The Misadventures of the Laundry Hag 00 - Swept Under the Rug

cream. Jeeze, there are only fifty two weeks in a year!”
    “One week was really rough. Multiple rejections.” Rowena gave me the slitty-eyed glare that was her trademark. “It was for my muse.”
    Oy with the muse already . Rowena’s muse was the grown up equivalent of don’t look at me, she did it . “Even if your muse demanded it, the IRS won’t see it that way. Materials that directly went to furthering your career. Paper, ink cartridges, mailing expenses, yes. No ice cream.”
    “What about wine? And chocolate, I need chocolate to write.”
    I contemplated thunking my head against the desk but I couldn’t see CW doing that so I refrained. “You know, this is your fourth year claiming your writing as a business instead of a hobby. If you write off too much, it can trigger an audit.”
    Rowena made the sign of the cross at the A word. “How much is too much?”
    Clicking through her online account, I brought up her schedule C. “You made thirty seven sixty, from writing that article you sold to the magazine on the mating rituals of dolphins and porpoises. Two hundred fifty nine from your ebook novella and eighty five for the online class you taught. That’s three hundred eighty one dollars and sixty cents, via the cash method. If you keep your expenses within reason you should be fine.”
    The specter of the IRS still loomed large over Rowena’s ample frame in her cheetah print sweater dress. “Should be?”
    “Will be,” I amended. “And being audited isn’t the end of the world. You have receipts for legitimate expenses and I’ll be there to go over any discrepancies with you. Remember, my guarantee comes with my fee.”
    Rowena shuddered. “Still, I don’t want to be audited. That’s what brought down the mob, you know. The IRS got ‘em when the police couldn’t.”
    She had a point. “Just be reasonable with your expenses and don’t start up a crime ring.”
After another hour of pain-stakingly picking through her shoebox full of receipts and arguing over writing off her weekly massage— “but I need it, Daisy,”—and homeopathic candles—“for ambiance, of course,”—I could have used a tankard of wine myself. Unfortunately it was ten forty three in the morning and I had a new client due in at eleven, so I settled for a fresh cup of coffee.
    “How’s Rowena doing? Did she churn out the Great American novel yet?” Chloe, the other CPA and the co-owner of our small business asked. Chloe had been my college roommate’s girlfriend’s roommate at Duke. After a semester the girls had broken up but Chloe and I remained close and post-graduation we had worked in the same office. Last year, she’d come to me with a business proposal, starting up our own accounting firm. I’d hesitated at first, after all I was an accountant— caution was ingrained in my psyche— but my college loans had been paid off and I lived with my aunt. Catwoman insisted I needed to be bold and the opportunity had been too good to pass up. We rented a store front in my hometown of Harrisburg, North Carolina and recruited my mother to do what she did best, spread the word. Yes, three out of five new businesses go tits up after the first two years but we were off to a solid start here in our second tax season. And of course, there was my secret after hours career. The accountant was happy and Catwoman purred with satisfaction.
    “If she did, she hasn’t sold it yet, though I learned a lot about dolphin mating practices.”
    Chloe grinned and shook out her long auburn mane before donning her cashmere scarf. “Well, I’m off to lunch. Been up since three and I’m starving.”
    “Should I ask why you were up at three?”
    Chloe made a face, which didn’t detract from her Marilyn Monroe pouty look. “Buster got into the trash last night and decided to hock it all up at oh dark hundred. You want me to get you anything?”
    “Maybe never again.” Eep, that would teach me to inquire. Chloe and her husband Rich had the most badly behaved dog on the face of the planet. He chased cars, treed cats, lifted his leg in their walk-in closet and ruined all of Chloe’s silk blouses. He shredded newspapers, toilet paper, photo albums and shoes with equal fervor yet they continued to coddle the sixty pound German Shepard/Collie mix as though he was a big hairy baby.
    Dog people, go figure.
    Denise, our receptionist, strolled in an hour and forty nine minutes late. She ignored us both and headed for her computer