Death, Taxes, and a Satin Garter: A Tara Holloway Novel by Diane Kelly

Author:Diane Kelly [Kelly, Diane]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
ISBN: 9781250094834
Publisher: St. Martin's Press
Published: 2016-08-02T04:00:00+00:00

chapter sixteen

The Lost Art of Conversation

I hit the ground running on Wednesday, hoping that by the end of the day I’d have two or three advertisers willing to spill the beans. Surely some of them would cooperate, see the value in being on the side of the government. Right?

My first stop was at Jitter Juice, a small neighborhood coffee shop that also served smoothies with a caffeine additive. Their paper cups featured their slogan—Jitter Juice Gets You Going—in a lime-green font with lines next to the Js to give the illusion that they were shaking.

A blond female barista met my eye over the pastry display case. “What can I get you?”

“Your boss,” I said, holding up my badge. “I’m with the IRS.”

The young woman took a look at my badge, walked to a door in the back wall, and knocked. When a male voice called, “Come in!” she stuck her head through. “There’s a lady from the IRS here to see you.”

I couldn’t see the man speaking, but I could hear him clear enough. “Tell her I’m out.”

Sheesh.

The barista turned back to me and cringed. “Um … he’s out?”

I didn’t fault the young woman. She was between a rock and a hard place here.

Better take matters into my own hands. “I heard you back there!” I called to the owner. “I know you’re there.”

“Then I’m busy!” he shouted back.

“I’ll come back another time, then!” I hollered. “When are you free?”

There were a few seconds of total silence as the man apparently tried to come up with a response. “I left my calendar at home! Leave your card and I’ll call you!”

I sighed and met the barista’s eyes over the display case. “He’s not going to call, is he?”

She cringed again, lifting her shoulders. I slipped her my card. These people might not have spilled any beans, but they could at least grind some for me. “Give me a large toffee latte to go.”

I sipped my coffee on the way to my next stop, a high-end paint store. As I walked inside, a weathered man in his late forties approached me. If his skin was a shade of paint, it would be called Southern Sunburn. He must not only sell the stuff but also perform some of the outside painting work as well.

“You looking for interior or exterior paint?” he asked.

“Actually,” I said, “I’m looking for the owner of the store.”

The man dipped his head. “You’ve got him.”

I handed him my card.

He read it over and frowned, but he didn’t seem surprised.

“I need to ask you a few questions about KCSH and the promotions they’ve run for your store.”

“Can’t help you there,” he said, holding out my card as if to return it to me.

I didn’t take it back. “Why not?”

“I have no control about what some person says or doesn’t say on the radio. You’ll have to talk to the people at the station about that.” He jabbed the card at me, as if he could wash his hands of things by ridding himself of it.

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