Читать книгу Body Movers Books 1-3 - Stephanie Bond, Stephanie Bond - Страница 15

When Carlotta’s alarm went off the next morning, she slapped at it blindly, her eyes crusted shut from a river of salty tears. As she lay there rubbing her fists against her lids, last night came back to her in a horrible rush. She groaned. What had she been thinking? As soon as she saw Peter Ashford, she should’ve turned on her heel and run. Now she had fresh sensory details to torment herself with.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” she lamented, hitting her forehead for emphasis. She wondered what Lindy would say if she called in to take a “mental health” day, meaning she was feeling more crazy than usual.

Knowing the answer, she pushed herself up on her elbows, hoping to motivate the rest of her body to get moving.

At the sound of muffled noise coming from the kitchen, she pursed her mouth. Wesley was never up this early. She raised her nose and sniffed the air. Hmm—bacon. She hoped he’d made enough for two. Throwing back the covers, she reached for her yellow chenille bathrobe and pulled it over her red Betty Boop pajamas, then padded barefoot toward the kitchen and the good smells.

Wesley, dressed in jeans and T-shirt, stood at the stove, stirring and flipping and…whistling?

“Good morning,” she said warily.

He turned and grinned. “Mornin’. You look like hell.”

She smirked. “Thanks.”

“Are you sick? I got in kinda early last night and your door was closed—I thought that maybe you’d brought a guy home with you.” He pointed an egg turner at her pajamas. “But I can see that isn’t the case based on your godawful sleepwear.”

“Shut up,” she said playfully, then went to the fridge for orange juice. “I’m not sick.”

“What then?”

She sighed. “I ran into Peter Ashford last night.”

“Peter Ashford? What’s the asshole up to?”

She frowned. “Never mind.”

“I thought he was married.”

“He is. And it’s not like I’m mooning for him. I guess seeing him just brought back bad memories. What are you making?” she asked to change the subject.

“Eggs Benedict with fresh sliced red and green tomatoes.”

“Wow, what’s the occasion?”

“I got a job.” He took a bow, then waited for her reaction.

She squealed with joy, then jumped up and down, sloshing orange juice on her robe. “Oh, Wesley, that’s wonderful. Doing what?”

He pressed his lips together and her joy dissipated.

“Wesley?”

“It’s a great job,” he said in a rush. “Flexible hours, good money, benefits, and I don’t need a car.”

“Good,” she said, feeling somewhat cheered. “Doing what?”

“Uh…moving bodies.”

She choked on her orange juice. “What?”

“Okay, don’t freak out—it’s a perfectly legitimate job. We pick up bodies and move them to the morgue.”

“Pick up bodies from where?”

He shrugged. “Houses, hospitals…crime scenes.”

“Crime scenes? And who is ‘we’?”

The doorbell rang and Wesley smiled. “That would be my boss.”

Her eyes widened as she looked down at her pj ensemble. “At this hour?”

“Coop is picking me up for a morning run to a nursing home,” he said over his shoulder. “I told him to come early and have breakfast with us.”

“Coop?” She only had time to tighten the belt on her robe and run her fingers through her tangled hair before Wesley reappeared with a tall man dressed in overlong jeans, black Converse Chuck Taylor tennis shoes and a black sport coat over a dress shirt and tie.

A nice tie.

He appeared to be about thirty-five, with light brown hair, long sideburns and funky dark-rimmed glasses. He looked more like a philosophy teacher who hung out in coffee shops than a…body mover.

“This is Cooper Craft, my boss,” Wesley said. “And this is my sister, Carlotta. She usually looks better than this, but she’s been crying all night over an old boyfriend.”

She gasped, mortified. “Wesley!” She shot daggers at her brother while Cooper laughed, which only rankled her further. “I understand that my brother will be working for you, Mr. Craft,” she said in her best never-cried-over-anyone voice.

“Call me Coop,” he said, still smiling. “That’s right.”

“And what exactly is it that you do?”

“I work at a funeral home, but mostly I contract with the city morgue for body retrieval.” Another smile. “That’s where I need Wesley’s help.” He held up a newspaper. “I brought in your paper. Hope that’s okay.”

Carlotta nodded and took it, a little irritated that the man seemed to feel so at home in their home.

“Have a seat,” Wesley said, gesturing to the table, where he had set three plates. “What do you want to drink, Coop?”

“You got coffee? I’ll help myself,” the man said, walking over to the table where he pulled out a chair for Carlotta. Feeling ridiculous, she tucked her bulky robe around her and slid into the seat. Coop poured himself a cup of coffee and took the seat opposite her. Wesley carried platters of food to the table and arranged them carefully, then took the seat between the two of them.

“This is incredible,” Cooper said, unfolding the paper towel next to his plate and putting it in his lap as if it were linen. He looked at Carlotta. “Did you make all this?”

Wesley laughed. “Dude, Carlotta doesn’t cook. I made it.”

She bristled. “I cook…some things.”

“Macaroni and cheese from a box doesn’t count,” Wesley said, filling his plate.

“Sure it does,” Coop said, then winked at her.

Annoyed, Carlotta served herself then passed the tomatoes to Coop. “This body-moving business sounds very strange to me. Is it safe for Wesley to be around…dead bodies?”

Coop swallowed a mouthful of coffee. “We take precautions—gloves, masks, leak-proof body bags.”

Carlotta looked down at the sauce on the eggs Benedict and her stomach roiled. “How long have you been doing this?”

“Working with stiffs?” he asked between bites. “Pretty much all of my life.”

She picked at the food on her plate. “No offense, but it seems like an odd career choice.”

“Really? What do you do?”

“I work at Neiman Marcus at the Lenox Mall.”

He lifted his coffee cup. “Well, no offense, but to me that seems like an odd career choice.”

Wesley laughed, then covered his mouth. “Sorry, sis, but he’s got you there.”

She frowned at her brother and concentrated on eating and not thinking about what Cooper Craft did for a living. Under her lashes, she stared at his hands—long, shapely fingers, with immaculate nails, clean from all the chemicals he used, no doubt. She wondered if he had been a weird kid, the kind that gave little funerals for roadkill. He seemed normal—mannerly, well-spoken, educated. But what normal person was attracted to his line of work?

Then she looked at Wesley and stopped midchew. Was there something wrong with Wesley? He did seem to have a fixation on feeding live rodents to that killer snake of his. Was he attracted to this kind of job? Good God, having her for a parent had affected him more than she’d ever dreamed. Not only was he a delinquent, but he was…morbid.

Coop wiped his mouth and groaned in satisfaction. “That was great.”

“Thanks,” Wesley said, then gave Carlotta’s half-eaten breakfast a pointed look.

“Yes, it’s great,” she concurred weakly. “But I’m just not as hungry as I thought.” The world was missing out on the eat-with-a-mortician diet.

“Ready to go?” Coop asked Wesley, then glanced at his watch. “All the folks at the nursing home will be lined up, expecting us. It’s kind of a morning ritual. They have a send-off for their friends who have passed.”

Carlotta winced.

“Yeah, let me grab my backpack.”

“You got a shirt with a collar on it?” Coop asked.

Wesley frowned and looked at Carlotta, who smothered a smile behind her glass.

“Yeah,” Wesley said, his spirits considerably dampened.

“How about a jacket?”

Wesley’s face fell further. “Yeah.”

“Good. The families expect us to look decent when we arrive to load up their loved ones.”

Wesley nodded. “Give me a minute.” He headed toward his bedroom, leaving her alone with creepy Coop.

“All these years I’ve been trying to get him to dress better,” she said dryly, “and you accomplish it in five minutes.”

“Seems like a nice kid,” he said.

“He is…but he’s been in a little trouble.”

He nodded. “Wesley told me about the probation. I told him that everybody makes mistakes—it’s how a person handles their mistakes that sets them apart.”

Something in the tone of his voice made her wonder if he was talking about Wesley…or himself.

He stood and carried his empty plate to the sink.

“Leave it, I’ll get it. That’s our deal—Wesley cooks, and I clean up.”

“It’s okay,” he said, rinsing the plate, along with his coffee cup. “I live alone. I’m used to cleaning up after myself.”

Hmm—a bachelor. She wasn’t completely surprised. An undertaker wasn’t on the top of most girls’ list of desirable dates. Unbidden, she wondered if the saying about undertakers having cold hands was true.

“Thanks for the hospitality,” he said. “I hope you…feel better.”

An embarrassed flush climbed her neck. The man must think she was a simpering fool for some loser guy. Not that she cared what he thought of her—he worked with dead people, for Christ’s sake. “Thank you,” she mumbled.

“I’m ready,” Wesley said from the doorway.

Carlotta stared. “A tie, too?”

“Bye, sis. We’re going in Coop’s ride.”

She frowned. “What kind of ‘ride’ would that be?”

“A hearse,” Wesley said. “How cool is that?”

Her eyes went wide as she rushed to the window. Sure enough, a black hearse sat at the curb. “Mrs. Winningham will stroke out over this.”

“I usually drive a van,” Coop said, following her. “But the folks at the nursing home appreciate the classy extra touch.”

Carlotta pushed her tongue into her cheek. “Classy—that’s just what I was thinking.”

Wesley pushed open the front door and galloped out to the curb to check out his “ride.”

Coop laughed, then looked at her. “Nice meeting you.” He stuck out his hand.

She swallowed before taking it, expecting his fingers to be frigid. Instead, they were warm and firm and…nice, actually. “Same here,” she said, perplexed by the man’s contradictions.

He nodded toward the dilapidated silver-colored tree in the corner. “I like your tree—very retro. You must really get into Christmas.”

Carlotta gave him a flat smile. “Oh, yeah, it’s Christmas every day of the year around here.”

He grinned and walked to the door. “Guess I’ll be seeing you.”

She crossed her arms. “I have to be honest with you, Coop—I’m not sold on this idea of Wesley being a…a body mover.”

Coop gave a little laugh. “Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it.”

The door closed behind him and she frowned. Where had she heard that before?

She showered and dressed for work quickly, pushing away thoughts of Peter Ashford as soon as they entered her head. It was how she’d gotten over him before—by conditioning herself not to think about him and eventually the banished thoughts had diminished.

Although they had never quite disappeared.

When she walked out on the stoop, Mrs. Winningham was halfheartedly watering her yard, a ruse she promptly abandoned when she spotted Carlotta. “Why was there a hearse in front of your house this morning?”

Carlotta angled her head. “A hearse? I didn’t see a hearse, Mrs. Winningham. Are you sure you didn’t imagine it?”

The woman scowled. “If I did, I also imagined your brother getting in it.”

Carlotta lifted her arms in a shrug. “Have a nice day, Mrs. Winningham.”

She trotted to the garage, squeezing the remote control. The opener made a horrible grinding noise as it lifted the door—a sure sign it was ready to go out. She sighed, opened the car door and tossed her purse in the passenger seat. Just before she swung inside, she noticed a tennis-ball can on a shelf with old cans of spray paint and miscellaneous junk—Wesley’s admitted hiding place for the cash he was hoarding. She frowned. If he was still holding out on her…

She walked over and stretched high to reach the tennis-ball canister. She assuaged her guilt for snooping with the knowledge that her credit card company had already hit her account with a twenty-two percent finance charge for the cash advance she’d gotten to pay off that odious Tick fellow.

She popped off the lid, peered inside and frowned. Empty. Then she squinted…no, there was something rolled up and nearly hidden because it was pressed against the lining of the canister. She wiggled her hand down inside, grabbed an edge with her fingernails and pulled it out slowly. Immediately, her stomach began to churn.

It was a postcard from her parents dated six weeks ago. The photo was an Ansel Adams landscape, a nondescript mountain scene mirrored by a lake. The note on the back was short and cryptic, as always. “Thinking of you both.” It was her mother’s handwriting. The postmark was Miami, Florida. She inhaled sharply. They had been only one state away when they’d mailed it?

She shook her head, wondering why Wesley would have kept the postcard from her and felt the need to hide it. Then she smirked. Hadn’t she said the last time they’d gotten one—two years ago—that she hoped they didn’t receive any more postcards, and that if they did, she would turn them over to the police? Wesley must have taken her at her word.

Detective Terry’s question as to her parents’ whereabouts echoed in her head. Should she call him now while the lead might still be warm? Or would that result in unnecessary surveillance of their home, their mail, their phones? She worked her mouth back and forth, debating. One thing was certain—she couldn’t leave the postcard in case Wesley decided to hide it somewhere else. If he missed it and confronted her, she’d tell him the truth, which was more than she’d gotten from him. She returned the canister to the shelf, climbed inside her car, and, after studying the postcard again, stuck it inside her purse.

She’d hang on to the “evidence” until she decided what to do.