Body Movers: 2 Bodies for the Price of 1

“Okay. Do you need a ride home after work?”

“No, thanks. I hope my car will be ready by this evening. But if not, I can take the train.”

“Okay. Are you sure you’re okay to work today?”

Carlotta managed a smile. “With a mortgage and loan sharks to pay, I don’t exactly have a choice.” Sudden tears welled in her eyes. Mortified, she tried to blink them away. “Sorry,” she mumbled.

“Hey, don’t apologize,” Hannah said, looking concerned—and panicked—at the sight of tears. “Promise me you’ll call later.”

“I promise,” she said, then jumped out before she completely broke down.

Maybe Hannah was right, she thought as she dabbed at her eyes. Maybe she needed to talk to someone with professional objectivity, someone who could give her advice on coping with disillusionment, on how to let go of the past.

But that would have to wait. For now she needed to decide whether to tell Jack Terry about her father’s phone calls.

She was hanging her clothes in a locker in the employee break room when a familiar male voice said, “I heard Lindy nailed you yesterday.”

Carlotta closed her locker door and smirked at Michael Lane, friend, coworker, and self-proclaimed queen of the shoe department. “She confiscated my phone. I have to go to her office and ask for it back like a good girl.”

“Yikes, good luck with that.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“I was kidding. You’re one of her top salespersons. Lindy’s not going to fire you.”

“Was one of her top salespersons,” Carlotta corrected, feeling dangerously close to tears again. “I’ve been toppled by Buckhead Barbie.”

“Oh, you’ve met Patricia.”

“She was following Lindy around yesterday like a shih tzu.”

“Funny you should say that. You know Patricia’s only doing so well because of the new line of doggie wear in accessories. Those little inflatable bathing suits are flying off the freaking shelves.”

“No, I could be doing more. I’ve lost my touch.”

“You’re just in a slump.” Michael gave a dismissive wave and glanced over a memo he was holding. “Hey, you’re in luck. Lindy’s off until Wednesday.”

Carlotta blinked rapidly. She wouldn’t be able to get her phone back, wouldn’t know if her father had called again. There was a way to check messages from another phone, but she had never set up a PIN to access the system remotely. She’d told herself she’d decide whether to tell Jack about the calls after retrieving her phone, but another forty-eight hours of torture loomed before her.

“There, there, it’s just a phone,” Michael soothed.

“It’s not just the phone,” she murmured. “It’s … personal.”

“With all this business of Angela Ashford’s murder behind you, I figured you’d be skipping and singing.”

“No skipping and—lucky for you—no singing.”

He angled his head. “Is your brother in trouble again?”

Poor Wesley. Everyone automatically assumed he was the root of all of her problems, even now when there were so many more potential culprits. “No, it isn’t Wesley.”

“Having financial problems?”

She gave him a flat smile. “Yeah, but what else is new?”

“Good grief, why don’t you file bankruptcy and get it over with?”

His advice rankled her. She didn’t like people knowing so much about her perpetual indebtedness. “I told you, I’m not that desperate … yet.”

“So if it’s not Wesley and it’s not money, what is it?”

“It’s … personal.”

Michael’s eyes gleamed with interest. “Want to talk about it?”

Carlotta hesitated. As chief grinder of the store’s gossip mill, Michael was always looking for grist. “Actually, I was wondering if you could recommend someone … professional … who I could talk to about … everything.”

“Oh. My therapist, Dr. Delray, is fabulous and he accepts our company insurance. He’s taking new patients only on referral but I’d be happy to put in a phone call.”

“That would be super. And if you don’t mind, Michael, I’d like to keep this quiet.”

He made a zipping motion across his lips and Carlotta hoped that she could trust him.

On the other hand, anyone who’d been privy to her recent goings-on might be relieved to know that she was seeking help.

She took her place on the sales floor and tried to push aside thoughts of her father. But as the day unfolded and customers blended together, her imagination began to spin wild scenarios.

If her father was aware of some of the details of her and Wesley’s lives, was he spying on them? The notion had her distracted, looking around, constantly scanning for someone hiding behind clothes racks. Would she even recognize her father? He was bound to have aged in ten years and no doubt had altered his appearance to avoid detection. Same for her mother.

She glanced around, suddenly claustrophobic as shoppers zigzagged by her. Either one of her parents could be within easy reach and she wouldn’t know it.

“Hello, Carlotta.”

Carlotta turned to see one of her best customers, Dixie Neilson, walking up wearing a cheery smile. The flamboyant, trim older woman with a dramatic shock of silver in her dark hair—and her impressive purchases—never failed to lift Carlotta’s spirits. “Hi, Dixie. What can I do for you today?”

“I need a new dress, darling, for a dinner party. I was thinking something red and slinky and ridiculously expensive.”

Carlotta laughed. “I think I have just the thing.” But while she was helping Dixie select a dress, she continued to scan the throng of shoppers. Later, while she rang up Dixie’s sale, a tall man by a rack of women’s cruise wear caught her eye. He seemed out of place as he flipped through the hangers of bright clothing. Who wore a long coat in the dead of summer? And he kept looking in her direction….

She handed Dixie the dress in a garment bag and said goodbye. The long-coated man was still there, still looking her way.

Carlotta wet her mouth and tasted perspiration on her upper lip. She could spot a disguise a mile away; she’d donned enough of them in her party-crashing days.

A touch to her arm startled her so badly, she cried out.

“Easy, girl,” Jack Terry said. To the people who had turned to stare, he sent an easy smile, dissolving their idle interest.

Carlotta’s heart leapt to her throat as she perused his dark suit and tacky red, white and blue striped tie. He was on duty. “What are you doing here?”

“Trying to get your attention. You’re awfully jumpy.”

She told herself to relax or else she’d only raise his suspicion. “Sorry. I guess I’m more tired than I realized.”

“Ashford keep you up late?” he asked dryly.

She hesitated, trying to decipher the expression on his face. Jealousy? Impossible. More likely, he was still smarting over the fact that he’d been wrong about Peter’s guilt in Angela’s murder. “That’s none of your business, Detective.”

One eyebrow arched. “Back to ‘Detective’ are we?”

“Looks like you’re on duty.”

“I am, which is why I need to make this quick.”

Her stomach flipped. Did he know about her father’s phone call? “Need to make what quick?”

“I got a call that my suit is ready.”

“Oh.” She exhaled in relief. “Right.”

He squinted at her. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” But she glanced again at the suspicious-looking man, who nervously averted his gaze.

“Someone you know?” Jack murmured.

She had horrible thoughts of her father being apprehended in the middle of Neiman’s. Wouldn’t her boss Lindy love that? “Uh, no.”

Too late—Jack zeroed in on the guy. She tried to distract him by stepping into his line of sight, but since he towered over her, that was practically impossible. He stepped around her and strode toward the man, who turned and began to walk away quickly. Jack broke into a jog and Carlotta raced after him, her heart thudding. “Jack, wait!”

But he ignored her, reaching one long arm forward to capture the man by the back of his collar, bringing him up short with a choking sound. “The jig’s up, buddy.”

Carlotta skidded to a stop beside them, her mind racing to reconcile the man’s features with those of her father.

“This is harassment,” the man stammered.

Jack shook the man’s shoulder hard enough to make his head loll. “Open your coat. Now.”

The man complied reluctantly with long, bony fingers—fingers that proved he wasn’t Randolph Wren in disguise. Until this moment, she had forgotten how large and capable her father’s hands had been … hands that had once pulled her close for hugs or to tweak her nose in a moment of teasing good humor.

When the man’s coat hung open, Carlotta gasped. The garment was lined with clear pockets, each one stuffed full of jewelry or small clothing items.

“Getting your Christmas shopping done early?” Jack asked the man.

“I’m not the criminal here.”

“Right, buddy. Do yourself a favor and keep your mouth shut.” Then Jack looked at Carlotta. “Maybe your security department should take it from here.”

Carlotta located the nearest phone and called security, feeling like an idiot for not pegging the man for a shoplifter. This thing with her father was driving her mad.

After the man had been handed off, she accompanied Jack downstairs to pick up his suit, keenly aware of his big body near hers. His size was comforting but this new cordiality had her off-balance. Of course, he was probably playing her, hoping she’d cooperate with the investigation into her father’s disappearance.

Guilt stabbed her because she knew she held the one piece of information that he’d been hoping for. Communication from Randolph Wren. And possibly a way to lure him in.

“Thanks for catching that guy,” she murmured.

“It’s my job to catch the bad guys,” he said easily.

She swallowed hard, acknowledging that everyone considered her father one of the bad guys. If she confessed to Jack Terry about the phone calls, she could end this ten-year ache, but would it only lead to something worse—an irrevocable break in her relationship with her parents and maybe with Wesley? And would it destroy this tentative friendship with Jack Terry that seemed to be developing?

No, Carlotta decided on the spot, she wouldn’t tell Jack about the phone calls. She’d handle it with Peter’s help. And who knew, it might come to nothing anyway.

She located the garment bag with Jack’s name on it and unzipped it to double-check that it was the suit he’d selected and that it was indeed ready.

“Want to try it on?” she asked, flashing back to her glimpses of him half-naked during the initial fitting. Hannah’s suggestion of a night of meaningless sex came to Carlotta as visions of her and Jack tangled together in the dressing room flitted through her head.

“That’s okay,” he said. “I trust you.”

At his offhand comment, she pasted on a smile and assuaged her guilt by letting the threat of making him shop for new shoes slide. Passing a table of ties, she scooped up a gorgeous black and deep purple tie that would complement Jack’s dark coloring.

“My treat,” she said, stuffing it into a jacket pocket. “You’ll look stunning when you accept your award. When is the ceremony?”

“Two weeks from today,” he said, then shifted from foot to foot. “Listen, Carlotta … about this awards dinner …”

She looked up. “Uh-huh?”

The detective pulled his finger around his collar, further loosening his hideous tie. “I know I mentioned before that I’d thought about asking you if you wanted to go with me.”

She froze. He was on the verge of asking her—something he’d never do if he knew what she was keeping from him. Her stomach churned with the sudden realization that despite everything looming over her and Jack Terry, she wanted very much to go on his arm and see him accept his award.

The color rose in his cheeks. “Well—”

“Carlotta Wren?”

She turned to find a man standing in front of her, holding a clipboard in one hand and a vase of at least two dozen red long-stem roses in the other hand. “I was told I could find you here. These are for you, ma’am.”

Her eyes widened. “For me?”

“Yep. Sign here.”

She signed her name, still perplexed when the man handed her the hulking bouquet. “I wonder who they’re from.”

“I can guess,” Jack offered wryly.

Carlotta realized he was referring to Peter. Although it was just the kind of grand gesture he would make, she was surprised and a little disappointed that he was pushing her so soon after their conversation about taking it slow.

“Thanks for helping me pick out the suit.” Jack swung the garment bag over his shoulder as if it contained a sixty-dollar rental instead of a thousand-dollar tux. “I’ll see you around.”

“Okay,” she said to his rapidly retreating back, craning to watch him leave. She wondered why she felt so let down when spending an evening with Jack Terry was just a bad idea all the way around.

With a sigh, she ferreted out the card in the roses.

Carlotta, thanks for a great time. Mason

Carlotta glanced over the brimming arrangement that had easily cost a couple of hundred dollars, then bit her lip. Who the heck was Mason?

8

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but we don’t reveal the names of our customers,” declared a hurried-sounding man on the other end of the phone.

“But I think the flower delivery might have been a mistake,” Carlotta protested. “I don’t know anyone by the name of the person on the card.”

“Nice try. Look, sweetie, if you want to find out if your boyfriend is sending flowers to someone else, you’re going to have to ask him.”

Carlotta blinked. “But I—” She stopped because the man had hung up.

“Omigod,” Michael exclaimed as he walked into the break room. “Who sent you the to-die-for roses?”

Carlotta hung up the phone and studied the bewildering bouquet she’d set on the corner of the stained lunch table. “I have no idea.” She showed him the card. “I don’t know anyone named Mason. Does it ring a bell for you?”

Michael shook his head. “Some guy you met in a bar maybe?”

“No, I’m sure of it.” Her nerves were unraveling. Had her father sent the flowers? Was it some kind of message? Or was it simply a misdelivery?

“Then you must have a secret admirer. Someone dropped a mint on these American beauties.”

Her expression must have reflected her dour mood, because he shook his head with a sigh, then produced a business card. “Here. Dr. Delray said he could squeeze you in Wednesday afternoon at six, but only for thirty minutes, so you’ll have to talk fast.”

“Thank you.” She folded the card into her pocket.

Michael fingered a perfect bloodred rose and sighed. “Meanwhile, if you don’t want this guy, send him my way, okay? Buh-bye.”

“Bye.” She carefully removed one long-stem rose and stroked the velvety petals. Had her mother liked roses? Her father? She couldn’t recall. And Mason wasn’t a family name that she knew of, nor a place they’d been, nor a pet they’d owned. If the roses were from her father, the message was lost on her. She tightened her grip on the stem in frustration and was rewarded with a zing of pain as a thorn pierced her palm, drawing blood.

“Dammit!” Carlotta put her mouth to the tiny wound, feeling the return of tears that were too common lately. She wondered if Michael’s shrink would be able to help her, or would her life scare even a trained professional?

Pushing aside the troubling thoughts, she picked up the pay phone and dialed the number to the auto body shop. Carlotta hated the blue muscle car that she’d gotten stuck with after taking it on a twenty-four hour test drive that had gone wrong, but since she owed more for the car than it was worth, she was resigned to driving it until it was paid for or until the wheels fell off.

She had hoped the wheels would have fallen off by now, but no such luck.

The repair shop was recommended by Wesley via his odious friend Chance, so even though it had taken in her car immediately and promised a quick turnaround, she was leery. After several rings, a man answered with a half-grunt, told her to hold, then told her that the Monte Carlo wasn’t ready yet. “Wednesday,” he promised.

She pinched the bridge of her nose. “What time Wednesday?”

“After noon?”

“Okay,” she said wearily, then hung up.

Carlotta turned and eyed the enormous bouquet, weighing the hassle of getting the flowers home on Marta versus the cost of a cab in rush hour. With a sigh, she slung the strap of her bag over her shoulder and scooped up the vase. During the trip through the mall and the half-block walk to the train station, she garnered lots of enviable stares. On the packed train however, the stares became murderous as she inadvertently poked an eye here, snagged someone’s clothing there.

“Sorry,” she mumbled to no one and to everyone standing near her in the shoulder to shoulder crowd. To save space, she brought the bouquet closer to her face but the sickeningly sweet scent of the roses reminded her of death—of the scent that permeated the funeral home that Cooper Craft ran.

She wondered if he’d called Hannah yet for a “body run” or if he and Wesley were working together today. Body moving wasn’t the sort of job she’d hoped Wesley would get, but with his recent arrest record and probation, she couldn’t complain. At least he was bringing in money legitimately, making his weekly payments to the thugs he owed and staying away from the card tables. And Coop seemed to be a good influence on Wesley, which was a relief. After raising Wesley, she had enormous respect for single mothers; the pressure was relentless. So was the guilt.

Things should have been so different for Wesley. For her. The thought only fueled her frustration and confusion over her father’s cryptic phone calls. What should she do? Report it? Wait? Report it, then wait?

“Lindbergh,” the conductor announced. “Lindbergh is your next station.”

The train slowed to a swaying halt and the doors lurched opened. Carlotta pushed her way to the platform and rode the escalator to the street level. A whipping wind had descended with the promise of rain before she could walk the few blocks home.

She picked up the pace, cursing the questionable repair shop and thinking that if she’d known her car wouldn’t be ready, she wouldn’t have worn her Stuart Weitzman mules to work. They were good for standing still or for sashaying around the sales floor, not so good for eating up uneven sidewalks while wrestling an enormous vase of roses. By the time it started to rain, she had the beginning of a serious blister or three. She muttered a string of curses as she tried to shield her Nancy Gonzalez clutch. It was last year’s style, but didn’t deserve water spots.

She glanced around at the slightly shabby homes in her neighborhood, Lindbergh or as locals liked to say, east Buckhead. When they’d moved here after her parents had lost their lavish home, Wesley had called it Limberg, like the cheese, and her mother had said it was fitting. The cramped, nondescript town house had been a jolt to them all after living large. Even the weather in this part of town seemed to reflect the plight of the people who lived here—not quite as good as anywhere else. She’d bet that a few miles away in Buckhead, skies were blue.

She was hobbling in pain by the time she reached the stoop of their home. The rain had stopped, but she was thoroughly drenched as she fumbled with the flowers and her key ring.

“Well, aren’t you special?”

Carlotta turned her head to see their neighbor Mrs. Winningham standing on the other side of the fence she’d erected. The tall, skinny woman sported a bright red helmet of teased hair, elastic-waist polyester pants and a shiny button-up shirt. In her arms she held an umbrella and her dog, Toofers, the ugliest, meanest canine imaginable. Over the years, the bizarrely black-tufted dog had sunk its razor teeth into Wesley more times that she could count. And always when they could least afford a trip to the emergency room for stitches.

“Hello, Mrs. Winningham. Hello, Toofers.”

Toofers growled at her, and the woman gave him a reassuring pat. “Nice flowers, Carlotta. Do you have a man friend?”

“Uh … no.”

“There’ve been a lot of men coming around lately. The man who drives the dark sedan, for instance, and the man with the fancy little sports car and the man who drives the white van.”

She’d bet the woman had copied down all the license plates, too. “Those are just friends of ours, Mrs. Winningham.”

“What about the woman with the striped hair and the chains?”

“Uh … that’s another friend.”

Her neighbor frowned. “Are your parents ever going to come back for you?”

Carlotta almost dropped the vase of flowers, then considered throwing it at the biddy and her bite-happy pooch. Instead she gritted her teeth. “I wouldn’t count on it, Mrs. Winningham.”

“Your townhouse is in terrible disrepair. It makes the entire street look bad.”

She so didn’t need this.

“I wasn’t happy when the two homosexuals moved into the house next to yours, but they have at least updated the place and keep it looking nice. Although that solarium sticking out in the backyard does block the view to the houses on the other side.”

Carlotta gave the woman a flat smile. The two men who had moved in next door about five years ago kept to themselves and had never talked to her or Wesley. Then she bit into her lip. Maybe she should make an effort to get to know them. They probably thought everyone in the neighborhood was as homophobic as this woman.

On the other hand, if they were witness to some of the goings-on at the Wren house, they were probably keeping their distance for a reason.

“You must have noticed that Wesley spruced up our back deck. We’ll get to some of the other things as soon as our budget allows.”

The woman sniffed. “From the looks of what was carried in there today, you got money for other things.”

It was Carlotta’s turn to frown. “What do you mean?”

The woman lifted her shoulders in a dramatic shrug. “It’s not my place to say.” She turned and walked away, leaving Carlotta to stand there soggy and miserable.

The door opened suddenly and Wesley stood there smiling. “Hey, sis!”

Instantly, she was suspicious. “What’s wrong?” she asked as she limped into the living room.

“Nothing’s wrong. Need a hand? Wow, where did you get the flowers?”

“Never mind,” she said absently, dripping on the carpet and staring at something past Wesley, something that even upstaged the little aluminum Christmas tree that had stood in the corner ever since their parents had taken off. “What is that?”

Wesley grinned. “It’s a big-screen TV.”

“I can see that.” The sixty-inch screen was hard to miss since it took up most of the real estate in the room. “What is it doing in our living room?”

“Surprise! I bought it for you.”

“For me?”

“For us. Isn’t it great? The old one was about to go out anyway.” He looked so pleased with himself, just like when he was little and had brought her frogs.

She touched her stinging, injured palm to her forehead. “Wesley, this had to cost a fortune. Where did you get the money?”

“I sold my motorcycle.”

She conceded a spurt of relief and a tug of affection that he would sacrifice something he loved, but her generosity was short-lived. “I’m glad that you sold the death machine but Wesley, we could have spent that money on a hundred other things!”

“You don’t like it?”

He looked so wounded that she bit her tongue and counted to three. “Of course I like it, but.” She gestured to the basket of overflowing statements that she hadn’t bothered to open in too long to admit. “But we need to pay bills! Catch up on the mortgage! And what about those thugs you owe?”

“I made my payments this morning—a day early.”

“What about next week?”

His shoulder sagged as he gestured toward the massive television. “I just thought it would make you happy. You’ve been so morose lately.”