Death and taxes. Benjamin Franklin used the term in 1789, in a letter to a French physicist:
“Our new Constitution is now established, and has an appearance that promises permanency; but in this world nothing can be said to be certain, except death and taxes.”
However, the phrase was used earlier in Daniel Defoe’s The Political History of the Devil (1726) and even earlier in The Cobbler of Preston by Christopher Bullock (1716):
“You lye, you are not sure; for I say, Woman, ’tis impossible to be sure of any thing but Death and Taxes.”
April 15 is fast approaching, the time when those of us here in the United States are adding up receipts, gathering 1099s and other documents and filling out worksheets. It’s enough to make a crime writer turn to thoughts of murder.
Time again for our 700-word stories. Janet and D.Z. have two different takes on taxes. In Janet’s story, an IRS audit brings up bad memories—and bad outcomes. D. Z. offers an intriguing look at taxation—and its consequences.
“You’re clear on what to do?” Miranda asked.
I nodded. “Let him in, show him the office, stay with him, don’t answer questions. Not that I have answers anyway.”
“No, you don’t. That’s why you’re going to be here instead of me. That IRS guy wants me to be here so he can ask questions, but my accountant says I don’t have to be here. So, I’m leaving.”
“I get it.” I grimaced. “Remember, I was audited a few years ago. The guy was an asshole. I wanted to kill him.”
“Don’t do that. They’d probably charge me a penalty. Remember, he’s only supposed to look at the office, nowhere else. Stay with him, don’t let him in any of the other rooms. The doors are shut for all the other rooms, except the office. I’ll be downtown. Text me when he’s gone.”
She backed her Volvo out of her driveway and onto the road that led down the hill. It was nine-thirty. The IRS agent was due at ten. I went back inside to wait.
She’d given me the background earlier in the week. She was self-employed and took a home office deduction on her taxes. The IRS sent a notice; they were going to audit her latest tax return. She forwarded the letter to her accountant. He contacted the IRS and learned that they were disputing her home office deduction and the associated expenses. The accountant and the agent went back and forth, the agent insisting he needed to see the office. Miranda and the accountant finally agreed. But the accountant told her she didn’t need to be there. That’s where I came in.
When the agent showed up, I opened the front door and stared at him. He stared back, with no recognition. This was the IRS asshole who had audited me a few years back. The same condescending jackass who’d treated me like I was a piece of gum stuck to his shoe. I had wanted to kill the son of a bitch. Now he was here, looking impatient and officious.
“Miranda Steuben?”
“No.”
“George Baldwin, IRS. Ms. Steuben is expecting me.”
“She’s not here.”
He frowned. “Why not? We had an appointment.”
Asshole, I thought, hiding behind a blank expression. “She had another appointment. I’m here to let you in to look at the office.”
He was irked but didn’t say anything as I stepped aside to admit him. I pointed. “The office is this way.” He followed me through the living room and down the hall. I could tell he wanted to look everywhere and not just confine himself to the office. He reached for the door to Miranda’s TV room. I blocked him. “You’re only supposed to look at the office. It’s through that door. The open one.”
He glared at me and stepped into the office, looking around. He took out his phone and snapped pictures, then removed a notebook from his briefcase and thumbed through the pages. “What about this rug? How long has it been here?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know anything about it. As I said, I’m here to let you in to look at the office.”
That didn’t satisfy him. He peppered me with questions, getting more agitated as I repeated my canned answer. Finally, he shoved his phone in his pocket and the notebook in the briefcase and threw up his hands. “This is unacceptable. Ms. Steuben and her accountant will hear from me.”
He whirled around and stalked out of the office. When he reached the door that led down to the basement, he stopped, grabbed the doorknob and yanked it open. “What’s down here?”
I threw up a hand to stop him. “It’s just the basement. You’re not supposed to go down there.”
“We’ll see about that.”
He gave me that sneer, the one I’d seen a few years back when I’d been audited. I thought about the way he treated me. I moved my hand out of the way. It startled him. He tumbled down the stairs, hitting most of them, the railing and the wall on the way down. He landed hard, eyes open, staring up and not seeing anything.
I smirked. “Oops.”
From the Caribbean side, the plantation displayed a sea of windows, each reflecting the lustrous blue of the water. Felicia stared out at the fomenting ocean as it pounded the far cliffs and sipped her morning tea. She had come here from her father’s home in London, bartered away for a percentage of the sugar cane profits.
Lord Carlton, her husband, she his second wife, owned much of the southern part of the British owned island. Gangs of negroes toiled bringing sugar cane to the mill for processing. Some days the air stank with the burning cane. Other mornings, like this, were crystalline. She opened the door onto the balcony. A scraping sound the floor below broke the morning quiet, shrouding the susurration of water gliding in and out of the cove below.
Felicia leaned over the balcony rail. Two blacks stirred cement in a trough. Rough voices rose up to her.
“Says so, he does. All of them on the east side and west sides, up and down. By night fall. Tax collector comes tomorrow.”
A chill ran down Felicia’s spine at a cool hand placed on her right shoulder and a nibble on her neck. “My dear, your pregnancy becomes you,” Lord Carlton said. “Lovely day.”
“What are those men about?”
“Nothing to worry you, my dear.” He rested his other hand on her growing belly.
“They mentioned the tax collector making it something I need worry about if it relates to profits owed my father.”
Carlton, his gray hair tied and dangling down his back, soothed her stomach. Felicia removed his hand and faced him. “I demand to see what they are doing.”
“I have the mill to attend to as it is a crushing day.”
“I insist you accompany me so that I might ask you questions their actions stir.”
Carlton checked his gold fob watch. “I have some time to mollify you.”
“Mollify? I am your wife. My family is heavily invested in your lands. I believe I am founded in asking what improvements you are making to your property on the backs of my family’s wealth.”
“Then let us be about it so that I might attend to that business you so wish to protect.”
He held an arm up. Felicia lay her arm on it, lifting her long skirt with her free hand, as they descended the balcony stairs to the veranda below.
One of the blacks sorted through a stack of coral stone seeking an exact fit. Seeing Lord Carlton, he stood.
“My lady wishes to see what you are about.”
The blacks lined up to the right of where they worked. Four of the lower casement windows were replaced by coral stone and a cement of shells. What had she overheard? All of them on the east side and west sides, up and down.
“We are partially taxed by the number of windows, are we not?”
Carlton nodded.
“And you believe I need not worry that you are destroying the physical beauty of our home, taking away my view, and the very breeze that makes it habitable for lower taxation?”
“Those are your windows as well. Without them, I can pay your father.”
“What have you done with this year’s profits?”
“I made a poor business investment, one which I can soon rectify. I need only meet this year’s payments all will be resolved.”
“Those are my windows as well as yours!”
“You would have us fail because of an excess of windows? Windows that can easily be reframed once we have recovered financially?”
Felicia stamped her foot. “Remove the stones and mortar.”
“I will not.”
Felicia turned to the workmen. “Do not bid his command. Those are my windows my father paid for them with my body.”
“My dear,” Carlton said, reaching out for her.
“Do not!” she said, grabbing a coral stone. “Do not touch me, I have had quite enough of your ancient touch.”
She smashed the coral stone against Carlton’s temple. He held his hand to the wound. She struck again, then again. “Throw him into the sea where he might be found an accident. Then open the windows so that his widow may be taxed.”