Free Death, Taxes, and a Chocolate Cannoli (A Tara Holloway Novel) by Diane Kelly Page A

cooking and kitchen cleanup. “Yes,” I told the woman on the phone. “I’m experienced.”
    “Hold on.” There was more muffled conversation, and the woman came back on the line. “Can you come in tomorrow at eleven?”
    “That’s perfect.”
    “What’s your name?”
    “Tori Holland,” I replied, pleased at how easily my new name rolled off my tongue.
    “Okay. Got you down, Tori.”
    With the tough job market, there was likely to be some competition for the position. I crossed my fingers that I’d ace the interview and land the job.

 
    chapter nine
    W ho Do You Love?
    That evening, Nick and I had dinner together at his place one last time before going undercover. Neither of us could predict how long this investigation might last, and how long we’d be apart. I could only hope the intensive surge we’d planned would lead to quick arrests.
    Nick’s Australian shepherd mix, Daffodil, shared our meal of barbecue, even indulging in some potato salad and cole slaw. According to the volunteer who’d handled the paperwork when Nick adopted the dog, Daffy had been nearly starved when she’d been brought to the animal shelter. Perhaps that accounted for her willingness to eat virtually anything. The only thing I’d seen her turn down was an olive.
    “Daffodil!” I called to get her attention. “Catch.” I tore a piece from my dinner roll and tossed it in her direction. She snapped it out of the air with ease, licking her lips when she was done. I loved my cats, but I had to admit that dogs could be fun, too.
    “What’s your new identity?” Nick asked, taking a sip from his bottle of Shiner Bock. “Terry Hollandaise? Tamara Hollowpoint?”
    Fortunately, the FBI hadn’t named me after a creamy sauce or a type of bullet.
    “Tori Holland,” I told him. “I’m a former nanny and mediocre part-time business student at DBU. I carry a pink cell phone now.” I pulled it out and waved it. “What about you?”
    Nick showed me his new phone. Unlike my girlie phone, his was a sophisticated silver model. He reached into his wallet, pulled out a business card, and handed it to me. It read GALLERY NICO in a silver script font across the top of the card. The words NICOLAS J. BRANDT, ART DEALER appeared in smaller, blue letters in the bottom right corner, along with the gallery’s address on north Fitzhugh and his phone number.
    “Fancy schmancy,” I said.
    “I know.” Nick raised his bottle. “I might have to trade in my beer for a cheeky chardonnay.”
    When we were done eating, Daffodil and I followed Nick up to his room and helped him pack his suitcases. Like me, he’d be moving into a new place, just in case Tino’s men decided to delve into the identity of their new business neighbor.
    “The FBI got me and Josh a two-bedroom place together,” he said. “It’ll be less expensive that way, and safer, too.”
    I tried not to dwell on the fact that I’d be on my own at my new apartment, with no one to watch my back. I was well trained and capable, sure, but Tino and his men were no slouches, either.
    Nick laid his two suitcases on the bed and opened them. Daffy hopped up on the bed and settled between them, draping her furry head over the edge of the smaller one. Nick put the new clothes I’d help him select into the larger suitcase, while I rummaged through his closet, pushing hangers aside on the rack, looking through his existing wardrobe for his most unusual items. It wasn’t easy. Nick tended to wear western-cut shirts, jeans, and boots during off-hours.
    “You know,” I said, “you could probably just add a touch of flair to some of your usual clothes to change your look a little. A scarf or an arrowhead necklace or something like that would go a long way. I’ve probably got some things at my place you could use.”
    “So I’m cross-dressing now?”
    I rolled my eyes. “It’s not like you’ll be wearing my underwear.”
    “Thank God. All that lace has got to be itchy.”
    “It