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

a good cook, her offerings were somewhat limited. It was always something fried in grease. She kept a tin can of recycled grease in the pantry, scooping out a spoonful to fry pork chops, eggs, what have you. She’d pour the leftover grease back into the can afterward, to be used again at the next meal. Heck, I bet there was some grease in that can from the first dinner Mom had fixed Dad after they’d married.
    Nick and I stopped at a barbecue joint off the highway a few exits down. As I perused the menu, I wondered what Brett was having for lunch today halfway across the U.S. of A. My heart sagged. He’d been gone only twenty-four hours, but it had been a long twenty-four hours.
    One day down, thirty more to go.
    A waitress arrived to take our order. Nick chose the chicken, but after the moment I’d shared with the hen at the Buchmeyers’ barn I just couldn’t do it. I opted for a veggie plate. Better for my heart and arteries anyway. Better for my ass and thighs, too.

 
    CHAPTER TWELVE
    That’s Not What Jesus Would Do
    Nick eyed me across the table. “If you’d put up more of a fight, I might’ve agreed to eat that mongrel barbecue.”
    “Mongolian,” I said, “not mongrel.”
    “I know.” He cut a grin my way. “Just yanking your chain.”
    When Nick finished his lunch, he wadded up his napkin and dropped it onto his empty plate. “Got your Glock with you?”
    “Of course.” I never felt fully dressed without a gun.
    “Let’s hit the range,” he said. “I’m rusty.”
    Mexican law forbade citizens from owning guns. Nick had been without a piece for the past three years while he’d been in forced exile south of the border. It couldn’t hurt for him to sharpen his skills. I, on the other hand, was the best marksman in the office, probably even the entire IRS. Who better to help retrain him?
    An hour later we stepped into position in adjacent spots at the firing range, protective earmuffs on our heads, goggles over our eyes, loaded guns in our hands. We faced paper targets hanging from an overhead pulley.
    Nick counted down. “One. Two. Three. Go!”
    We unloaded our clips as the pulley quickly drew the targets away from us.
    Blam. Blam-blam. Blam-blam-blam-blam-blam.
    Guns now empty, we retrieved our targets from the pulley and compared them. As expected, each of my bullets hit the paper target square in the heart. Nick’s shots were more sporadic. Though three had penetrated the heart and one had hit the target in the head, several missed the dark human outline entirely and pierced the paper on either side.
    Nick emitted a frustrated grunt. “I’ve got some work to do.”
    “Don’t be so hard on yourself,” I said. “You did fine.”
    “Fine’s not good enough.” Nick shoved another clip into his gun. “Let’s go another round.”
    After the second round, Nick held back, watching me as I fired alone. He yanked the target from the clip when I finished. He eyed the target—all shots square in the heart, as always. “This is a thing of beauty.”
    He was impressed. I was flattered.
    He joined in with me again, and we fired several more rounds. Soon my forearms, elbows, and shoulders began to ache. Holding a heavy gun in place for extended periods of time wasn’t easy and the recoil was a bitch. “I’m out.”
    I packed up my gun, then stood back and watched Nick as he shot several more rounds. “Squeeze the trigger faster,” I advised, “and loosen your grip a little.”
    “Fast and loose, huh?” His next three shots found their mark. He glanced back at me. “Whaddya know. Your advice worked.”
    I shrugged. “I know my guns.”
    “You may be a weapons expert, but I’m an expert in other areas.” A sly smile slid across his lips. “I’d be happy to return the favor, show you a thing or two.”
    No doubt about it now. The guy was flirting with me.
    “I’ll take that under advisement.”
    *   *   *
    Talking with Brett via Skype Sunday night was a poor substitute for