Della spent the next day at home, sitting at her kitchen table going over every scrap of paper, every canceled check. There was no way to be too prepared for the IRS. She only wished she knew what that fool Hawkins had in his nasty little file folder. At least then she’d know what she was up against.
She blew out a breath and pushed the papers aside, and reached for her cup of coffee. As soon as the liquid touched her lips, she screwed up her face in disgust.
“Yuck!” How long had she been sitting there? The once hot coffee was ice cold and full of grounds. She checked her watch. It was nearly noon. Damn, she’d been at this for nearly four hours. Slowly she rotated her neck to work out the kinks, stood, and stretched.
Resigned, she stared at the multitude of papers. There was nothing more she could do. She’d gone over every nook and cranny with an eagle eye. All she could hope for now was an earthquake.
Della slid the loose papers securely inside the folder, closed it, then placed it in her leather briefcase.
“Dammit!” she stomped her foot in frustration as tears welled in her eyes. She couldn’t lose her shop. She’d dedicated more than ten years of her life to the business, and earned the right to call it Della’s. Now, when it was truly hers, it could be snatched away in a finger pop.
Well, she damn sure wasn’t going down without a fight. She wiped away the feeling-sorry-for-herself tears just as the phone rang.
Maybe it was Chauncie, she thought, and sniffed. She could sure use the sound of her daughter’s voice right about now.
She pulled the gold clip earring from her right ear and picked up the phone.
“Hello.”
“Della, it’s Ruthie.”
Della’s stomach knotted for a quick minute. Ruthie never called her at home unless it was an emergency.
“Hi, Ruthie. Please don’t tell me there’s a problem. Don’t know if I can handle it today.” She pressed her thumbs to her temple.
“Well, shoot the messenger later—’cause we have trouble now,” she said in a harsh whisper.
“What is it?”
“There’s some man here claiming he’s from the IRS.” Her voice dropped a notch. “Doing an assessment of the premises.”
“What!” Della’s heart tried to jump out of her chest.
Ruthie cupped her hand over the mouthpiece. “You heard me. He strolled in here, flashed me some ID, and started sniffing around like a hound on the hunt.”
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Walking out of the door right now.” Della started to hang up, then stopped. “Ruthie!”
“Yeah…”
“Do any of the other staff know what’s going on?” She held her breath.
“Don’t think so, Dee. Maybe Reggie noticed him, but that’s a different story. Everyone else is too busy. This place is jumping.”
“Good. See you in a few.”
* * *
Della sped down the Harlem streets, alternately praying and cussing. “Lord, please don’t let those foul people take my shop. We’ve worked too hard and too long. Damn fool, probably a four-eyed midget with a pocket protector! Oh, Lord, forgive me. I didn’t mean that.”
She made her turn onto 125th Street and was stopped cold. There was a line of traffic all the way to the Triborough Bridge nearly eight blocks away. She wanted to scream, but all she could do was tap her foot and inch along. By the time she pulled up in front of the salon she was a ball of fury and raw nerves. She parked the car and snatched her purse from the passenger seat, then took a quick look in the mirror. Taking a deep breath of resolve, she got out and marched toward the shop.
* * *
Matt knew he shouldn’t have come to the shop. It was completely against policy, and if anyone ever found out, he could lose his job. But his compulsive nature steered him there for a peek at his next conquest. What could he have been thinking?
He looked around at what was now Della’s Place, the questionable addition to the shop. There was no doubt that it was a fabulous combination café and nightclub. A great concept. Whoever had done the work did an incredible job, and whoever came up with the concept was a person with vision. Was it the mysterious Della Frazier? he wondered. Shaking his head, he walked quickly to the front of the shop. The sooner he was out of there the better.
He nodded briefly at Ruthie, who looked as if she wanted to make quick work of him with her haircutting scissors. He didn’t intimidate easily—he couldn’t, in his business—but that woman could put some fear in your heart.
Matt breezed by the rest of the women, who sized him up like an object on the auction block. Some discreetly peered from above the tops of magazines, others used no camouflage devices at all but boldly stared with winks and smiles, while one blatantly asked what was his hurry—to the delight of everyone.
By the time he’d thankfully reached the threshold of escape, he felt as if he’d been put on the Colonel Sanders rotisserie grill ready to be served up with a Coke. He couldn’t get outside fast enough, and practically ran across the street to his car.
Matt was halfway across the street when he saw her again. He stopped dead in his tracks, blinking rapidly, sure that he was imagining things. But no, there she was, and she was heading straight for the shop!
He jumped as the blast of a car horn rudely reminded him that he was standing in the middle of two-way traffic. He jogged to the other side just in time to catch a glimpse of her walking through the doors of Della’s.
He could kick himself for his lousy timing, but instead he kicked the tire. If he hadn’t suddenly become so paranoid about being there in the first place, he’d still be inside. Damn. He couldn’t very well go back, and knowing women and their hair, she was liable to be there for the rest of the afternoon.
Reluctantly, he got into his car. He didn’t think he’d see her again. The better part of the previous night he’d thought about her. It wasn’t just that drop-dead walk of hers, the lustrous hair, or the stylish clothes. This woman embodied femininity. Everything about her spoke self-assurance and confidence. Qualities sorely lacking in the few women he’d dated since his divorce.
Matt sat in his car for a few minutes in the vain hope that the mystery woman would reappear. No such luck.
* * *
Della hurried inside, briefly nodding to Cindy, but not stopping for messages. She went straight for Ruthie.
“Melody,” Della said, taking her tempestuous stylist by the hand. “I need you to roller-set Ruthie’s customer.” Melody screwed up her face. “As a favor to me,” Della cajoled, knowing that Melody needed to be stroked at every turn.
“No problem, Ms. Dee. Mine is ready for the dryer.”
“Thanks, hon. You’re a doll.”
Della placed her hands on Ruthie’s client’s shoulders. “Ms. Clarke, I need to borrow Ruthie for a minute,” she said to the middle-aged woman. “I know you love Ruthie to do your hair, but I need to talk to her about something. My stylist Melody is going to set you. She’s one of the best. And for your inconvenience I’ll take ten dollars off the cost for today.”
Lula Clarke looked up at Della and beamed in delight. “That’s why I love this place, Della. You’re always thinking about your customers. Thank you, dear.”
“Not a problem. Just relax. Melody will be with you shortly.”
Ruthie secured the black plastic cape around Ms. Clarke’s shoulders, then followed Della to the back of the shop.
As soon as the door was closed to Della’s office, Ruthie launched into her story.
“He just came in here like he owned the joint or something,” Ruthie complained. “Strolling around and looking up and down at everything. But what he really seemed interested in was the back where the club is. He was in there for a long time.” She folded her arms and tapped her foot.
Della paced.
“What the devil is going on, Dee? Why is the IRS snooping around?”
Della halted and blew out a breath, debating on how much she should say. But the fact was, Ruthie had been with the shop since the early days when Rosie and Louis were first starting out. She’d been a faithful employee and a diehard friend. It was Ruthie whom Della had depended on to look after her daughter Chauncie during her absence. Ruthie could run the shop with both hands tied behind her back. She deserved to know the truth.
“It seems that somehow or the other,” Della began, “when the addition was put on the shop, some wrong tax papers were filed and we owe a ton of money.”
“How could that be? Louis took care of everything.”
“Maybe he didn’t. Something must have slipped through the cracks. But I’ve gone over all the paperwork and I can’t find the mistake.”
“Have you talked to the accountant?”
“I’ve been trying to reach Sid since I got the call. All I’m getting is his answering machine.”
“Hmm. I don’t like the sound of this, Dee.”
“Yeah, who you telling? I have an appointment at the IRS office tomorrow.”
“You need me to go with you? ’Cause you know I will. Can’t stand those SOBs anyhow.” Her features bunched together in a knot.
“No. I can handle it. I’ll just go in there and straighten this whole mess out. It’s obviously a mistake,” she added, no longer so certain.
“I sure as hell hope so. ’Cause if it ain’t, we got problems, sister.”
Della sat on the edge of her desk and looked at her friend. “Don’t I know it.”