Page 39 of The Mistletoe Kisser
“She’s too nice,” Ryan complained to Mrs. McCafferty, completely unaware that his audience was taking actual notes on a yellow legal pad as he spoke. “If a man was rude to you and so drunk he took his pants off in front of you not once but twice, would you make him breakfast?”
Mrs. McCafferty wrote down “No Pants” and underlined it twice.
Sammy stepped between him and the counter once again and shot him her best death stare. “Stop. Talking. Now,” she hissed.
Mrs. McCafferty leaned around her to give Ryan a once-over and an answer. “That depends. Does he look like you?”
Ryan gave an amused snort.
The store phone rang, and Mrs. McCafferty reached for it. “McCafferty Farm Supply,” she said, accepting Ryan’s credit card. She didn’t look like she was in any hurry to finish the transaction. The longer they stayed in the store, the later they’d be for her first appointment, and the more fodder the Blue Moon gossip group would compile.
Sammy took matters into her own hands and started stuffing Ryan’s old clothes into a bag.
“IRS Collections Department?” Mrs. McCafferty said shrilly. “What do you mean… Hang on… You’re saying I owe the IRShow much?” The woman’s face turned an unhealthy shade of tomato.
Thinking quickly, Sammy grabbed the legal pad off the counter and fanned Mrs. McCafferty with it.
“I didn’t get any notices in the mail!” She was yelling now, and Ernest Washington wasn’t even bothering to pretend to browse. “You’ll accept a credit card?” Mrs. McCafferty looked wildly about.
Ryan reached across the counter and gestured for her to hand over the phone. “I’m an accountant,” he said with authority.
She dropped the receiver in his hand like it was a hot potato.
“This is Mr. McCafferty,” Ryan said gruffly into the phone. Both Sammy and Mrs. McCafferty shared a look. “What’s all this about the IRS Collections Department?”
As he listened, a hard gleam lit his eyes. It was a good look on him.
“I see. And to whom am I speaking? Detective Smith. Uh-huh.” He listened for a few moments longer. “Let me stop you there, Detective Smith. Here’s the thing. The IRS doesn’t call people. It doesn’t try to collect delinquent taxes over the phone. And it most definitely doesn’t call and demand a credit card number. Judging from the background noise on your end, you’re in a scammer call center.”
Sammy and Mrs. McCafferty shared twin gasps. Ernest inched his way closer presumably to eavesdrop more efficiently.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Ryan said. “You’re going to lose this number and every other number in your database. You’re going to hang up, walk out of that call center, and quit trying to scam people out of their hard-earned money.”
Sammy looked on, enthralled. Mrs. McCafferty had hearts in her eyes.
“Or what? I’m so glad you asked,” he continued. “You messed with an unemployed accountant with a lot of time on his hands. I am the Liam Neeson of accounting. I am going to hunt you down, Smith. I’m going to find you and dedicate my life to destroying yours.”
He leaned an elbow on the counter casually as if he were asking for directions instead of doling out threats.
“I’ll hire investigators to follow you. They’ll show your wife pictures of your mistress. Your mistress pictures of your wife. I’ll get you fired from every job you land. I’ll ruin every scheme you attempt. I’ll sue you, your boss, your boss’s boss, your grandmother. Then I’ll turn the Justice Department on you. By the time I’m done with you, your entire family will wish you’d never been born. Now hang up the phone, get an actual job, and earn your own money, assface.”
Sammy was impressed… and maybe a little aroused.
He handed the receiver back to Mrs. McCafferty. “The IRS never calls you,” Ryan explained. “They’re understaffed, and with the tax code changes, they don’t have time to do anything besides send collection notices in the mail. If you run into something like this again, tell them to send all documentation to your attorney.”
Mrs. McCafferty looked up at him like he was SantaandJesus. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you so much. I would have given him my credit card number, my Netflix password, whatever they asked for.”
“You can’t be too careful these days,” he cautioned. “The rest of the world isn’t as…” Ryan’s gaze met Sammy’s, “… friendly as Blue Moon.”
Mrs. McCafferty slapped his unswiped credit card down on the wood and shoved the bag of clothes at him. “On the house.”
“That’s not necessary,” he said, looking almost embarrassed.
“I insist,” she said, beaming at him. “Consider it the hero’s discount.”
He looked like he was going to argue so Sammy stepped on his foot.
“Oh, uh. Then thank you,” he said gruffly.
