10 Bodies Lying
Table of Contents
Title Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
A note from the author
Other works by Stephanie Bond
About the Author
Copyright information
10 Bodies Lying
a Body Movers mystery
by
Stephanie Bond
Chapter 1
Carlotta WTF? Wes told Chance UR holed up in the townhouse, won’t say why. Call me.
Hi dear… me again… I’m so sorry for what I did… to you… and to your father. Can we talk?
Hi sweetheart… your mother is worried. U should call her. I hope U know how much we both love you.
Carlotta this is your little sister Priscilla texting you from Birch’s phone because you will not answer your phone when I call you. If I had my own phone I could text you myself. All my friends have their own phones. I need you to take me shopping for a new dress for Amanda Gibson’s pool party. Mom is crying a lot.
Yo, Sis—was thinking of making short ribs for dinner, just us, let me know. U can’t stay in your room 4ever. It’s downright Hitchcockian.
This is a message from the Fulton County Correctional Facility for: CARLOTTA WREN. You have been approved to receive limited, monitored text messages from: INMATE PETER ASHFORD. Reply OK to proceed or STOP to opt out.
Hi there… your mom’s neurologist asked me to sit in on her appt yesterday, surprised u weren’t there. Sorry if I made things awk between us. We can still be friends.
Hey… u haven’t caused me overtime hours lately, everything ok? How’s Prissy & her puppy? We should talk sometime.
“CARLOTTA WRAN?” a male voice asked.
Carlotta looked up from her text messages. She was the only person in the waiting room. Still, she nodded to the tall, thin man wearing a sweater vest and bowtie. “Wren,” she corrected, then pushed to her feet.
“I apologize, Ms. Wren,” he said with a nervous smile.
“No worries,” she murmured, thinking how ironic the man had gotten her last name wrong—evidently she’d gotten it wrong her entire life. “You must be Dr. Denton.”
He looked startled. “Of course I am. Right this way.” He extended his arm to invite her into his office.
Feeling out of place, Carlotta shouldered her bag and walked past him. As she scanned the room—stark, but well-appointed, the knot of anxiety in her stomach tightened. She never thought she’d be talking to a shrink, although anyone who knew much about her life would dub her a therapist’s dream.
“Sit anywhere you like,” he said, gesturing toward a triangle of two chairs and a couch. In the corner sat a simple desk, gently cluttered—very proper, very affirming. She gave him a little smile. “Do patients actually lie on the couch? I thought that was only in the movies.”
“Some patients prefer it. I sometimes lie on it myself.” Her expression must have reflected her puzzled reaction because he back-pedaled. “Only to nap, of course.” He cleared his throat. “Can I get you something to drink? Water, coffee?”
“No, thank you.” She glanced between the two chairs, which were identical except for the color—white and black. She paused, wondering if the psychologist would infer something about her by the chair she chose. Did one represent lightness and the other darkness, and was a person more likely to choose the color that represented their current situation, or the one that represented where they wanted their life to be?
She opted for the white chair in deference to her yellow Bella Tu dress—she didn’t want to pick up black lint.
Dr. Denton folded himself into the other chair, armed—strangely—with a Hello Kitty notebook and pen. He gave her a pleasant, encouraging smile.
She crossed her hands in her lap, then uncrossed them. Her fingers itched for a cigarette—her nemesis habit was back with a vengeance. The silence stretched on. “I’ve never done this before,” she offered.
He gave a dismissive wave. “Well, thankfully, I have.”
Obviously he was trying to make her more comfortable, but she was starting to have second thoughts about spilling her personal traumas to a complete stranger. She glanced toward the closed door.
“Thanks for coming in during the lunch hour,” he said, cutting into her thoughts.
“I appreciate you working me in on such short notice,” she murmured, and tried to relax. The Wrens had agreed to try family therapy to learn how to communicate, but with the latest curve ball, she’d decided to seek out on her own psychoanalysis. She wasn’t feeling a connection yet, but she wanted to give Dr. Denton a chance.
Still, her nerves danced as she waited for a sign to begin the session. When none seemed forthcoming, she asked, “Is there a protocol for starting?”
He shook his head. “Nope.”
“So I should just… start talking?”
“Sure.” Then he checked his watch. “And not to rush you, but we have to be finished in forty-five minutes.”
“Oh.” She shifted. “Okay… where should I begin?”
He shrugged, then held his pen to the notebook, as if he were poised to transcribe everything she said. “Why don’t you just tell me what’s bothering you?”
She couldn’t hold back a bitter laugh. “How about everything?”
He made a mark in his notebook. “Can you be more specific?”
“Okay.” She took a deep breath. “When I was a senior in high school, my parents skipped town so my father could avoid going to jail for a white collar crime. My brother Wesley was nine, so I had to raise him—and myself. It was tough… but we managed. Then a few months ago, ten years after he went missing, my father was apprehended.”
“Where?” he asked, scribbling furiously.
“Here in Atlanta. Actually, he came out of hiding to save me from being attacked by a serial killer.”
Dr. Denton looked up. “Seriously?”
She nodded. “Wes and I were moving bodies for the morgue at the time, and it landed me in the middle of some messy situations.”
His gaze flitted over her, head to toe. “You don’t look like someone who moves bodies for a living.”
“It’s a side gig.”
“And how does one become a part-time body mover?”
“Wes got me involved… and I guess Coop kept me involved.”
“Who’s Coop?”
“Wes’s boss for a while, and mine. Coop works at the city morgue. He’s… great.” Her cheeks warmed.
“This Coop—he’s more than a boss, I take it?”
She bit into her lip. “I thought so… more than once. But our timing is always off.” Then she smiled. “My real job is with Neiman Marcus.” Her recent promotion and the upcoming trip to Dallas was a bright spot on the horizon.
“Neiman’s? That I believe.” He pointed to her shoes. “Are those mules Alexander Wang?”
Carlotta blinked in surprise, then glanced down to the black and silver shoes. “Why, yes, they are.” Admittedly, the man had good taste. And upon closer observation, his cufflinks were Gucci. Nice.
“Go on,” he urged. “You were saying your father was arrested?”
“Yes. And while he was in jail, I found my mother. She was ill with what we thought was dementia. My father
had hid out to protect her… and the daughter they had after they left Atlanta.”
He glanced up. “So you have a younger sister you didn’t know about?”
She smiled. “Yes. Prissy is nine… she’s the best thing that’s happened to our family.”
He nodded and jotted. “So your father’s in jail?”
“No.” Carlotta exhaled. “As it turns out, my father isn’t a criminal after all—his own partners at an investment firm set him up to take the fall for a massive counterfeit and money laundering business. He was exonerated and now they’re all in jail, awaiting trial.” She pressed her lips together. “Including my fiancé, Peter.”
“Fiancé?”
“Ex-fiancé, I should’ve said.”
He angled his head. “So why didn’t you?”
She lifted her shoulders in a slow shrug. “I guess I’m still getting used to me and Peter not being a couple. He was my first love. We were engaged when my parents disappeared, then he broke it off.”
“Ouch.”
She squinted—the man seemed a little judgmental… but maybe this was a modern style of therapy? “It hurt at the time,” she admitted. “But then he came back into my life and we were giving our relationship a second chance.”
“Until he committed a felony?”
Carlotta frowned. Was he trying to provoke her? “I didn’t break off our engagement because of the charges. I believe he tried to do the right thing, but he got caught between loyalties. We just weren’t right for each other anymore.”
He looked dubious, and made a note.
“My friend Hannah told me I got engaged because I was reacting to Jack being unavailable,” she admitted.
“Jack?”
“The police detective who arrested my brother and was hunting my father.” She squirmed. “Jack and I had an on-again, off-again… and on-again and off-again… thing.”
“Had?”
She sighed. “He got another woman pregnant.”
“You really know how to pick ’em, don’t you?”
That stung. She wasn’t sure if she was going to like Dr. Denton’s therapy style, but she forged on. “Turns out the woman was a vile person who lied about the baby—not that her lying lets Jack off the hook. And even if Hannah was right about me turning to Peter on the rebound, I don’t want Jack, even if he is available… and no matter what he was going to tell me.”
The pen stopped. “What was Jack going to tell you?”
“I… don’t know. He only said he hadn’t told me things when he should have.”
“What do you think he was going to tell you?”
“I… wouldn’t guess.” A big, fat lie, but no buzzer sounded.
“Is that why you’re here? You’re trying to choose between the men in your life?”
Carlotta frowned. “No. I mean—yes, I’m trying to sort out my personal life, but that’s not why I’m here.”
“Okay.” He looked back to the notepad. “You mentioned your mother is ill?”
“Actually, we found out my mother doesn’t have dementia after all. She’s receiving treatment and hopefully she’s on her way back to good health.” Another miracle.
He lifted his head and smiled. “So all’s well that ends well?”
She squinted. “Er… not exactly.”
“Okay, then.” He glanced at the clock. “Keep going.”
She tried not to feel slighted—the man did have other appointments, probably with long-standing patients. “We’ve had a rough time finding our places as a family again—especially my dad and Wes. He was a boy when my parents disappeared and I don’t believe Randolph understands Wes is a man now.”
“Randolph?”
“Our… father.”
He continued to write. “Go on.”
“But we were on a better path… until we opened our Christmas presents last week.”
“Christmas presents at this time of the year?”
She gave him a flat smile. “My parents disappeared right before the holidays, and my little brother refused to open the gifts until we were all reunited.”
He leaned forward. “What was in the gifts?”
“Most of them were of little consequence,” she said, then reached up to touch the pendant at her collarbone. “But my mother gave me this locket.”
“Pretty. A family heirloom?”
“I suppose. She put a picture of my father inside.”
“I take it you’re close to your father?”
“I was before they left,” she admitted. “I always thought Randolph and I had a special bond.” She absently opened the locket and stared down at the photograph.
“May I see?”
She leaned forward, then turned the locket so he could view the tiny likeness.
He smiled. “Randolph is handsome.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “Except this isn’t Randolph. Apparently, this is my real father.”
“Oh.” One eyebrow rose. “You didn’t know Randolph isn’t your real father?”
“No.”
His other eyebrow went up, then he covered his mouth with his hand. “No shit?”
Carlotta voice faltered. “Er… no.”
“And do you know the man in the picture?”
“No.”
“Wow. How are you dealing with it?”
“Not well,” she admitted dryly. “Which is kind of why I’m here.”
“Oh… right,” he said, then seemed to gather himself. “What can I help you with, Carlotta?” He glanced toward the clock, then back.
She lifted her hands. “I guess I’d like to know why everyone lies to me.”
He frowned. “That’s a blanket statement, don’t you think?”
“But it’s true,” she insisted, then counted on her fingers. “My parents lied to me my entire life… Peter lied to me… so did Jack. Wes has lied to me too many times to count. My friend Hannah lied to me about her background and her family’s connection to Randolph. Even my coworker Patricia took the job at Neiman’s just to inform on me to the District Attorney.”
He pursed his mouth. “In my experience, people who don’t tell the truth usually have a good reason—have you ever tried to look at it from the other person’s perspective?”
She squinted. “Um… no.”
“Think about it—if you’re convinced everyone you meet lies to you, you’re the common denominator. Maybe you’re the problem, Carlotta.” Dr. Denton sat back in his chair, looking triumphant.
Carlotta’s mouth parted in surprise—wasn’t therapy supposed to be a judgment-free, safe place to open up? While her mind raced to process a myriad of mixed emotions, the door behind them opened.
Carlotta turned to see a paunchy, graying man wearing a sportcoat standing in the doorway. In one hand he held a sack of takeout food. He surveyed the two of them with a cautious expression. “George, what’s this all about?”
Across from her, the bow-tied man sprang to his feet. His face turned a mottled red. “Dr. Denton… you’re back from lunch early.”
“And who is this?” the man at the door asked, giving her a tentative smile.
Carlotta looked back and forth between the two men, dread building in her stomach.
“This is Carlotta Wran,” George offered magnanimously.
“Wren,” she corrected, pushing clumsily to her feet and away from the man she’d been talking to. “If you’re Dr. Denton,” she said to the man at the door, “who is this?”
“George is one of my patients,” the doctor said quietly. “What did you do, George?”
“I was just… taking some preliminary notes for you,” George stammered. “She’s a good one, Dr. Denton—her life is a soap opera.” Then he put his hand alongside his mouth, as if to impart a secret. “She thinks people lie to her. Personally, I thinks she’s paranoid.”
Carlotta was backing away, mortified she’d just told her life story to a complete stranger—a mentally unstable stranger.
“I apologize, Ms. Wren
,” the doctor was saying as she passed him. “I don’t know how this happened, but I promise you—”
She didn’t wait to hear him out. With her heart hammering, Carlotta jogged back through the waiting room and into the hall. After stabbing the elevator button, she opted for the stairs and scrambled down them faster than was probably wise. When she burst into the building lobby, people moved out of her way. She race-walked out into the parking lot, but was running by the time she reached her car. She fumbled for the keys, then swung inside the stifling interior, slammed the door, then locked it. She turned over the engine and put the air conditioner on high, then lit a cigarette with shaking hands, squashing the scream that lurked in the back of her throat. Worse than the crazy man’s deceit—yet more lies—was the fact that he’d unwittingly identified her greatest fear.
Maybe you’re the problem, Carlotta.
She inhaled until her lungs were ready to burst, then blew a cloud of white smoke into the air.
Minus ten points.
Chapter 2
WESLEY WREN checked his phone to see if he’d missed a message from Carlotta—he never thought he’d see the day when he wished his sister would talk more. But since their mother had dropped the bomb that Randolph wasn’t her biological father, he’d scarcely heard three words out of her. He’d been eager for her to move back into the townhouse, but not under these circumstances.
It was still agonizing to think of the day they’d been opening their gifts left under the tree ten years ago, celebrating being reunited as a family now that their mother was well enough to participate. Things had been going well—his parents and his sisters were so happy. Then Carlotta had opened the necklace from their mother… and everything had changed.
He lifted his hand to stab his glasses higher, then found a tiny bit of fingernail that wasn’t yet bitten into the quick, and gnawed on it until he felt the flash of raw pain indicating he’d gone too far. He lowered his throbbing finger and checked his phone again—maybe Meg had texted.
But no.
He sighed. The two most important women in his life were for all intents and purposes MIA—Carlotta had holed up in her bedroom at the townhouse, and Meg Vincent was in Germany for the summer. Right now she was probably drinking huge warm beers in a bawdy biergarten surrounded by beefy guys hoping to get into her tight American jeans.