    Through the back window we could see a woman in the kitchen preparing lunch for the Fischers. Apparently the Sabbath wasn’t a day of rest for her.
    “Wow,” I said. “Who knew there’d be so much money in being a minister?”
    Nick’s eyes narrowed. “I bet Noah Fischer knew it. He isn’t so much a preacher as a salesman. He’s selling those people a version of God that requires little of them other than a big weekly contribution.”
    Not only did Nick have good financial and weapons skills, he also had a unique ability to read people. That skill had saved his life a few years ago, when Nick realized the target of an undercover mission had discovered his secret identity as a federal agent and determined to kill him. Before the guy could act, Nick confessed he worked for the IRS and offered to derail the investigation in return for a sizable payoff. As soon as he could, Nick double-crossed the murdering tax cheat and together he and I nailed the son of a bitch.
    Maybe Nick was right. Maybe he and I did make a good team.
    We continued on, eventually making our way completely around the perimeter of the parsonage and back to Nick’s truck. I was sweaty now, my bra glued to my chest and back, my thighs sticky with perspiration. So much for feeling purty .
    We climbed into Nick’s truck and drove back down the driveway, passing the white limo as it headed to the house. Presumably Pastor Fischer and his wife sat inside, though with the dark tinted windows it was impossible to tell.
    “Let’s grab lunch,” Nick said.
    “How about Mongolian barbecue?” I suggested. “There’s a great place near my town house.”
    Nick’s lip curled up. “Barbecue sounds good, but not Mongolian. Let’s get the good ol’ American kind.”
    So Nick wasn’t an adventurous eater. Hmm. Brett and I enjoyed making the rounds of local ethnic restaurants, sampling different cuisines. I’d been raised on a steady diet of Southern cooking and, though my mother was