Body Movers Page 13
Just as the maid set a cup of steaming coffee in front of Carlotta, the glass door slid open, revealing Detective Terry. He stepped in without being asked, although he did make a perfunctory pass at wiping his feet on the doormat.
He scowled at her briefly before addressing the maid. “I understand, ma’am, that you found the body?”
The old woman’s eyes teared and she nodded.
“What’s your name, please?”
“Flaur Stanza.”
He made a note on a palm-size notebook he carried. “Can you tell me what happened, Miss Stanza?”
“I…come home from store,” she said in broken English. “I see Miss Angela’s purse, so I know she is here. I call her name to see if she want tea, and she no answer. I come out here to sweep, and…and—” She began to sob, her shoulders shaking.
“Take your time, Miss Stanza,” Peter said, his voice strangely calm.
“I see her…in deep end…floating facedown,” the woman said. “She fell in, I think.”
“Had she been drinking?” Peter bit out.
Detective Terry frowned. “Mr. Ashford, if you don’t mind, I’ll ask the questions. Miss Stanza, did you see anything else, any signs of where she might have fallen in?”
She nodded and pointed to the far end of the pool. “A broken glass on the edge. I show policeman when he get here.”
Detective Terry made another note. “Anything else?”
“Black marks, I think from her boots.”
The detective nodded. “And you called 911?”
“Yes, sir. And Mr. Peter.” She shot a quick glance at Peter and her face crumpled again.
“It’s okay,” Peter soothed, patting her arm. “It’s not your fault. I was afraid something like this was going to happen.”
Detective Terry perked up. “Oh? Has something like this happened before?”
Peter pursed his mouth. “You mean Angela drunk? Only all the time. And she was a poor swimmer.”
Detective Terry told the maid that she could go. The woman looked to Peter for confirmation, and he nodded. “Go home, Miss Stanza. I’ll call you tomorrow.” When the woman left the room, Peter gestured to the tray. “Would you like some coffee, Detective?”
“No, thank you.” Then Detective Terry looked at Carlotta. “Ms. Wren, will you excuse us for a moment?”
Realizing that he was asking her to leave, she started to stand, but Peter’s hand on her arm stopped her.
“Stay,” he said, his voice beseeching, then he turned to the detective. “I have no secrets. Ask me anything.”
The detective looked back and forth between them until Carlotta averted her gaze. This was really beginning to feel…wrong.
“Okay,” Detective Terry said with a sigh. “Mr. Ashford, was your marriage in trouble?”
Next to her, she felt Peter stiffen. “No more so than any other marriage, I would suspect.”
Outside, the medical examiner and the police had stepped away from the body. Cooper unfolded a white sheet, whipped it open and allowed it to float down over Angela’s body. Carlotta stared until the woman’s face was completely obscured by the sheet. Wesley lowered what resembled a long plastic tray with scooped sides and black handles. With care that impressed her, Coop rolled the covered body toward him until Wesley had slid the tray underneath. Then he gently lowered the body and situated it onto the carrier. Both men tucked the sheet around the body with respectful concentration. She felt a swell of pride for Wesley, that he was handling such a terrible job with professionalism and obvious detail.
“Were the two of you discussing a divorce?”
The question yanked her attention back to the conversation.
“No,” Peter said defiantly.
Carlotta shifted in the uncomfortable chair, the memory of their kiss now even more sordid. She closed her eyes briefly and when she opened them, found Detective Terry studying her before he turned his attention back to Peter.
“Has your wife ever threatened to hurt herself?”
“No, of course not.” Peter’s expression darkened. “You’re not thinking that she did this on purpose.”
“Just covering all the bases, Mr. Ashford. Was she taking any medication?”
Peter rubbed his eyes and sighed. “Sure, it was always something with Angela. She had insomnia and back trouble, and she took a ton of vitamins. You can check the medicine cabinet in her bathroom if you want the specifics.”
Detective Terry cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should both go check, to see if Mrs. Ashford left a note.”
Peter’s jaw clenched. “There’s no note.”
“How can you be sure?”
Peter pulled his hand down over his faced and sighed. “Because…I asked Miss Stanza to look for a note when she called me. She didn’t find one.”
“So you suspected suicide?”
Peter lifted his hands in a helpless gesture. “I didn’t know what to think, but it crossed my mind. You didn’t find one on…on her?”
“No. The guesthouse was also checked, plus the sedan in the garage—I assume that’s Mrs. Ashford’s car?”
“No, actually. Her Jag is at the dealership for regular maintenance. The sedan is a loaner.”
“Mr. Ashford, where were you when Miss Stanza called to give you the bad news?”
Peter’s mouth tightened. “If you must know, I was at a bar, Geary’s, not far from my office.”
“Where do you work?”
“Mashburn and Tully Investments. I’m a broker.”
Recognition flashed in the detective’s eyes and his gaze flicked to her, then back. He’d made the connection that her father had once been a partner there. A harmless yet suspicious coincidence.
“Were you alone at the bar, Mr. Ashford?”
“Yes. What’s that got to do with anything?”
Detective Terry shrugged his big shoulders. “I just wondered why I got here before you, that’s all.”
“There was construction on the connector,” Peter said hotly.
Warning bells sounded in Carlotta’s brain. Surely Detective Terry didn’t suspect that Peter had something to do with Angela’s death? She bit her lip, wondering whether to say that she’d seen Angela earlier that day and what her state of mind had been. But if she did, she’d have to admit that Angela thought that she and Peter were having an affair, and wouldn’t that only throw more suspicion on Peter?
She clamped her mouth shut, telling herself that she was doing the right thing. Angela’s death was just a tragic accident, a result of a bad vice and bad balance. She felt the detective’s gaze on her and decided that her presence might be doing more harm than good. She pushed to her feet. “Peter…it’s time for me to leave.” Her throat convulsed. “I’m…so sorry for your loss.”
“Before you go, Ms. Wren,” the detective said, holding up his hand, “I’d like to ask one more question.” Then he gave Peter a pointed look. “Were you, sir, having an affair?”
Carlotta’s pulse skipped and she forgot to breathe. Peter put his hands on the table, then slowly pushed to his feet. “No, Detective, I wasn’t having an affair. My wife’s death was an accident, pure and simple. I’d think that the police have enough on their plate without trying to turn this tragedy into a crime.”
Detective Terry closed his notebook, then looked contrite. “How right you are, Mr. Ashford. My sincere condolences.” Then he swung his gaze to her. “Ms. Wren, since I’m leaving, too, I’ll walk you out.”
She couldn’t think of anything less appealing, but since she couldn’t think of a way to refuse, she simply nodded. “Peter, call me if…I can help.”
He looked at her for a long while, then nodded. “Okay.”
Aware that the detective was hanging on their every word, she quickly walked to the door, slid it open and stepped outside. Detective Terry was on her heels. She retraced her steps down the stone path back to the front of the house where Wesley and Coop were closing the door on the back of the van.
“You okay, sis?” Wesley asked, his face contracted in concern.
“I’m fine,” she said, slowing her pace. “Wesley, you remember Detective Terry.”
“Hard to forget,” Wesley said wryly, then nodded. “How’s it going, man?”
“Glad to see you got a job,” Detective Terry said.
“This is my boss, Cooper Craft.”
The detective nodded. “The doctor and I know each other.”
Coop nodded, but his eyes were…wary? Carlotta wondered about the men’s history. And had the detective called him doctor?
Detective Terry looked around. “I see the M.E. already left. Do you have the report?”
Coop nodded and handed it to him.
Detective Terry looked over the form, then glanced up. “Do you agree, Coop?”
Coop hesitated. “It’s not my place to agree or disagree.”
The detective’s mouth tightened. “I’m asking.”
“Since you’re asking…no, I don’t agree with the report.”
Carlotta pressed her lips together. This couldn’t be good.
The detective grimaced in thought then said, “I want an autopsy. Take her to the morgue.”
“But—” Coop began.
“I’ll handle the paperwork,” the detective cut in.
Coop gave a curt nod, then said, “Let’s go,” to Wesley.
“We have another call after this one,” Wesley said to Carlotta. “Coop said he’d give me a ride home.”
“Okay.” She turned to walk up the steep driveway, eager to be away from death and all this talk about the morgue.
“Ms. Wren,” the detective said, catching up to her easily, “how exactly are you acquainted with Peter Ashford?”
Her skin tingled as she pumped her arms to manage the climb in her high-heeled Mary Janes. “Peter and I used to date, ages ago, when we were kids. He’s older and when he went to college, we broke up, just like a million other teenagers.” She was proud of herself for how nonchalant her voice sounded.
“He seemed pretty eager to rekindle your friendship. When was the last time you saw him?”
In another few steps they were at the top of the incline in front of their vehicles. She stopped and turned to face him, breathing hard and blinking into the glare of a streetlight. “I’ve seen him twice in the past ten years, Detective, once at the mall when he wasn’t aware of it, and once at a cocktail party.”
“When?”
“Three nights ago.”
His eyebrows climbed. “Is that so?”
“There’s nothing going on between me and Peter Ashford, Detective.”
He studied her as if trying to determine whether she was telling the truth. Then suddenly he leaned forward and she had the insane notion that he was going to kiss her. She jerked back. “What are you doing?”
“What happened to your neck?” he asked, squinting.
She raised her hand to the welts on her skin that still felt raw and tender. Panic bolted through her chest that she bore marks left upon her by a woman who was now dead. “Nothing happened. I’m fine.” She turned and walked to her car, fumbling in her pockets for her keys before remembering she’d left them in the ignition.
He followed her, wearing a dubious expression. She fisted her hand that hid the marks from his prying eyes. “Detective, would you please stop staring at my chest?”
He lifted his gaze, but took his time. “Yes, ma’am. Good night, Ms. Wren. I’ll be seeing you.”
“Stop spying on us. You’re making my neighbor paranoid.”
“Wouldn’t have to if you’d cooperate.”
She glanced at the purse that she’d left on the car seat and thought of the postcard from her parents tucked inside. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Right,” he said, then turned and walked toward his own car.
Carlotta stuck her tongue out at his back, then glanced down at the house just as Coop turned the white van around. When he pulled away, the open garage was fully lit, revealing a dark sedan sitting inside. Carlotta recalled the morbid conversation about checking Angela’s car for a suicide note, and grimaced.
But as she stared at the loaner car, a memory chord strummed in the back of her mind. She couldn’t be sure, but the car looked like the one that had nearly run her down in the parking garage today.
She jerked her attention away and hurriedly swung into her car, frantic to be gone. In her haste she nearly flooded the engine, but finally the ignition caught and she pulled away from the house, her hands clammy, her mind ringing with one truth: It was a good decision to have kept her mouth shut about her run-in with Angela, or that pesky Detective Terry might try to implicate her in the woman’s death by pointing out that she had plenty of motivation for wanting Angela dead.
Carlotta rubbed at her temple where a headache had settled. As if she didn’t already have enough problems to deal with.
15
F rom his seat in the van, Wesley watched his sister careen out of the neighborhood and shook his head.
“She’s in a hurry,” Coop observed wryly.
“I guess this scene shook her up. She was engaged to that Ashford guy.”
“Hmm.”
“Kind of weird that she ran into him just a couple of days ago, then again tonight, huh?”
“Hmm.”
“And now his wife is dead.”
“Hmm.”
Wesley looked at his boss. “Are the husbands usually that calm in a situation like this?”
Coop took his time answering. “Not usually, but sometimes. Ashford looked drunk to me.”
Wesley stabbed at his glasses. “Well, I didn’t like the way he cozied up to Carlotta, seeing as how his wife isn’t even in the ground.”
“It’s good that you watch out for your sister,” Coop said with a little smile, “but I have the feeling that she can take care of herself.”
His mind flew to the disheveled state of Carlotta’s clothing when she’d arrived home. What had she said? That she’d walked out in front of a car when she’d left work and had decided to sacrifice her outfit.
No way would Carlotta sacrifice her outfit unless she truly thought she was going to bite a car grill.
And even though it was probably some soccer mom from Alpharetta trying to beat rush-hour traffic, there was the possibility that it had been someone who’d targeted her, someone who wanted to scare her, to send a message…to him. A sour taste backed up in his mouth. He’d heard rumors about The Carver running people down, and the bumper on his black Caddy did look as if a few objects had bounced off it.
“Say, Coop, do you know where I could get a gun?”
Coop’s head pivoted. “Why on earth do you need a gun?”
Wesley shrugged. “You know—for protection.”
“You’re on probation, chief, or have you forgotten? Besides, I think you’re overreacting on the protective-brother thing.”
He chewed on his response for a while, then decided to talk to Coop man-to-man. “Look, I owe money to some bad dudes. One of them keeps showing up at the house and hassling my sister. I just want to be able to protect her, if necessary.”
Coop scowled. “Maybe you should call the police.”
“Yeah, right. And the next body-moving call you get will be me.”
Coop didn’t respond and Wesley wished he hadn’t brought up the subject. His buddy Chance would probably know where he could get a gun with no questions asked. “That detective back there, he’s the guy who arrested me. Jerk.”
“Jack Terry? We don’t always see eye to eye, but he’s usually just doing his job.”
“He called you doctor, just like that lady at the nursing home.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And he asked your opinion on the M.E.’s report.”
“Uh-huh.”
“So what’s up with that?”
Coop stretched in his seat and Wesley thought it was another one of those questions his boss would avoid.
“Used to be?”
Coop shot him an impatient look. “Yeah, as in I’m not anymore.”
“What happened?”
The man’s profile hardened and he seemed to turn inside himself. “Long story,” he said, mimicking Wesley’s response of a couple of days ago when Cooper had probed about his family.
“Some other time, then,” Wesley said.
“Yeah. We’re here,” Coop said, pulling the van into the parking lot of the city morgue.
Wesley looked at the nondescript building, the third time he’d accompanied Coop to the place. They pulled around to the back where two guys in scrubs were just finishing a smoke break and going back into the building.
“Working in a morgue, you’d think they’d know better than to smoke,” Wesley said.
“Yeah,” Coop replied, “but sometimes the people who know better have the worst vices of all.”
Something in his voice made Wesley think once again that Cooper Craft had secrets and maybe a shady past. And the set of the man’s mouth told him that something about this body pickup had bothered him more than usual.
When Coop parked, Wesley jumped out to help him unload the body from the van and place it on a gurney. They rolled it up a ramp where Coop pressed a button on a call box and identified himself and their “delivery.” A few seconds later a buzz sounded, unlocking the door.
A slender, suited man, maybe in his fifties, met them just inside the door, a thundercloud on his bushy brow.
“Hello, Dr. Abrams,” Coop said pleasantly.
The man didn’t acknowledge the greeting. “Is this the Ashford body?”
“Yes.”
“My medical examiner just phoned in. He said he ruled the death an accidental drowning.”
“He did,” Coop said.
“So why is she here?”
“Detective Jack Terry told me to bring her here after he interviewed the husband,” Coop said, his voice even. “The M.E. had already left, Bruce.”
The chief medical examiner’s expression changed to one of suspicion. “And I suppose you had nothing to do with the detective overriding the M.E.’s report.”