3 Men and a Body Read online

  It was enough of a gesture for Matt, because he turned around and strolled out of the restaurant. Visibly distraught, Kayla stood up and made a beeline for the bathroom. Carlotta, now trayless, headed back to the kitchen to the employees’ bathroom, snagging an empty martini glass with an olive on the way.

  Once inside a stall, she removed the white smock and hung it on the door hook. Then she turned her black sleeveless shell to the other side—taupe silk. From her evening bag she pulled glittery earrings and a necklace, then stroked on red lipstick. She lost the hairnet and released her hair from the ponytail, allowing it to fan over her shoulders.

  She stepped out of the stall and, when she was sure she was alone, wiped the rim of the martini glass and filled it with water from the sink. The olive gave it the appearance of the real thing. With her heart pounding double time, she left the employee bathroom. The security guard standing between the serving area and the guest area gave her the once-over.

  Carlotta held up the martini glass with a little laugh. “I think I’m turned around. Where is the ladies’ room for guests?”

  He pointed her in the right direction. She thanked him profusely, hoping she hadn’t already missed Kayla. When she pushed open the door, a woman she recognized as Marquita White, formerly Kiki’s publicist, and currently Matt Pearson’s, was standing outside a stall, as if talking to the person inside.

  She turned to look at Carlotta. “This is a private moment, do you mind?”

  “Sorry,” Carlotta said, patting her stomach. “I think the sushi is bad.” She ran into the stall next to the one occupied, lowered the commode lid and sat down to listen.

  “Honey, you can’t let him upset you,” Marquita said. “I’m so sorry, he promised me he would stay away. I’ve decided I’m going to let him go. He can find another publicist. I’m tired of cleaning up his messes. Just remember that this party is to honor Kiki. Come out, dearest, please.”

  A sniffling noise sounded. “Give me a minute,” Kayla murmured.

  For her part, Carlotta groaned as if she were sick.

  “Okay.” Marquita relented. “But don’t keep everyone waiting too long.”

  The woman’s high heels tapped across the floor, then the door opened and closed.

  “Kayla,” Carlotta said.

  “Who’s there?”

  “You don’t know me, but I have important information about your sister that you need to hear.”

  “Is this some kind of joke?”

  “No. I was one of the people who brought your sister’s body here from Florida. And it’s possible that she didn’t die of natural causes.”

  “What? What are you saying? That she was m-murdered?”

  “I don’t know. But there were track marks on her arm. And bruising around her neck.”

  “But there was an open casket. She wasn’t bruised.”

  “It was covered with makeup.”

  “Oh, my God. Are you sure?”

  “Yes. I know this is terrible news, but only the family can request an autopsy.”

  “But…she’s already b-buried,” Kayla said, her voice cracking.

  “It’s not too late. A tox screen would still reveal if she had drugs in her system. If so, there would be a full investigation.”

  “If Kiki did have drugs in her system, I think everyone can guess who gave them to her,” Kayla said bitterly.

  The door opened and, judging from the noise, a group of women entered. Better to slip out now, Carlotta thought. She stood and opened the stall door, then casually walked toward the exit.

  She felt a hand on her arm, and when she turned, Kayla stood there.

  “Thank you,” the woman said earnestly, her eyes red-rimmed. “I know everyone thought that Kiki was nothing more than an overexposed, spoiled starlet. But she was my little sister. Thank you for caring. I didn’t get your name.”

  “It’s…Carlotta.”

  “Thank you, Carlotta.”

  Kayla left the ladies’ lounge and Carlotta felt limp with relief. She’d done what she felt was right. Now it was in the hands of the family to decide.

  “Are you a friend of Kayla’s?”

  She turned her head to see Naomi Kane leaning on the counter. From the glazed expression on her face, it looked as if she needed the support.

  “Um, no,” Carlotta said.

  “Who are you?”

  “Just a friend…of a friend.”

  Naomi narrowed her eyes. “You look old. Are you a reporter?”

  Carlotta stuck her tongue into her cheek. “No—”

  “Because if you are,” the young girl slurred, then leaned in, “I have some good scoop.”

  Carlotta’s eyebrows shot up. “What is it?”

  “I don’t think that Kiki died of an asthma attack.”

  Carlotta’s pulse picked up. “Why not?”

  “I was there. I heard her arguing with someone just before Matt found her unconscious.”

  “Matt found her? I thought her publicist found her.”

  “They lied,” Naomi whispered. “They do that a lot in this business.”

  “Was the argument with a man or a woman?”

  “I couldn’t tell, I just heard voices.” Naomi laughed. “I was stoned then, too.”

  “Why didn’t you tell this to the police?”

  “Because I was stoned?” the girl said as if Carlotta was an idiot.

  “Oh. Of course. Do you remember who else was at the party?”

  “The regulars. Matt wasn’t supposed to be there, but he dropped in to surprise Kiki. She wasn’t too happy to see him, though.”

  “Do you think Matt could have hurt her?”

  “I don’t know. He has a drug problem, you know.”

  And you don’t? Carlotta thought. That white stuff under the girl’s nose wasn’t a milk mustache.

  “Marquita was there, Kiki’s publicist.” Naomi laughed. “Oh, I keep forgetting—she’s my publicist now, too.”

  “Could it have been Marquita arguing with Kiki?”

  “Maybe. They argued a lot.”

  “Do you know a guy named Wayne? Red hair, liked to hang around Kiki?”

  Naomi went blank for a few seconds, then she brightened. “Oh, the stalker. Yeah, he was there, too, dressed like a waiter. Kiki was pissed. She had him thrown out of the party.”

  Carlotta got a sinking feeling in her stomach.

  “But you didn’t hear any of this from me,” Naomi said, then brought her finger to her lips in slow motion. “Shhh.”

  “Right.” Carlotta watched the young woman totter away, then shook her head, wondering if Naomi Kane would be the next casualty of an unchecked celebrity lifestyle.

  She touched up her lipstick, then left the lounge. A few feet away from the door, Marquita White had Naomi Kane by the arm. The publicist was wearing a rather stern expression and whispering in her client’s ear. Naomi looked like a repentant child.

  When Marquita White nailed Carlotta with an icy stare, she decided it was time to make her exit. She waved at Hannah on her way by, then walked out the front door and hailed a cab.

  When the taxi pulled away, Carlotta settled back in the seat and suppressed a shudder. What she’d seen of the inner workings of the entertainment industry made her skin crawl. It was starting to look as if her suspicions about Kiki Deerling’s death might be right. But piercing the cloak of secrecy that surrounded the incestuous industry of Hollywood might prove to be impossible. After all, if Kiki’s family thought an autopsy could reveal that she’d taken drugs the night she died, they might opt to just leave well enough alone.

  And let a murderer walk.

  30

  C arlotta sat in a stiff chair, waiting to be called to have her arm x-rayed to make sure it was healing properly. And from the looks of things, it was going to take the better part of the afternoon. She picked up one of the few magazines she hadn’t yet read and sighed. Being incapacitated required a lot of time. And patience.

  The entertainmen
t magazine she flipped through predated Kiki Deerling’s death, showing the young woman out with friends on the beach, at the hottest clubs, at all the red carpet events, her pug, Twizzler, in tow. Matt Pearson was always close by with his arm around her. He’d had “KD” tattooed on his shoulder. They seemed linked at the hip, and she looked happy.

  Alive.

  Carlotta sighed, glancing at the TV overhead playing an all-news channel. She kept waiting for the announcement that the Deerling family had ordered the body exhumed for a full autopsy, but so far, nothing. And it seemed likely that the more time that passed, the less likely they were to want to bring it back up again.

  So she would try to remember the woman as she was in the picture, smiling and happy, rather than stiff and cold, possibly dead by the hands of someone who’d once loved her.

  “Carlotta Wren?”

  At the sound of her name, she jumped up before they could change their minds. She’d spent thirty minutes being prepped for X-ray, one minute actually being x-rayed, and an additional forty-five minutes waiting for the doctor to review said X-rays.

  “You seem to be healing fine,” he announced without touching her. “Is the Percocet helping to manage the pain?”

  She nodded. “I rarely take them anymore, and I still have half a bottle.”

  “That’s refreshing. I can’t tell you how many of my patients use an injury as an excuse to get hooked on painkillers.”

  “When can I go back to work?”

  “How much lifting does your job require?”

  “I work retail, at Neiman’s, so it depends. Some days I unpack boxes, move inventory around.”

  “Retail can be physically demanding. My wife has certainly built up her biceps from swiping her card at Neiman’s.” He laughed at his own joke. “If you still feel good in a week, then maybe you could try going back part-time and see how you feel. But you should wait a full two weeks before going back full-time, okay? Enjoy your vacation.”

  Easier said than done, Carlotta thought as she left the medical building. She wasn’t sure she knew how to have a vacation. The road trip that Coop had offered her was the first time she’d gotten away in years, and that had turned into a nonstop adventure.

  Was it possible that she wasn’t suited to the pampered, leisurely life that she’d always coveted? Of course, it might be different if she had the money to keep herself well-entertained.

  But she was starting to realize that a privileged life—a lot of money and a lot of free time—could be a recipe for disaster.

  She walked to the MARTA station and got on the next southbound train. The sets of double doors closed and the train swayed gently as it picked up speed. She looked out the window, enjoying the sunny view. Atlanta was one of the most forested cities in the country. The buildings and trees seemed to cohabitate well.

  Someone dropped into the seat next to her. When she looked over, she did a double take, seeing Wayne Barber sitting there.

  “You turned me in,” he accused, his expression panicked.

  Carlotta shrank back. “Are you following me?”

  “I can’t believe you turned me in,” he said, grabbing fistfuls of his own hair.

  “Calm down. What do you mean?”

  He started rocking in his seat. “Some cop came looking for me, wanted to ask me questions about Kiki’s death.”

  “What did the cop look like?”

  “Big guy, tacky tie.”

  She almost smiled. So Jack was following up, after all. “Did you tell him that you suspected Matt Pearson had given her heroin?”

  “No! The cop thinks I did.” He stood up and punched the air. “Why did you tell him about me?”

  “Is there a problem here?” a male passenger a few seats away asked. He stood, eyeballing Wayne.

  The train slid to a stop and the doors opened. Wayne darted off and ran through the station, disappearing into the crowd.

  “Thanks, anyway,” Carlotta said to the passenger.

  She was jittery the rest of the ride home. Wayne Barber had a history of mental illness. When Kiki had thrown him out of the party in Boca Raton, had he retaliated by going back and strangling her? Taken her necklace as a souvenir? Was he so grief-stricken by her death because he had caused it himself? And blaming Matt Pearson because the man had what Wayne wanted?

  At least Wayne Barber was on Jack’s radar. Carlotta toyed with calling Jack to tell him about the encounter with Wayne and the news Naomi Kane had revealed to her last night at the party—about the argument she’d overheard, and that Matt Pearson had found the body, not Marquita White, as had been reported. But then he would only ask her how she’d happened to be at the private party. If he discovered that she’d informed Kayla Deerling her sister might have been murdered, Carlotta wasn’t sure what Jack would do.

  She was pretty sure that he wouldn’t shake her hand, although shaking in general might be involved.

  When Carlotta got off the train at Lindbergh, she found herself looking over her shoulder for any signs that Wayne was still following her, but she didn’t see anything suspicious along the tree-lined route. By the time the town house was in sight, she had started to relax and anticipate her return to work. Cruise season was in high gear, and Neiman’s had lots of in-store fashion events planned.

  When she first heard the sound of an engine racing, she thought it was a motorcycle coming toward her. At the sight of a primer-paint-covered car speeding along, her first thought was that she was glad there were no small children living on their street.

  Her second thought was, Oh, my God, that car is going to hit me.

  Carlotta screamed and flailed backward, but the car jumped the sidewalk and grazed her hip, throwing her to the ground. She landed on her back in someone’s yard, racked with pain, waiting to hear the sound of screeching brakes a sign that the driver would be running back to see if she was okay. Instead, it sounded as if the car geared up, then the roar of the engine faded as it sped away.

  She was afraid to move, afraid something else was broken. She heard the sound of scurrying coming from the opposite direction the car had gone. A tiny black, bizarrely tufted face appeared, and began licking her cheek ferociously, in between rabid fits of barking.

  Toofers, Mrs. Winningham’s ugly, yappy dog.

  Thank goodness the woman wasn’t too far behind. “Toofers, what is that? Haven’t I told you not to lick—oh! Carlotta, what happened? Don’t move. I’ll get Wesley and call 911.”

  “Visiting you in the hospital is getting to be a regular occurrence,” Coop said, standing next to Carlotta’s bed in the emergency room ward. “I don’t like it.”

  She smiled. “You heard the doctor, Doctor. I’m fine, just a few bruises.” She nodded to Wesley, who was pacing at the foot of her bed like a caged animal. “Why don’t you take him to get something to drink. By the time you get back, I should be ready to go home.”

  He nodded and squeezed her hand, then shepherded Wesley out of the room. In the doorway, they passed Jack.

  He came to stand at the foot of her bed and studied her. Had she given him that wrinkle between his eyebrows? She didn’t remember it being there when she’d first met him.

  “Are you going to shoot me?” she asked finally.

  He walked up to the side of the bed and put his face close to hers. “If I did, you’d only come back to haunt me.”

  “Don’t forget that,” she murmured.

  His golden-colored eyes flashed with anger and passion. He smoothed her hair back from her forehead and ran his thumb over a cut on her cheek. It occurred to her that Jack didn’t know what to do about his feelings for her any more than she knew what to do about her feelings for him. They were too confusing, too mired in other circumstances. He straightened and put his hands in his pockets, suddenly all business.

  “A uniform picked up Wayne Barber and brought him in, but the guy seems to be on the verge of some kind of breakdown. All he can say is that he didn’t mean to hurt you. In his state of min
d, I can’t count it as an admission, but it’s enough to at least hold him for a while.”

  “That’s probably good for his sake, too.”

  “Do you remember anything about the driver?”

  “No. The windows were tinted. I saw nothing.”

  He sighed. “We have an APB out on the car, and it’s pretty distinctive…for now.”

  “For now?”

  “Sometimes primer-painted cars are used to perpetrate a crime, then are immediately run through a paint shop.”

  “That doesn’t sound like something that Wayne Barber would mastermind.”

  “No. It sounds like a professional job.”

  “Wesley might be able to help you there,” Carlotta heard Coop say.

  She looked up to see Wesley and his boss standing in the doorway.

  “Do you know something?” Jack asked Wesley.

  Her brother didn’t say anything, just looked miserable. Coop jabbed him from behind. “Tell them what you did.” Coop’s voice and body shook with barely controlled anger.

  His uncharacteristic behavior toward Wesley frightened her more than the car barreling toward her. “Oh, Wes. What did you do, now?”

  31

  E ven as Carlotta waited for Wesley to confess to whatever was behind his tortured expression, she was sending a silent plea heavenward. Please, let this be nothing too bad, nothing that will ruin his life.

  Wesley’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Last week—”

  “Speak up,” Coop commanded.

  He cleared his throat. “Last week, one of The Carver’s guys came to me with an offer. He asked me to, um, help them get Kiki Deerling’s body.”

  “You mean steal,” Coop said. “Don’t try to dance around with semantics.”

  “Yeah,” Wesley confirmed. “He asked me to help them steal her body.”

  Carlotta gasped. “Wesley, no!”

  “Why would Hollis Carver want the girl’s body?” Jack asked, frowning.

  “His son Dillon deals to that singing star, Matt Pearson,” Wesley said. “Dillon provided the heroin for the party in Boca. When they found the girl’s body, he split and called his dad, freaking out. His dad told him he’d take care of it.”