Body Movers Page 21

  But Michael was right—there was no sense in borrowing trouble, especially since she already had plenty. Peter had called again last night, and it had taken all the willpower in her body (and a cigarette) not to pick up the receiver. She wanted to keep her distance to give Peter a chance to grieve, and to give the police a chance to sort things out where Angela’s death was concerned.

  “Michael,” she asked casually, “do you know a Susan Harroway?”

  He squinted. “I can’t keep the Harroway women straight—they’re all perky blond paper dolls. Why?”

  She shrugged. “No reason. I heard her name mentioned the other day and wondered who she is, that’s all.”

  “I think Susan is married to Davidson Harroway. He’s a bigwig at the CIN cable news network. If she’s the one I’m thinking of, she’s some kind of local tennis phenom who was chosen to play a round with Chris Evert when she came to town to raise money for charity.”

  Carlotta’s pulse picked up. Angela played tennis—at the funeral hadn’t one of her teammates mentioned how much they would miss her?

  They walked out to the sales floor and she followed Michael to the shoe department. “You mentioned the other day that you had a friend who worked at a Botox clinic.”

  “Uh-huh,” he murmured, readying his cash register.

  “What was the name of the clinic?”

  He glanced up. “Why?”

  She didn’t have to fake the blush. “I’m considering a little work.”

  He snorted. “Your skin is flawless and Cindy Crawford would kill for your bone structure. What gives?”

  “I’m just thinking about a consultation.”

  “I hope this doesn’t have something to do with that Ashford guy.”

  Carlotta swallowed hard. “Of course not.”

  “Good, because I’d hate to see you start changing yourself for a man.”

  “Are you going to give me the name of the clinic or not?”

  He tore off a piece of sales receipt and wrote on it. “Here’s the name of the clinic. A consultation will set you back three hundred dollars.”

  She raised her eyebrows at her friend.

  “So I’ve been told.”

  Smothering a laugh, she said, “Thanks.”

  Michael leaned in conspiratorially. “Don’t look now, but there’s an action-hero type headed your way.”

  Carlotta turned and broke into an instant sweat to see Detective Terry, dark suit and hideous tie, heading her way. “Gotta go,” she murmured and pushed away from the counter.

  Her first thought was that Wesley was in trouble again, but then she realized the detective could be here about a number of things—her parents…Angela. Christ, her life was way too intertwined with the Atlanta PD.

  “Good morning, Detective,” she said as he strode up to her.

  “A private word with you, Ms. Wren?” He didn’t wait for a response, simply grabbed her by the elbow and steered her toward a dressing room in the adjacent men’s department.

  She trotted to keep up, trying to shake off his grasp. “I’m coming, you don’t have to manhandle me.”

  “I have a feeling,” he muttered, “that you couldn’t be handled even if a man wanted to.”

  She was still mulling over the meaning of his remark when he propelled her into a changing room, followed her in and closed the door behind them.

  Carlotta crossed her arms, more to protect herself from his towering nearness than anything else. “Really, Detective, must you be so dramatic?”

  He narrowed his eyes. “You’ve got some explaining to do.”

  She tried to remain aloof but failed miserably. “What are you talking about?”

  “You were questioned in a murder case last year?”

  She hugged herself tighter. “So?”

  “So, you didn’t think it was worth mentioning to me at some point?”

  “I fail to see what business it is of yours. Besides, I wasn’t arrested. And they caught the murderer.”

  “I know.” He frowned harder. “And you also were arrested for assault?”

  “Those charges were dropped! Besides, the big galoot deserved to have a tire iron wrapped around his head, trying to entice my brother into gambling so he could get him deeper into debt.”

  The detective jammed his hands on his hips and shook his head. “Cooper Craft asked the M.E. to autopsy Angela Ashford based on questions you raised about that men’s jacket she bought.”

  “And?”

  “And after the fact, he and I both find out that your credibility is…tainted.”

  She glared. “Tainted how? I didn’t kill anyone!”

  “You tried to—a tire iron isn’t a toy, Carlotta! The bottom line is that you don’t look so good on paper.”

  She was thrown off guard by the fact that he’d used her first name…and by the strange feeling that despite his condemnation, he seemed slightly impressed with her outlaw status. She swallowed the retort on her tongue because there was something bigger at stake. “So there’s not going to be an autopsy?”

  He pursed his mouth and took his time answering. “Actually, the autopsy took place this morning.”

  She inhaled. “And?”

  “And…the M.E. found signs of a struggle. Angela Ashford was probably held underwater by her neck. Her death has been reclassified as a homicide.”

  Mixed feelings stabbed at her—relief that her hunch had been right, but horror that the woman had died at the hands of…someone.

  Then she frowned. “So what was all that crap about me not being credible?”

  He frowned harder. “If you ask someone to pull in a professional favor, it’s only fair that you put everything on the table so there aren’t any surprises. Coop really went out on a limb for you on this one.”

  Coop, the man who thought she was smart. She angled her chin at the detective. “Then I guess it’s a good thing I was right.”

  “Guess so…except now you realize, don’t you, that your boyfriend is our prime suspect?”

  “Peter Ashford is not my boyfriend.”

  “Really? I found a valet driver at the Four Seasons hotel who saw Peter Ashford kissing a dark-haired woman standing next to a Monte Carlo the night you said you ran into him at a party there.”

  Wow, the man had eyes and ears everywhere. Did he also know that she’d crashed the party? “That kiss was…spontaneous. It didn’t mean anything.”

  Detective Terry leaned in and pressed one hand on the wall behind her, effectively pinning her in, his body mere inches from hers. His dark gaze lowered to her mouth. “I could see how that could happen,” he murmured, his voice throaty.

  She moved her head back and held her breath, taking in his cleanly shaven jaw that hinted of the beard that would reappear in a few hours. She wondered how often the man shaved, and if his propensity for hair extended to his broad chest. She’d never been much for hairy chests, although suddenly the idea wasn’t repulsive.

  “But you have to admit,” he said, his breath close to her cheek, “the fact that someone saw you kissing in public a couple of days before the man’s wife was murdered is…coincidental.”

  Her breathing became shallow. Carlotta lifted her hand and pressed against his chest until he stepped back, giving her room to breathe, although her lungs still didn’t work as well as she would’ve liked. Her hand tingled with awareness of the wall of muscle beneath his shirt and tie. “Peter and I weren’t and aren’t having an affair,” she said as steadily as she could manage. “I told you that our relationship ended years ago.”

  “Really? Then why does Peter Ashford carry a photo of you in his wallet?”

  She blinked. “What?”

  His eyebrows went up. “You didn’t know?”

  “Of course I didn’t know.”

  “But his wife probably did. Which might explain why she attacked you here the day she was murdered.”

  Her throat convulsed. “I…I…you know about that?”

  He gave her a t
ight smile. “Your security department has been helpful. The question is, why didn’t you tell me that she became violent?”

  “I didn’t think it was…relevant.”

  “Oh, well, that makes everything okay,” the detective said sarcastically. Then his jaw hardened. “It’s starting to look as if Peter Ashford killed his wife over you.”

  “He didn’t,” she said with conviction. “I know Peter and he could never do anything like that.”

  One eyebrow quirked. “I thought you said the other night was the first time you’d talked to him in years.”

  “That’s right. In over ten years, in fact.”

  One side of the detective’s mouth slid back. “People can change a lot in ten years.”

  “I know,” she conceded. Look at her, for instance. “But Peter simply isn’t capable of murder.”

  He gave her a flat smile. “Everyone is capable of murder, Ms. Wren. And some people just might think that you were in on it with him.”

  “Th-that’s ridiculous.”

  “Is it? I spoke to your associate, Michael Lane. He said that you’d threatened to strangle Angela.”

  She gasped. “That was a joke. I didn’t mean it!”

  “You and Peter became reacquainted and the spark was still there, wasn’t it?”

  She locked gazes with him, then looked away, wondering if men could ever understand the power of young love, a woman’s emotional connection to the person with whom she had lost her virginity. It was a memory that bonded her to Peter.

  The detective gave a little laugh that said her body language told him everything he needed to know about how she felt about Peter. “Angela was in the way, and angry about the two of you.”

  “She was angry,” Carlotta said, “but she was wrong.” A hysterical little laugh escaped from her. “Besides, if I were in on this, why would I push so hard to make sure the body was autopsied?”

  “Maybe you got scared,” the detective said. “Maybe you didn’t think he’d go that far, and now you’re having second thoughts.”

  She gritted her teeth. “Peter’s not a murderer. If his marriage had deteriorated so badly, he would’ve divorced Angela.”

  “Really? He’s not one of those guys caught up in family image?”

  She turned her head to prevent him from seeing the sudden moisture in her eyes. Wasn’t family image the reason that Peter had abandoned her, leaving her alone and bewildered? “Not if it meant murder,” she said finally.

  “For your sake,” he said quietly, “I hope that’s true.”

  His unexpected compassion caught her off guard. “Have you questioned Peter?”

  “Yes, and he denies killing his wife.”

  Carlotta exhaled, then caught herself—if she truly believed that Peter was innocent, why was she so relieved? She straightened, aware that Detective Terry was studying her every move.

  “Did you ask him if Angela was having an affair?”

  “Yes. He said if she was, he didn’t know about it.”

  She bit her lip. Or perhaps he didn’t want to know?

  “But Mr. Ashford is behaving suspiciously,” the detective added. “He already had his wife’s things removed and destroyed, and hired a cleaning service to clean the house and the guesthouse top to bottom.”

  The information startled her, but she tried to hide her reaction by lifting her shoulders in a slow shrug. “That sounds to me like a man who’s trying to get on with his life.”

  “Exactly,” the detective said, eyeing her. “One more thing—Mr. Ashford knows that you were the one who raised questions about Mrs. Ashford’s death because of the men’s jacket his wife purchased and returned.”

  She closed her eyes briefly and in her mind’s eye saw any second chance that she’d had for happiness with Peter go up in flames. “I suppose you told him?”

  “I had to. Sorry if it makes things tense between the two of you,” he said, not sounding sorry at all. Then he stepped back and pulled out a notebook. “What time did you leave work last Friday?”

  “About five-thirty—you can check my time card.”

  “Where did you go?”

  She pressed her lips together and decided not to mention the incident in the parking lot—it would only make her (and Peter) look more guilty if they discovered it was Angela who had tried to run her down. “I went straight home. It’s about a fifteen-minute drive. Wesley was there, he’d made dinner.”

  The tiniest smile came over his mouth, easing the tension. “Your brother cooks?”

  “What’s wrong with that? Men cook.”

  “Not this man,” he said with a laugh.

  “Then together we’d starve,” she said cheerfully, “because I don’t cook either. I guess it’s a good thing we don’t like each other.”

  “Right,” he said, nodding. He cleared his throat and looked back to his pad. “You ate dinner, then what?”

  “We were still eating when Coop called Wesley for a body-moving job.”

  His mouth twitched. “I think the official term is ‘body retrieval.’”

  “Whatever. I drove him because his license is suspended and Coop was already on the scene.”

  “And you had no idea it was the Ashfords’ house?”

  “None. You were there when Peter pulled up. I was shocked.”

  “Both of you seemed surprised to see the other,” he conceded mildly. “Hell of a coincidence, though.”

  The entire conversation was wearing on her, and so was his proximity. “Are we finished? I’m on the clock. You’re going to get me fired, Detective.”

  He frowned. “I’ll need the jacket that Angela Ashford returned, if you still have it.”

  “Lucky for you, I do,” she said, happy to escape the intimate confines of the dressing room. When they walked out, more than one salesclerk cut her a sly look.

  “You could wipe that smirk off your face,” she hissed at him. “People think we were in there messing around.”

  “That’s impossible,” he said. “If we’d been in there messing around, we would’ve been in there much longer.”

  She raised an eyebrow and gestured to his NASCAR tie. “Are you sure you don’t want to replace your cartoon tie while we’re in the men’s department?”

  He looked outraged and flipped the tie over. “Mark Martin signed this tie.”

  “Who?”

  He frowned. “I thought you were into celebrities. This tie is probably worth a hundred dollars.”

  “Then you should definitely sell it.”

  A scowl settled on his brow. “The jacket?”

  “Right this way.” She headed toward the escalator and as they rode up, she watched him looking around, taking in the expensive displays and the pretty people. He tugged at his tie and she felt a little pang at having made fun of it—the big man obviously thought he had scored a winner.

  His body language left her unsettled. He hovered close like her personal mountain, crowding her space. Inching away was useless—the man seemed to expand like foam insulation to fill the space around him. He was a head taller than she, and his head was in constant motion— scanning, registering. It was, she presumed, his training, so ingrained that he probably wasn’t even aware of his actions. His hands on the rubberized rail were huge, like the rest of him, and surprisingly well manicured, although she’d bet he cleaned his nails with a pocketknife. A large crested ring on his right hand had something to do with law enforcement. The man obviously had to shop in the big and tall section, but his suit was well cut. His rumpled blue shirt, however, was tight since he had the top button undone, and his belt was a bit too…gadgety. His shoes were black and plain with a high polish. His western boots suited him better, she decided.

  Her foot caught abruptly. Too late, she realized that while she was daydreaming, they’d reached the top of the escalator. She flailed and suddenly those large well-manicured hands closed around her waist and lifted her off her feet, moving her forward as he walked off the escalator. He set her d
own and smiled. “Are you okay?”

  “I…yes, I was just…distracted.”

  He grinned. “I have that effect on women sometimes.”

  Flustered, she could only glare and slap his hands away. Burning with humiliation, she led the way to her department, trying to regain her composure. “This is where I spend most of my day.”

  He looked around at the sparse racks of the couture department and gave that universal man-nod that meant he just didn’t get it. “No offense, but I’d rather dodge bullets.”

  She managed a wry smile and walked to the storage area outside the dressing rooms where she had put away the jacket. When she found it, she unzipped the bag and handed it to him. “The bag was brand new, so there’s no chance that trace evidence from a used one could have been transferred to the jacket.”

  He frowned. “Somebody who looks like you shouldn’t be home at night watching CSI on television.”

  She frowned back and vowed not to make any more slips about just how pathetic her social life really was.

  He carefully removed the jacket from the bag and held it up. “This is too big for Ashford.”

  “That’s what I tried to tell you,” she said dryly. “It’s too big for Angela’s father, too.”

  “Did she have brothers?”

  “No.”

  “Brothers-in-law?”

  “No sisters.”

  He brought the jacket to his nose and sniffed. “Cigar smoke.”

  “Right. And Peter is allergic to cigarette and cigar smoke.” She flushed, thinking that her own smoking would be one more thing that Peter would disapprove of. “There was a cigar in the breast pocket.”

  He patted the pockets. “Was?”

  “I…took it out.”

  He looked up. “What happened to it?”

  She suddenly remembered what she’d been looking for in her locker that morning—the cigar. “I don’t know. I put it in my purse and now…it’s gone.”

  “You lost it?”

  She winced and nodded. “But I can describe it. It was a Dominican Cohiba, very pricy. Purchased from Moody’s Cigar Bar downtown, and only four people have bought them in the past six months.”

  He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Don’t tell me you’ve been playing detective.”