Body Movers: 2 Bodies for the Price of 1

5

Carlotta’s mind raced as she stared across the restaurant table at Peter, patiently waiting for her response as to whether she planned to tell the police that her father had called both of them. Unsaid words burned the back of her tongue—a decade’s worth of pent-up conversations she hadn’t been able to have with her father. Or with Peter.

How could you leave me? Where have you been? Do you think that I’m like a book that you can stop reading, put away for years and then pick up where you left off? There is a hole in my heart in the shape of you.

“Whatever you decide, Carly,” Peter said earnestly. “I’ll support you any way I can.”

Meaning that one word from her and Peter would either help Randolph Wren in his supposed quest for exoneration or nail him to the wall.

As often as she had wished her father safe, Carlotta had fantasized about seeing him squirm, seeing him publicly held accountable, robbed of his freedom—like his disappearance had robbed her of her freedom.

But while running out on his children was reprehensible, it wasn’t a crime. He and her mother had left Wesley with her, and legally, she’d been an adult. The sudden responsibility had been staggering, but she’d gotten through each day by telling herself that her parents would return before nightfall. Slowly the days had turned into weeks and months, then years, until one day she’d realized that their parents weren’t coming back and that she and Wesley were somehow, astonishingly, surviving. But every time she’d watched Wesley reach a milestone—winning first place in the science fair, struggling with his voice changing, getting his driver’s license, being fitted for his prom tux—her resentment toward her parents had magnified.

Sometimes she thought that she hated her parents. But was she willing to see them go to jail?

“I need to think about it,” she said finally. “I’m having a hard time trying to absorb everything.”

“That’s understandable,” Peter soothed.

“I’ll call you.” She folded her napkin and put it on her plate. “Thanks for the coffee, Peter.”

“I’ll walk you to your car.”

“I’m on Marta.” Carlotta doubted that Peter had ever ridden the city’s public train system—too many germs and no cup holders. “My car’s in the shop being painted from when I was side-swiped.” By the same person who had murdered Peter’s wife.

A similar thought must have gone through his mind because his mouth tightened. “Then let me drive you home.”

She hesitated.

“Maybe I’ll be able to recall something else from your father’s call.”

He had to know how irresistible that tidbit would be. “Okay,” she conceded.

After leaving several bills on the table, he guided her toward the mall exit nearest the valet stand. His hand hovered at the small of her back, grazing her often enough to dredge up memories of when they had made love as teenagers.

At the time, she’d thought she might combust from the sheer ecstasy of being in his arms. In their circle of friends, they had been the it couple: good-looking, rich and head over heels in love. Their future seemed golden. Carlotta hadn’t even considered a plan B. When her parents had skipped town and Peter had dumped her and the rest of her supposed friends had fallen away, she had been set emotionally adrift … a scared kid, ill-equipped to finish raising herself, much less a nine-year-old boy. How many days had she longed for Peter’s comforting presence next to her, like this?

Within minutes, Peter’s navy blue Porsche arrived and he held open the door of the low-slung decadent car for her. Carlotta lowered herself gingerly into the leather seat that wrapped her in a buttery soft cocoon. She reached for her shoulder belt, but Peter’s hand was already there, pulling the strap across her body and fastening the belt with a click. He smiled at her as if to say that if she stayed with him, he would make sure she was safe. Closing her door with a soft thunk, he strode around the front of the car, gave the valet a tip that would cover her lunch budget for a week, then swung into his own seat with practiced ease. They pulled away with the smooth growl of a perfectly engineered motor.

In the cozy intimacy of the two-seater, it was impossible not to be affected by Peter’s nearness, the way his long body sprawled in the seat, the way his thick blond hair fell onto his forehead, the precise angles of his handsome profile. She knew this man intimately and he knew her body just as well.

The one sobering image was visualizing Angela sitting in this seat only weeks before, unaware that her life would come to such an abrupt and tragic end. Although the woman had indulged some of her darker whims, she hadn’t deserved to die. And Carlotta was haunted by the knowledge that Angela had died knowing that her husband carried a picture of Carlotta in his wallet.

Perhaps in deference to the decision she faced, Peter didn’t press her for conversation and instead slid in a Jack Johnson CD and turned up the volume. Dusk was descending early on this ominously overcast day, prompting motorists to flip on their lights. A stiff wind ruffled the riotously blooming crape myrtle trees in the median, sending bright pink blossoms across the flared hood of the Porsche. Sunday afternoon traffic around the mall area was as heavy as her mood.

But soon the mellow music began to calm Carlotta’s ragged nerves and she laid her head back against the headrest, and closed her eyes.

She didn’t want to watch as they left the exclusive area of Buckhead and entered the more shabby section of the city where she and Wesley lived in a town house. She just wanted to listen to the music and imagine that her life had turned out exactly as she’d planned.

In her mind, she and Peter were married and on their way home to their sprawling residence in a gated community where they would relieve their nanny, then tuck in their beautiful children before retiring to the hot tub with a fifty-dollar bottle of wine and making love with a passion that contradicted how long they had been together.

A touch to her hand startled her and her eyes flew wide open. The music had dimmed and the car had stopped.

“We’re here,” he said quietly.

In the falling dusk, the car headlights illuminated a garage door with peeling paint and a driveway riddled with cracks and stray weeds. Embarrassment welled in her chest. She had let things go around the house. Wesley had repaired and cleaned the small deck in the back, but from the front it looked as if a low-class family inhabited the place.

If the shoe fits, wear it, she thought morosely.

Who was she kidding? If the shoe fit, she’d buy it with her employee discount.

Peter adjusted the rearview mirror and stared intently, then checked the side mirrors.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

“It’s probably nothing. I just thought someone was following us.”

Her pulse picked up and she turned around in her seat. “You’re kidding.” Could her father be tailing them? Jack Terry? A loan shark? Good grief, the possibilities were endless.

“Like I said, it’s probably nothing. Or just a pesky reporter.”

“Have reporters really been following you?”

He shrugged. “A couple were parked outside the subdivision when I left this morning. Guess they wanted to get a shot of the bereaved husband. And I’m sure some of them aren’t quite convinced I had nothing to do with Angela’s … dying.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Why are you sorry? Like Detective Terry said, you’re the one who believed in me when no one else did. How can I ever thank you?”

She dipped her chin. “Your discretion in this matter with my father is thanks enough.”

“Carly,” Peter said, picking up her left hand. “It’s really none of my business but what did you do with the engagement ring I gave you?”

“I … had to sell it.”

He nodded. “As you should have. I suspect money was tight after your parents left.”

“It was. But actually, I didn’t sell it until a few weeks ago.” In the wake of Peter’s wife’s murder, the act of pawning the Cartier ring had been as necessary to her emotional security as to her financial security. Keeping it had made her feel as if she were leaving her heart ajar for him to walk back in.

“I see.” His voice was thick with disappointment.

“Peter, after running into you again … things were happening too fast between us. I had to do something to slow it down on my end. Pawning the ring helped me to sever ties to the past.”

He nodded again. “I understand. And I have no right to ask you but I hope that severing ties to our past doesn’t rule out us having a future.”

Her heart pounded furiously. How many nights had she lain awake dreaming of him returning to her like this, asking her to give their love another chance? “I don’t know about a future with you, Peter,” she said honestly. “As crazy as my life is, I can’t say anything for sure.”

He squeezed her hand. “Fair enough.” Then he nodded toward the dark windows of the town house. “Looks pretty quiet. Is Wesley working?”

“No. He’s spending the night with a friend.”

“Oh?”

The word vibrated with hope, sending a flush to Carlotta’s chest and face.

“I could stay,” he offered. “On the couch, of course. I don’t like the idea of you being alone tonight.”

It was the perfect excuse to be close to Peter, to spend time with him, for them to begin the process of getting to know each other again. He was the only person who could help her sort through this mess with her father. And truth be known, she didn’t want to be alone tonight. Plus she did have that one good bottle of red wine in the cabinet that she’d been waiting for an occasion to uncork.

She opened her mouth to say yes, but was distracted by the sudden appearance of headlights, then the revving of a diesel engine that brought Hannah Kizer’s big graffiti’d refrigerated van up next to them. The Goth-garbed and stripe-haired Hannah hung out the driver’s side window, arms waving, pierced tongue flapping.

“Do you know that … person?” Peter asked.

“Kind of,” Carlotta said with resignation. She lowered her window, half relieved, half irritated at her friend’s timing.

“What the hell happened to you?” Hannah shouted. “I called you back to tell you all about Coop making me a body mover, but your line was busy and then you didn’t answer all damn afternoon!”

“Lindy confiscated my phone.”

“The whore,” Hannah declared, then she narrowed her kohl-lined eyes at Peter. “Hope I interrupted something.”

“Peter gave me a ride home,” Carlotta said quickly, hoping Peter didn’t notice the open hostility rolling off Hannah toward the man who had broken Carlotta’s heart. “The Monte Carlo is in the shop.”

“I know,” Hannah said sourly. “I was going to swing by the mall and give you a ride, but I see Richie Rich beat me to it.”

Carlotta gave her friend a stern look. “Hannah, have you ever met Peter Ashford?”

“Only by reputation.” Hannah addressed Peter in a suspicious tone, “I attended your wife’s memorial service with Carlotta.”

“Peter, this is my friend Hannah Kizer.”

“Nice to meet you, Hannah.”

“Wish I could say the same.”

“Hannah!”

“It’s okay,” Peter broke in, putting his warm hand on Carlotta’s knee. “I’ll go. Will your friend stay with you tonight?”

Carlotta nodded.

“Call me to let me know what you decide.”

She was transfixed by the concern shining in his eyes. “I’ll call,” she murmured.

He leaned across the console and whispered, “I’m here for you, Carly,” then brushed a kiss near her ear.

The sound of Hannah clearing her throat rent the air. Carlotta gathered her purse and climbed out of the car, waving as Peter backed out of the driveway.

Hannah jumped out of the van and slammed the door. “Why the hell did you let him drive you home? His wife is barely dead.”

Carlotta frowned. “There’s no such thing as barely dead. And you’re being awfully judgmental for someone who makes it a practice not to date a man unless he’s wearing a wedding ring.”

“This is you we’re talking about. You don’t have my natural defenses.”

Or as some would say, her natural repellants. “Want to order a pizza?”

“I got an organic veggie lasagna in the back of the van. Will that do?”

“Sounds great.”

“Am I spending the night?”

“Would you mind?”

“Can I sleep with Wesley’s snake?”

“No. “

“Spoilsport. You don’t look so good. Did Wesley do something again?”

“Not that I know of. This time it’s someone else.”

Hannah opened the van door and rummaged through containers in a cardboard box. “You have a lot of disturbed people in your life, Carlotta.”

Carlotta spotted a magnetic Body Transport sign leaning against a shelf. Hannah had a wild crush on Wesley’s boss, Cooper Craft, and had allegedly convinced him to hire her as a body mover for the morgue. Employing her own brand of twisted logic, Hannah had concluded that her catering van could do double duty, health codes be damned.

Carlotta shook her head behind her friend’s back. “You can say that again.”

6

“Dude, wake up. I’m starving.”

Wesley cracked open an eye and winced at the sunlight streaming into the room. God, his head felt like someone had hit him with a baseball bat. After leaving the card game, he and Chance had really tied one on. He slowly became aware that he was fused to the leather couch in the living room of Chance’s condo. He rolled his eyes upward to see his buddy standing over him.

Chance laughed. “Hung over, huh? What a wuss.”

Wesley groaned and pushed himself up on one arm. “Do you have to shout?”

“Let’s go to the Vortex and get a burger.”

The thought of food made his stomach churn, but he sat up and pulled a hand down his gritty face. “What time is it?”

“Almost noon.”

Wesley reached for his T-shirt. “I should go.”

“Moving stiffs today?”

“I’m on call.”

“Man, you were awesome last night. That guy didn’t know what hit him. You played that final hand like a pro.”

Despite his pounding head, Wesley smiled. “Thanks, but that was a pretty easy crowd.”

Chance handed him a few pills and an open can of Mountain Dew. “Here.”

Wesley looked at the pills. “What’s this?”

“Aspirin, man. Don’t you trust me?”

Not entirely, since Chance had his hands in lots of illegal shit. Wesley downed the pills and swished the sugary drink to dispel the god-awful taste in his mouth. Then he pulled his wallet from his pocket and opened it to reveal a thick wad of cash. Relief flooded him that he hadn’t lost it or spent it all in his drunken stupor, although he seemed to be down a few bills.

“You sprang for some choice weed last night,” Chance said, nodding toward a plastic bag on the coffee table. “I smoked a joint as big as my dick.”

Chance’s favorite topic was his Johnson.

“Take the leftovers,” Chance offered.

“No thanks. If I fail a drug test, I go to jail. Keep it, my compliments.” Wesley counted off several bills and handed them to Chance. “And here’s the money I owe you.”

“Thanks. What are you going to do with the rest of it?”

“Pay off some other debts.” Wesley thought of Tick and Mouse, the two thick-necked collectors for the loan sharks he owed, Father Thom and The Carver, who showed up every week. He’d be glad to get those two off his back for a while.

“Oh, come on. Aren’t you going to celebrate a little? Buy something for yourself? A new computer? I know how you dig that shit.”

“I’m not allowed to have computer equipment under the terms of my probation,” Wesley said, jerking his thumb toward Chance’s extra bedroom. “That’s why I’m storing my good stuff here, remember?”

“What about a car?”

“With a suspended license?”

“You’ll get it back sooner or later.”

“In like a year, dude. I don’t want something sitting in the garage that I can’t drive. That’s why I sold my motorcycle.”

Although a top-of-the-line bicycle would be cool and would give him some mobility.

“How about a kick-ass stereo system?” Chance suggested.

“I’m good with my iPod.”

“Some blowout speakers, then. Dude, you gotta buy something fun with the money. You deserve it.”

“Yeah, maybe,” he said, thinking that he should buy something for Carlotta for all the crap he’d put her through. Maybe something for the house, something they both could enjoy.

“Come and hang out while I eat.” Chance laid his meaty arm across Wesley’s shoulders. “I’ve been thinking about a partnership.”

Wesley was immediately wary. “What kind of partnership?”

“You always said you wanted to make it to the World Series of Poker.”

“Yeah, so?”

“So I’m thinking that with my trust fund and your card smarts, maybe we can make it happen.”

Wesley’s pulse jumped: Chance definitely had the cash to bankroll his dream. Sure, with the body-moving gig, the community-service job that was supposed to start soon and delving into his dad’s case, he had a lot on his plate. But after a bumpy couple of months, his luck seemed to be changing. And while he’d promised Carlotta that he’d give up gambling, with Chance behind him, last night’s take was trivial to the money he could potentially win.

Besides—if he were careful—Carlotta wouldn’t have to know.

He looked at Chance. “I’m listening.”

7

“I appreciate the ride to work,” Carlotta said to Hannah. She took a drag on a cigarette, then handed it back with a shaking hand.

“No problem.” Hannah inhaled on the shared smoke. “Sorry you’re having such a crummy time. Have you decided whether to tell the police about your father calling?”

“Not yet. And you can’t tell anyone, Hannah. I haven’t even decided whether or not to tell Wesley.” And she hadn’t mentioned that her father had called Peter because she wanted to keep him out of it.

“I’m as silent as the grave.” Hannah clicked the barbell in her tongue against her teeth for emphasis, then squinted. “Are you sure you’re okay? You look like hell.”

“I didn’t get much sleep,” Carlotta admitted. None, actually. Not even after pleading exhaustion to Hannah and turning in early, leaving her friend to sit on the couch watching cable on the small television with the distorted picture. She’d been on edge all night, hoping the phone would ring, praying it wouldn’t. And on top of everything else, there was Peter burnt into her brain, into her heart. And the disconcerting image of Jack Terry’s face, looking as if he actually cared.

“Give yourself a break. You’ve been through a lot lately, with Wesley’s arrest, then Angela Ashford’s murder and now all this.”

Carlotta tried to smile. “Guess it’s all hitting me. Posttraumatic stress disorder, maybe. I feel a little out of it.”

“Yeah, when I saw you jogging yesterday morning a couple of blocks from your house I yelled, but you were in a freaking trance.”

Carlotta frowned. “That was someone else. Have you ever known me to jog?”

“No, but I’ve never seen you gaga over a guy before either, like the way you are with Peter Asshole.”

“Be nice. And I’m not gaga over him. We have … history.”

“He dumped you when you needed him most and now—after you’ve made it on your own—he expects you to take him back?”

Carlotta retrieved the cigarette and drew on it hard. “Made it on my own? That’s a laugh. My life is a disaster.”

“What? And his is something to brag about?”

“He’s successful.”

“And conspicuously rich. Yeah, I noticed. He was also in a dysfunctional marriage which ended when his wife was murdered. The man has issues, Carlotta.”

“Don’t we all?” she murmured, finishing the cigarette, then grimacing as she snubbed it out. Peter would hate her smoking, even sporadically. Then she glanced at Hannah in her black-leather getup and acknowledged there were other elements of her life that Peter would have a hard time accepting—her friendship with this good-hearted oddball being one of them.

Yet he seemed eager to try….

“You know there are drugs for what you’re going through.”

“Excuse me?”

“Antidepressants. They’ll take the edge off.”

“I don’t need drugs, I need normalcy.”

“Like that’s going to happen. You need to get laid. And not by Peter, that’s way too messy. Don’t you know someone who’s good for a night of hot sex with no strings attached?”

Why did Jack Terry’s face emerge in her head? “No one comes to mind,” Carlotta said sourly.

“Too bad. Sex is great for working out the mental kinks.”

“If that’s the case why are you so messed up?”

“Very funny. Quantity doesn’t necessarily equate to quality. Seriously, Carlotta, you should at least consider seeing a shrink.”

Carlotta sighed and rubbed her temples. She was going to have to do a better job of checking her emotions if she were going to keep her father’s call a secret from Wesley and Jack Terry. She could really use Wesley’s poker face right about now—especially since with his promise to her, he wouldn’t be needing it anymore. She tried not to think about what mischief he might have gotten into with Chance last night. Hopefully it was something harmless, like beer and girls. Wesley was an adult and she had to stop obsessing over his whereabouts, but old habits died hard.

Hannah glanced at her quiet cell-phone screen and slammed her palm against the steering wheel. “Why hasn’t he called?”

Carlotta lifted an eyebrow. “Which of your married lovers are we talking about?”

Hannah smirked. “I’m referring to Coop. I thought he would’ve called by now to have me help him move a body.”

Since Hannah had a huge crush on Wesley’s boss, Carlotta chose her words carefully. “Maybe he had a funeral today. Or maybe Wesley is out with him. I’m sure he’ll call you soon.”

“I hope so. I can’t wait for my first assignment.”

“Hannah, I’m not so sure that body moving is the kind of job that one should feel so enthusiastic about.”

Hannah waved off her concern. “Death fascinates me. I guess that’s why I’m so intrigued by Cooper—you have to be a special person to work around bodies all the time. Do you think he has a casket at home?”

“I certainly hope not.” Even though his job of running his uncle’s funeral home and moving bodies for the morgue was creepy, Cooper Craft was a surprisingly normal-looking guy. Attractive, even. He’d hinted, as Jack Terry had said, that he was interested in Carlotta, but Cooper was so intellectual, he intimidated her.

Of course, nothing earthbound intimidated Hannah.

“I’ve always wanted to lie down in a coffin, you know, just to see what it’s like.”