Body Movers Page 15

  But life wasn’t fair. Hadn’t that lesson been her own constant companion over the past ten years?

  Traffic was surprisingly light, so she wasn’t as late as she might have been when she crashed through the door and tossed her belongings into a locker in the break room. Still, Lindy Russell glared at her as she slid into place behind an available counter and offered to assist a customer. Carlotta moved like a zombie through the morning hours. Her department was busy, even for a Saturday, but everywhere she turned, she pictured Angela Ashford’s body lying next to the pool, with water streaming from clothes that she had bought here. She felt detached from what she was doing, as if she were floating above her own body. She kept telling herself that Angela’s death being ruled an accident was a good thing, but her conscience nagged at her.

  Michael appeared midday, his eyes glittering and wide. “Did you hear about Angela Ashford?”

  “I heard,” she offered noncommittally.

  “She drowned,” he barreled ahead, “in her own pool. Can you believe it?”

  “No,” she replied honestly.

  “After that drunken scene that she caused yesterday, I’m not surprised that she fell in. Sad, though.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  He leaned in close. “I have a friend who works in a Botox clinic on Piedmont. She said that Angela was a patient there and always showed up drunk on her ass. Guess it was only a matter of time before she hurt herself or someone else.”

  Carlotta chewed on her lip. Everyone seemed eager to believe that Angela had brought her untimely death upon herself. It did seem like the simplest, neatest explanation…but was it true? She hadn’t particularly liked the woman, but it was starting to dawn on her that she was in a peculiar position to ensure that Angela’s death received more than a passing glance.

  Michael frowned. “Are you okay?”

  Carlotta managed a nod. “It’s just such a shame, to die that way. She was so young and so beautiful.”

  “That’s pretty big of you considering that yesterday the woman tried to kill you.”

  “You’re exaggerating, don’t you think?”

  “No,” he said flatly. “I still think you should have filed an assault charge. Your neck is bruised where she tried to choke you.”

  She covered her neck with her hand. “It doesn’t really matter now, does it?”

  “No,” he agreed, then sighed dramatically. “She’s gone, along with her big fat commissions. Poor you.”

  “Yeah,” she said, trying to mimic his light tone.

  “Of course, there’s always her husband,” he said, wagging his eyebrows. “Not to be tacky, but any chance that you’ll hook up with the grieving widower, or are you two really just friends?”

  I thought you were my friend, Peter had said. But what if he was playing her so that she would protect him instead of revealing that he might have had a motive for killing his wife?

  But how could she report the facts without implicating herself?

  “Hey, I was only joking,” Michael said.

  She exhaled and gave him a reassuring smile. “It’s not you. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

  “Hmm. Guilty pleasure or guilty conscience?”

  She flushed under his gaze and murmured, “I need to find an aspirin.”

  “Don’t dawdle,” Michael said softly. “Lindy is watching your every move.”

  With his threat ringing in her aching head, Carlotta moved through the rest of her shift fighting bouts of paralyzing paranoia. If she went to Detective Terry with details about Angela and Peter’s relationship, things were bound to get a lot worse for her, and she couldn’t afford to draw more negative attention to herself at work.

  No, she decided as she clocked out and made her way toward the mall, she would leave Angela Ashford’s death to the professionals.

  And for now, she’d try not to think about the fact that Peter, the love of her life, was now a single man, and what that might mean to her life.

  She wove her way through the Saturday crowds, dodging packs of suburban kids and in-town kids making their rounds, young marrieds on their way to the cinema, and pathetic people like her who had convinced themselves that an evening of window-shopping was better than a date.

  With her new autograph book in mind, she decided to cruise by the Sunglass Hut to see if anyone famous was trying on the new Maui Jim sunglasses. Next to Blue Pointe restaurant in Buckhead and the Fulton County Courthouse, it was the best place in Atlanta for celebrity sightings.

  She had just sidestepped a teenage couple who only had eyes for each other when the back of her neck prickled and she was overcome with the feeling that someone was watching her. She swallowed hard and tried to shake the eerie feeling, chalking it up to the events of the previous day and her frayed nerves. But as she continued walking, the feeling grew stronger. Fighting panic, she turned into the sunglass shop. From the display case, she picked up a pair of retro Ray Ban aviators and jammed them on her face, then adjusted the mirror to see behind her.

  There…a few feet back in the mall stood a man, his torso and face obscured by a newspaper—a cartoonish ruse. She could tell little from the jeans-clad legs other than that he was a big man. Her pulse spiked. One of Wesley’s thugs, following her? Maybe planning to jump her on her way to her car and take her cash?

  Fear coalesced into anger. She punched 911 into her cell phone, then whipped off the sunglasses and charged out into the mall and up to the man, wielding the phone like a weapon, her thumb over the Send button. “I’m onto you, mister, and I’m going to call the police.”

  The corner of the newspaper came down, revealing Detective Jack Terry wearing a dry smile. “I don’t think that will be necessary, Ms. Wren.”

  17

  A t Detective Terry’s nonchalant declaration, Carlotta’s anger detonated. “How dare you follow me like I’m some kind of criminal!”

  He folded the newspaper carefully and tossed it into a nearby trash bin. “I wasn’t following you. I just happened to be out shopping.” He lifted a ratty Dick’s Sporting Goods bag as proof.

  “Really? That’s funny, because there’s no Dick’s in this mall.” Then she angled her head. “Of course, if you’re talking about just plain old dicks, I could probably point one out for you.”

  “A muscle car and a sense of humor—wow, you’re just full of surprises.”

  “And you’re full of crap. What the hell do you want?”

  “Like I said, I’m off duty, just doing a little shopping. But since I ran into you, I’d like to talk to you for a few minutes. How about we grab a cup of coffee?”

  Instantly wary, she asked, “What do you want to talk about?”

  He smiled again. “The weather, the Braves, your parents—there are so many things.”

  Through clenched teeth, she said, “I told you, I don’t know where my parents are.”

  He held up both hands, Dick’s bag swinging. “I’ve been reading the files, and I just want to clarify a few details, that’s all.” A cajoling smile transformed his big features into almost handsome, dammit. “Come on, let me buy you a cup of coffee for all the trouble I’ve caused you.”

  She hesitated.

  “Ms. Wren, you’re going to have to talk to me sooner or later. Let’s try to keep this as informal as possible.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “This doesn’t have anything to do with Peter Ashford?”

  “Should it?”

  “No,” she said quickly. “I just thought…after last night…”

  “No, I got final word from the coroner’s office this morning. They stand by their accidental-death ruling. Case closed.”

  “Oh.” So even the police had put the matter to rest.

  “How about that coffee?”

  She frowned. “Don’t you have something better to do on a Saturday night?”

  “Apparently not. Did I interrupt some kind of sunglass-shopping emergency?”

  A flush warmed her cheeks. “I wasn’t look
ing for sunglasses. I was looking for celebrities.”

  “Excuse me?”

  She tapped her purse, not caring whether he thought she was silly. “I collect autographs, and this is a great place to spot famous people.”

  He pursed his mouth. “Good to know.” Then he gestured toward the food court. “Shall we?”

  She nodded curtly, then fell into step with him. He had traded his suit and shoddy tie for Levi’s, a black T-shirt and a pair of black western boots. Ten points for the boots since western wear was back in style, although she suspected that Jack Terry didn’t know or care that he was accidentally in vogue. She became hyperaware of his size as they walked. The man was a mountain, with a thick torso and long legs. More than one woman turned to look at him as they made their way toward a coffee shop. The two of them must look like quite the odd couple, she realized.

  Not that they were a couple…or that anyone watching them could mistake them for a couple.

  “Is this table okay?” he asked, gesturing to a tiny café table with two chairs.

  She nodded and awkwardly lowered herself into the chair he held out for her. With a shove, he scooted her so close to the table she felt as if she were in a high chair.

  “I’ll get us some coffee. How do you like yours?”

  “I’ll have a double latte with fat-free soy milk and a bottle of Pellegrino.”

  He gave her a small smile that told her he had no idea what she’d said. “I’ll be right back.”

  She watched him walk up to the counter, obviously out of place at the yuppie establishment. Dread ballooned in her stomach as she pondered the questions he had for her. Just the thought of him reading the files on her father’s case made her tingle in embarrassment—he knew all the family secrets and scandals, and seemed intent on making her relive the part of her life that she most wanted to forget.

  Her fingers itched. Christ, why had she stopped smoking?

  “Here we go,” the detective said, setting a tray on the table. “Two coffees with cream, a bottle of springwater and two chocolate éclairs.”

  She frowned. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.” He sat down on the diminutive chair and slurped his coffee, then bit into the éclair and chewed heartily. “How’s your brother?”

  “Fine. Better, I think. Although I can’t say that I’m crazy about his job choice.”

  “There are worse jobs. It might scare him straight, confronting death like that.”

  “I noticed last night that you seemed acquainted with his boss.”

  “Cooper Craft? Yeah. When I first joined the force, he was the coroner.”

  She frowned. “The coroner? As in, a doctor?”

  “Yeah, Dr. Cooper was the chief medical examiner.”

  “But I thought he worked for his family’s funeral home.”

  “He does now. He had some problems with alcohol and there was some kind of blunder with a high-profile case. There was an inquest and he lost his license—and his job. I think he might even have served some jail time.”

  Carlotta was astonished. The tall man with the long sideburns who thought she was cute had quite a colorful past. “So now he works for a funeral home and moves bodies for the morgue.”

  “Yep. And he seems to have put the booze behind him. He’ll be a good influence on your brother.”

  “Good. Wesley worships the man.”

  “He’s probably just starved for a father figure.” He cleared his throat, reached into the Dick’s Sporting Goods bag and pulled out a folder. “Speaking of which, I was hoping you could help me fill in a few gaps regarding your father’s disappearance.”

  Her spine stiffened as she sipped from the cup of surprisingly good coffee. “I doubt it, but I’ll try.”

  He opened the folder that contained a half-inch sheath of papers, most of them printouts and official-looking reports. “Do you remember the day your father was indicted?”

  She nodded and looked into her coffee, recalling the tension that had blanketed the town house, overrun with a constant stream of lawyers and the addition of a bay of file cabinets to keep up with the paperwork. “Everything seemed to be leading up to that day. Wesley and I stayed home, but we heard the news on the radio before my parents returned home.”

  “So they did return home?”

  She nodded. “My mother was crying and my dad was angry, saying that he’d been framed and that he’d get even with everybody.”

  “Did they mention that they were thinking of leaving town?”

  “No.”

  “You had no idea?”

  “No,” she said evenly. “My parents said they wanted to go to dinner alone, to talk about some financial issues. They left about seven o’clock and…they simply never came home.”

  His expression darkened. “That was the last time you and your brother saw them?”

  She nodded. “When we got up the next morning, their bedroom door was closed. I assumed they’d gotten in late and were sleeping in. I got Wesley ready for school and we left. When we came home from school, Liz Fischer was waiting for us. She’d been looking for my father all day.”

  His eyebrows went up. “Liz?”

  She squirmed, remembering that he and Liz had history. “You were aware that she was my father’s attorney?”

  “Yeah, it’s in the files, but I thought she was simply on the defense team. I assumed she was handling things behind the scenes.”

  Her smile flattened. “She was. Liz and my father were—how did you put it? Oh, yes. Friendly.”

  He scratched his temple. “Are you saying that something was going on between them?”

  “Why don’t you ask her the next time you…see her?”

  “I will,” he said smoothly. “So you were saying that Liz was waiting for you?”

  “Right. She said she’d been trying to reach my father all day. From the look of my parents’ bedroom, it appeared as if they hadn’t been there since they’d left the previous evening.”

  “Did they leave a note?”

  She swallowed more coffee. “No.”

  “Did they call?”

  “No.”

  His mouth twitched downward. “Do you remember the date?”

  “December second, three weeks before Christmas.” She heard the bitterness in her own voice.

  He sipped from his coffee. “Does that have something to do with the little Christmas tree in your living room?”

  She looked up sharply.

  “I noticed it when I went there to take your brother in. It’s hard to miss.”

  She picked at the éclair in front of her. “Yes. Wesley wouldn’t let me take it down.”

  “Even after all this time?”

  “Even after.”

  He made a rueful noise in his throat. “When did you first hear from your parents?”

  She looked off into the distance, and tried to make her voice sound detached from the information she conveyed, as if it had happened to someone else. “It was about six months later, in June. We received a postcard from Michigan, I think.”

  “Do you have family in Michigan?”

  “None that I know of. My mother’s parents were deceased before I was born, and she was an only child. My father’s parents died when I was in grade school. He has a half brother in New Zealand, and a couple of extended cousins somewhere in Utah, but he wasn’t close to them. I believe the police followed up with them, though.”

  He scribbled on a piece of notepaper. “Where did your family go on vacations?”

  She shrugged. “Where didn’t we go? All along the eastern coastline, north and south, France, Germany, England and Ireland, cruises to the Caribbean. My father liked to live large.”

  The only vacation she and Wesley had taken since then were the three days they’d spent at Walt Disney World when he was eleven. It had taken months of saving every dime and had been marred by Wesley’s conviction that Carlotta was holding out on him—that their parents were going to join them in Orlando as a
big surprise. Of course that hadn’t happened, and Wesley had cried the entire eight-hour drive back to Atlanta. She straightened. “How much longer, Detective? I’m rather tired, and I haven’t eaten yet.”

  “Jack.”

  “Hmm?”

  “Why don’t you drop the detective stuff? My friends call me Jack.”

  She glanced at the notes in front of him and reminded herself that the man was manipulating her to get the information he needed to bring her father home, which would only plow another furrow through her and Wesley’s lives. She stood and smiled down at him. “Goodbye, Detective.”

  He nodded. “Ms. Wren, before you go…was there something you wanted to tell me about the Angela Ashford case?”

  Her hand moved automatically to cover her neck as she tried to look innocent. “Uh…no.”

  His gaze went to her neck. “Really? Because if you know something…”

  She knew she had reached the point of now or never. “W-well, it probably doesn’t mean anything.”

  He slurped his coffee. “Why don’t you let me decide?”

  “Angela was a customer of mine,” she blurted before she lost her nerve. “She purchased a man’s jacket last week. A couple days later I ran into Peter at a party and asked him about the jacket, but he didn’t know anything about it.” She decided to leave out the fact that she’d asked Peter about the jacket again last night and he hadn’t corrected her when she’d said it was brown.

  The detective frowned. “I don’t get it.”

  “Well, I started thinking that…perhaps she had bought the jacket for…someone else.”

  “You mean a lover?”

  “I have no idea. I’m just telling you what I know.”

  “You mean what you think.”

  Carlotta gritted her teeth. “Anyway, she returned the jacket yesterday.”

  “When yesterday?”

  “In the afternoon.”

  “Was she acting strangely?”

  “She’d been drinking,” Carlotta admitted. “The man’s jacket had been worn and when I told her I couldn’t give her a refund, she became…verbally abusive.”