Body Movers: 3 Men and a Body

Look what people are saying about the BODY MOVERS series …

“Bond keeps the pace frantic, the plot tight and the laughs light, and supplies a cliffhanger ending that’s a bargain at twice the price.”

—Publishers Weekly, starred review, on Body Movers: 2 Bodies for the Price of 1

“BODY MOVERS is one of the most delightful series I have read in quite some time. Stephanie Bond shows her audience what a wickedly funny mystery should be all about.”

—Suspense Romance Writers

“This series is simply splendid. Vivid, quirky, flawed, wonderful people fill its pages and you care about what happens to them. Like the prior volume, it is replete with humour as well as action. I can hardly wait to see all these characters again.”

—Huntress Reviews

“Here’s to Carlotta’s future misadventures lasting a long time.”

—RT Book Reviews, four stars, on Body Movers

“This is a series the reader will want to jump on in the very beginning. It’s witty, sexy and hilariously funny.”

— Writers Unlimited

“Body Movers is signature Stephanie Bond, with witty dialogue, brilliant characterisation, and a wonderful well-plotted storyline.” —Contemporary Romance Writers

Body Movers:

3 Men

and a Body

Stephanie Bond

www.mirabooks.co.uk

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

As always, thanks to my great editors Brenda Chin, Margaret O’Neill Marbury and Dianne Moggy for your support and for the guarantee that as of this date, the series will last for at least six books! Thanks, too, to my agent Kimberly Whalen of Trident Media Group for handling the logistics, to my critique partner, Rita Herron, for your unflagging support. Chris, my wonderfully creative husband, you continue to be my rock.

And thank you to my dear, dear first-grade teacher, Miss Alice Sue DeHart, for your cover quote. Somehow you taught first and second graders every subject in the same classroom, all day, between wiping faces and tying shoes and kissing boo-boos. You made learning fun, and books special. Miss DeHart, you are still fabulous. Thank you for being a part of my life for over thirty-five years.

1

Carlotta Wren bumped her cast against the door frame leading from the kitchen to the living room. “Son of a …” She bit back tears as pain lit up her entire left arm. Although she was lucky the fall from the balcony of the Fox Theater hadn’t resulted in more serious physical injuries, the prospect of another four weeks in this clumsy cast left her frustrated and antsy.

It wasn’t enough that she couldn’t do her job at Neiman Marcus at a time when she desperately needed the money (short-term disability paid only partial wages). But yesterday when Peter Ashford had brought her home from the hospital, he’d shown her a ring he’d had made for her—her Cartier engagement ring, which he’d recovered from the shop where she’d pawned it, with two more large diamonds mounted, on either side of the original stone. The past, the present and the future. He would keep it for her, he’d said, until she was ready to make a decision.

And on top of everything else, her brother, Wesley, was missing.

Wesley was supposed to have picked her up at the hospital yesterday in a taxi, and when he hadn’t shown, his boss, Cooper Craft, had offered to go look for him. As of last night, Coop hadn’t found Wesley, but Carlotta was hopeful that her brother would turn up this morning. He’d come strolling into the house, whistling, with a mouse in a jar to feed his snake, Einstein, oblivious to the fact that Carlotta had barely slept last night, worrying about him….

Worrying about Wesley seemed to be her fate in life. She’d raised him since he was nine years old, when their parents had skipped town so their father could elude charges for investment fraud. Over the past decade, they’d heard from their parents only through a handful of postcards … until recently.

When a look-alike had stolen her identity and been murdered, Carlotta had agreed to fake her own death. The D.A. wanted to try to smoke out her parents and in exchange, they’d offered to suspend Wesley’s probation for hacking into the courthouse computer records. But Kelvin Lucas, the D.A. who’d been denied the chance to prosecute her father, Randolph Wren, had reneged on his deal when her parents hadn’t shown.

After Carlotta had alienated Wesley for going along with the plan.

After she’d put her friends and coworkers through the traumatic ordeal of thinking her dead.

And after she’d slept with Detective Jack Terry, her temporary live-in bodyguard.

What no one knew was that Carlotta’s father had shown up, in disguise, and he’d recognized her, even though she was also in disguise. She hadn’t known it was him until later, when she’d found the note he’d slipped into her pocket: “So proud of you both. See you soon. Dad”

The scrawled words left her conflicted. During her parents’ long absence, Carlotta had worked up a powerful resentment. Sometimes, she even cheerfully hated them. Leaving without saying goodbye. Leaving her to finish raising Wesley when she was just a few months shy of graduating high school and barely equipped to take care of herself. Leaving no money, only a paid-for town house in a transitional section of Atlanta that was a far cry from the palatial home in Buckhead that they had lost.

College had no longer been an option. The only real expertise she’d had was … clothes. Her father had been a wealthy investment broker; Carlotta had worn nothing but the best since she could dress herself. Thankfully, she’d been able to turn that dubious skill into a career in retail. She’d been a top salesperson for most of her years at Neiman’s … until lately, when her life had seemingly exploded with complications and new relationships.

And old ones.

“Did shithead make it home yet?”

Carlotta turned to see her friend Hannah Kizer standing there, hands on hips. Dressed in pink pj’s with white bunny rabbits and without her severe goth makeup, Hannah looked almost human—pretty, even.

“Not yet.”

“Have you heard from Coop?”

“Not yet.”

“Don’t worry. Wesley can take care of himself, whether you want to admit it or not.”

“I wish you were right, but history has taught me otherwise.”

“How’s the arm?”

“Getting dressed is an aerobic workout. Thank heaven for front-closure bras.”

“Yeah, I had a broken arm once. Men wanted to jump in bed with me. I guess it made me seem vulnerable or something.”

“Or less likely to eat your prey?”

Hannah gave her the finger, then dropped onto the couch, picked up the remote control and turned on the small TV. When the picture came on, it was warped. “What happened to your big-screen TV?”

Carlotta sat next to her friend and pointed to the living room window, still covered with the boards the police had tacked in place. “Taken out during the drive-by shooting. I’m waiting for a new window to be delivered and installed, but we can’t afford to replace the TV. Wesley shouldn’t have bought it, anyway,” she grumbled. “We could’ve used that money for other things.”

Like paying toward what he owed his odious loan sharks, Father Thom and The Carver. Or paying down their credit card debt, which had ballooned in size since her identity had been stolen. Or catching up their loan payments, or any one of a hundred other bills they were late on.

Wesley said he’d sold his motorcycle to buy the TV, but she knew the television had cost more than his bike was worth. She figured he’d been gambling again, despite his claims to her that he’d stopped.

She turned her head to look at her friend. “Where could he be?”

“A thousand safe places,” Hannah assured her.

“Or a thousand unsafe places. Those thugs for The Carver who tried to force me into their van the other day said that Wesley had pulled a stupid stunt and was in big trouble. What if they kidnapped him?”

“Look on the bright side—his loan sharks probably won’t kill him because they want to collect their money.”

Carlotta glared at her.

Hannah’s smile fell. “Sorry. Just trying to lift the mood.” She flipped channels past the midmorning game shows, and stopped on a local talk show, Atlanta & Company, where local celebutante KiKi Deerling was being interviewed in all her silky blond, micro-mini glory, snuggling her pet pug on her lap. It was the guilty pleasure that Carlotta needed to take her mind off Wesley.

But a minute into the interview, Hannah scoffed, “Give me a break. This girl is only famous for being famous. She’s a total poser.”

Carlotta nodded, but nursed a little pang of envy toward the young woman who had inherited beauty, money and a last name that adorned a jewelry empire headquartered in Atlanta. “It would be fun to live her life for a day, though. No worries, just party after party.”

She gave Hannah a pointed look. “For once, we wouldn’t have to crash.”

“That girl is a waste of human skin. You’d think with all that cash she’d buy some underwear. I’ve seen her twat more than my own.”

“Thanks for the wholesome image.”

“And you’d think she’d learn by now that if she’s going to have sex with someone, she should sweep the room first for hidden cameras. I always do.”

“Really?” Carlotta said. “What married man are you dating this week?”

“His name is Troy and he’s a college professor.”

“What does he teach?”

“Ethics.”

“Oh, well then, plus ten points.”

On television the starlet held up her pet pug, which she’d dressed in a T-shirt bearing the name of the camp she was promoting.

“Camp Kiki?” Hannah said. “Is that where kids go to breathe fresh air, learn to snort coke and become anorexic?”

“Cut her some slack,” Carlotta said with a little laugh. “I’ve heard of this camp. It looks like she’s at least trying to do something good for underprivileged kids.”

“Underprivileged to her probably means anyone who doesn’t have a driver.” Hannah gave Carlotta a sideways look. “Sorry. I forgot that you used to be rich.”

“Not that kind of rich.”

“Are there classifications for how rich you are?”

“Sure.” Carlotta used the fingers on her good hand to count them off. “There’s inherited wealth, the kind that’s so massive the heirs live off the interest. Then there’s inherited wealth that has to be maintained, like taking over the reins of a family business. There are ranks within inherited wealth, depending on how prestigious the business—jewelry is near the top of the list. Then there’s aristocratic wealth, meaning there’s no cash flow, everyone just kind of exists off their family name and estate. My parents were farther down in the pecking order—they were bourgeois rich. My dad worked for his money.”

Hannah lifted an eyebrow.

“Or stole it, depending on who you believe.”

“And who do you believe?”

The note her father had slipped to her scratched the skin of her chest where she was keeping it in her bra. She was afraid that Wesley might find it if she left it in her bedroom. And truthfully, she just wanted to keep it close. “I honestly don’t know. He was indicted for fraud, so the D.A. must have had a case, right?”

“Maybe. Maybe it was personal. What do you really know about the D.A.?”

“Just that he’s a lying asshole for reneging on our deal.”

“Well, there you go. Maybe he had some other motivation for charging your dad.”

“So why didn’t Dad stay and fight it? Why skip town and abandon his own kids?”

“I don’t know.”

“Would your parents do something like that?”

Hannah shifted on the couch, and it occurred to Carlotta that she had never talked about her parents. And frankly, Carlotta couldn’t picture the people who had spawned her bizarre friend.

“Has your father called you again?” Hannah asked, neatly sidestepping Carlotta’s question.

“No.”

Not that it had been much of a conversation. He’d phoned her at work a few weeks ago and said, “It’s Daddy.” She’d been so startled, she’d dropped her cell phone—and the connection.

“And I broke my cell phone, so I couldn’t even call back.”

Hannah frowned and pointed to the end table. “Whose cell phone is that?”

“Mine, but … it’s a new one.”

“How did you afford a new phone?” Hannah asked suspiciously.

“Peter gave me an extra one that he had lying around.”

Hannah picked up the sleek, razor-thin phone. “Right. This state-of-the-art gadget was just lying around. Did it belong to his murdered wife?”

“No!” At least Carlotta didn’t think so.

“Is he paying for your service, too?”

“It didn’t cost anything to add me to his plan,” she said defensively.

“Yet. Don’t kid yourself—the man plans to collect.”

“Peter’s been very good to me,” Carlotta murmured.

“You mean the man who dumped you years ago when your parents left town? The man who’s suddenly all over you when his wife has only been dead for a few weeks? Yeah, he’s a real stand-up guy.”

“It’s complicated.” No one knew that her father had also called Peter, who now worked for Mashburn & Tully, the investment firm where her father had been accused of stealing from customers’ accounts. Randolph Wren had asked Peter for his help in finding an alleged file that could prove his innocence. It was a secret that bound her and Peter together.

Then there was the ring….

The sound of a car pulling into the driveway made Carlotta leap off the couch. “It’s Coop,” she said when she saw the white van. She watched until he got out of the van—alone. “But Wesley isn’t with him.”

She opened the front door and stepped out on the stoop in the early morning heat, eager for news. “Did you find him?”

Cooper Craft was tall and lean, with light brown hair and long, neat sideburns. He lifted his gaze to hers and shook his head. “No. You haven’t heard from him?”

“No,” Carlotta said, feeling the stirrings of true panic. “I’ve been calling his cell phone every hour. How far could he get on a bicycle?”

He gave her a little smile. “He’ll turn up.”

But she could tell by his haggard expression that Wesley’s body-moving boss was worried, too. It made her sick with fear. “Come in. I’ll make coffee.”

2

When Coop entered the house Carlotta noticed that he was wearing the same clothes he’d had on yesterday. His hair was disheveled; his sideburns merged with an unshaved jaw. Her heart tugged when she realized he hadn’t been to bed. “Did you drive around all night?”

“I checked the hospital emergency rooms and a few places I thought he might be, but no one had seen him.”

“Hi, Coop.”

He looked up and did a double take at Carlotta’s stripe-haired friend standing barefoot and fresh-faced in her unexpectedly cuddly pj’s. “Hannah?”

She flapped her eyelashes. Hannah had a huge crush on Coop. “In the flesh. Um, this isn’t what I normally sleep in, in case you’re interested.”

Carlotta rolled her eyes as Coop smothered a smile. “Okay. Did you keep Carlotta company last night?”

“Yep.”

“Good.” He glanced at Carlotta, his gaze softening. “I was worried about you. How’s your arm?”

She squirmed. “It’s fine, thanks. How about that coffee?”

“I’ll make a pot,” Hannah said with a frown. “Yours is sludge.” When she disappeared into the kitchen, Carlotta motioned for Coop to sit down.

He lowered his long frame into a chair, then removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “I’m going to throttle Wesley for making you worry so much.”

Carlotta smiled to herself—for making her worry so much? Since Coop had hired Wesley to help him move bodies for the county morgue, he’d become a mentor to her brother. Whether Wes realized it or not, he looked up to his boss. And it appeared Coop was equally fond of him. Her heart swelled with gratitude. Wesley needed a positive male influence in his life.

Heaven knew their father had fallen down on the job.

The phone rang and Carlotta dived for it. “Hello?”

“Yeah … is Wesley there?”

Carlotta pursed her mouth, recognizing the guttural voice of a person who’d lost more than a few brain cells. “He’s not here, Chance. Didn’t you get any of the messages I left for you, asking if you’d seen him?”

“No.”

She touched her forehead. “No, you didn’t get the messages, or no, you haven’t seen him?”

“I ain’t seen him since the day before yesterday.”

She exhaled. “Do you know where he could be?”

“Uh … no.”

“With his girlfriend maybe?”

“Girlfriend?”

“Come on, Chance, he’s been coming home smelling like women’s perfume. Unless you’ve suddenly started wearing Chanel No. 5, he’s been spending time with someone else.”

“I would not know anything about that,” Chance said woodenly.

Carlotta wanted to scream. “Chance, this is serious. He could be in trouble.”

“Don’t worry, my boy can take care of himself.”

She gritted her teeth at the implication that Wesley was part of Chance’s “posse.” “If you see him, will you tell him to call me as soon as possible?”

“Sure thing,” Chance said, then disconnected the call.

Carlotta sighed. “His friend Chance Hollander hasn’t seen him.”

“What’s this about a girlfriend?” Coop asked.

“I thought you might know.”

“I know he’s got a thing for his probation officer.”

“But she has a boyfriend—remember, we met him at the Elton John concert.”

Coop gave her an amused smile. “Some women have more than one guy on the line.”

A flush climbed her face. Coop and Wesley had walked in on her and Jack Terry kissing, and there had been no mistletoe—or even December—in sight. She didn’t know if Wesley had told Coop that Jack had spent at least one night in her bedroom, but Coop probably suspected as much. Coop had also met Peter and was aware of their history. All of which would have to be sorted out at another time…. At the moment she couldn’t think past Wesley being gone.

Luckily, Hannah arrived with three cups of coffee, and a box of sweet rolls left over from one of her catering gigs the previous day. Carlotta took the food gratefully, her stomach rumbling from hunger.

“Wesley has to come back,” Hannah said dryly. “Or you’ll starve.”

Carlotta stuck out her tongue, but she appreciated her friend’s attempt at humor. And it was true. Wesley did all the cooking, and had done so for years. He was pretty good, too, darn his infuriating, scrawny little ass. Her eyes watered.

“Hey,” Coop said quietly, putting his large hand over hers. “Wesley is a smart kid. If he’s in trouble, he’ll figure out something.”

Carlotta nodded and inhaled a cleansing breath. If their parents’ leaving had taught her anything, it was that tears didn’t solve a thing. Action did.

“What now?” she asked Coop.

“I know he has an appointment to see his probation officer at eleven. I’d say if he doesn’t show, then you should call the police. Considering that thug’s comment to you about Wesley having done something stupid, this might have to do with the loan sharks he owes.”

Her heart squeezed, but she had to consider worst-case scenarios. “You’re right. He wouldn’t miss his appointment with Eldora. Not voluntarily.”

“Meanwhile,” Coop said, pushing himself to his feet, “try to think of somewhere he might’ve gone, or someone who might know where he is. I’ll keep making inquiries.”

“Okay,” she said, following him to the door. “And Coop.” She squared her shoulders, but that only caused pain to shoot down her arm. “I hate to ask this, but have you checked the … morgue?”

His brown eyes filled with sympathy, and he nodded. “I did. He’s not there.”

Tears of relief filled her eyes. “Thank you for caring.”

He gave her a little smile. “I can’t seem to help myself.” Then he turned and walked to the bottom of the steps. “You have my cell phone number if you need me.”

“Yes,” she called after him, waving with her good hand until he drove away.

Carlotta looked to her left and saw their neighbor Mrs. Winningham working in her yard. They weren’t the best of friends, but the woman had called 911 a few days ago when two of The Carver’s thugs had tried to drag Carlotta into their van. So she went down the steps and crossed to the fence that separated the yards of their respective town houses. “Hi, Mrs. Winningham.”

“Hello,” the woman chirped. “And you’re welcome.”

“Pardon me?”

“I said you’re welcome for the get well card I sent to you through your brother. He said you managed to only break your arm.” The woman sniffed. “Although I must say you made a spectacle of yourself, dangling half-naked from the balcony of the Fox Theater.”

“Yes, I’m good at that,” Carlotta said cheerfully. “I’m sorry, but I haven’t seen Wesley yet to get your thoughtful card. May I ask when you gave it to him?”

The woman looked perturbed. “I gave it to him yesterday morning. He said he was going to meet you at the hospital and bring you home in a taxi. Then he rode off on his bike.”

“And did he seem okay to you?”

“‘Okay’ is a relative term where your family is concerned, but yes, reasonably so.”

“Thank you,” Carlotta said as pleasantly as she could manage. “I’ll let you know when I get your card, Mrs. Winningham.” Her stomach rolled as she went back to her house.

“What’s wrong?” Hannah asked.

Carlotta told her about her conversation with the neighbor. “So Wesley didn’t just get wrapped up in some marathon poker tournament and forget. He was planning to meet me at the hospital like he said. Something bad has happened, I know it now.”

“Shh, you don’t know that for sure,” Hannah said. “Wait to see if he shows up at his P.O.’s office. Do you have the phone number?”

“There’s a business card on the bulletin board in his room.”

“Want me to get it?”

“Would you?”

“Want me to feed Einstein while I’m in there?”

“Please,” she said. The last time the massive python had gone unfed for too long, it had found its way out of Wesley’s room and into Carlotta’s bed.

When she returned, Hannah tried to entertain Carlotta by coaxing her to the back deck to stick her feet in the kiddie pool Wesley had bought for her—to make up, he’d said, for the lavish life she’d given up with Peter in order to raise him. The cool water felt good between her toes, but it only made her miss Wesley more.

“I’m sorry I have to leave,” Hannah said later, standing with her hands on her hips, back in full goth garb and makeup, the barbell in her tongue clicking against her teeth. “But I can’t get anyone to cover me on this corporate luncheon.”

“Go,” Carlotta urged, shin-deep in the pool and clutching the phone. “You’ve done enough handholding for a lifetime.”

“Call me to let me know what you find out. I should be finished in a couple of hours or so.”

Carlotta waved her off, and attempted to relax, trying to find some solace in the beautiful sunny day and the fact that the neighborhood that she’d hated living in was looking quite pretty today. When the trees were leafed out, they hid the shabbiness of most of the homes, their’s included. The gay couple that lived on the other side of them, whom they’d only seen and not met, had made upgrades to their house. Now that she thought about it, she decided her neighbors probably didn’t extend themselves because the Wren place was, as Mrs. Winningham had so often reminded her, “a blight on our good street.”