Читать книгу Body Movers Books 1-3 - Stephanie Bond, Stephanie Bond - Страница 18

“That was amazing,” Carlotta said, pushing away her plate and smiling at her brother.

“I know,” he said with a smirk, still mopping up red sauce with crusty Italian bread. He pushed up his glasses. “I could teach you how to make it sometime.”

She batted her lashes. “And spoil your pleasure in cooking for me? Never.”

He wiped his mouth, then wadded up the paper napkin and threw it at her. Frowning, he leaned forward. “Hey, what happened to your neck? It looks like someone tried to choke you or something.”

Her hand flew to her throat and she could feel the angry welts left by the chain that Angela Ashford had twisted around her neck. “It’s…an allergic reaction to a necklace I wore, that’s all.” Wesley looked unconvinced, so she changed the subject. “When does your community service begin?”

“I have an appointment with my probation officer Wednesday. He’s supposed to arrange for me to work with the city geeks on their lousy security.”

“Good—maybe that’ll lead to a full-time job.”

“I already have a full-time job.”

“And it’s fine for now,” she said carefully. “But you can’t move dead bodies for the rest of your life.”

“Why not? Coop does okay.”

She frowned. “But this body-moving thing is just a side job for him too, right?”

“A side job from the funeral home, yeah. He contracts with the morgue when the M.E.’s office is short of vehicles.”

Carlotta looked at the clock—almost seven. “You’re not working tonight?”

“I’m on call. Coop said most weekend calls are late at night. Shootings, drunk-driving accidents, that kind of thing.”

She winced.

“I think he likes you.”

“Who?”

“Coop.”

Her eyes widened. “Your creepy boss likes me?”

“He’s not creepy. He’s kind of…nice. And, yeah, he asked about you.”

She frowned, remembering that she’d looked a fright the morning she’d met him, the morning after her crying jag over Peter. “Asked what?”

He shrugged. “You know, if you were single and stuff. He said he thought you were cute.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Cute? What is he, in grade school?”

“Don’t worry, I told him that he wasn’t your type.”

“Oh.” She studied her nails—she needed a manicure badly. Then she looked up. “What’s my type?”

Another shrug. “You know—smooth, slick. Coop said you were probably into metrosexuals.”

She frowned. “And how could he possibly know that? When he met me, if I remember correctly, I was in my pajamas, wearing no makeup, and my hair was a foot tall.”

“Yeah, but still, he could tell you were classy.”

She smiled. “You think I’m classy?”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

She laughed and in the wake of the cozy moment, she considered asking Wesley about the postcard she’d found from their parents. It had been a long time since they’d really talked about their parents. Maybe it was time to reopen that can of worms.

“Wesley—”

The chirp of his cell phone cut her off. He lunged for the tiny device sitting on the counter. “Hello?” He smiled. “Yeah, man.”

Carlotta wondered if it was that Chance Hollander, calling to lure Wesley into some kind of Friday-night trouble. Rich little bastard. He surrounded himself with people like Wesley who were impressed by the toys and good times his money could buy—people who would do his bidding.

Wesley grabbed a pen and scribbled something on a napkin. “Got it. I’ll get there somehow.” Then he disconnected the call.

Carlotta set her jaw, gathering verbal arguments for Wesley not to meet up with his troublemaker friend.

“That was Coop,” Wesley said breathlessly, his eyes shining. “We have a job.”

“Oh,” she said, her arguments vanishing as her thoughts turned foolishly to how she would greet Cooper Craft now that she knew he thought she was cute.

“But there’s one little problem.”

At the catch in her brother’s voice, she was instantly on alert. “Oh?”

Wesley chewed his lip, then sighed. “It’s a residential pickup, and Coop was close to the address when he got the call. Would you mind driving me there?”

“You’re not serious?”

“Well, I could drive—”

“You know you can’t drive on a suspended license!”

“I can’t get there on the train.”

Carlotta acknowledged that her brother was right, and felt herself wearing down. She’d hounded him about a job, and now he finally had one. It wouldn’t kill her to drive him; it wasn’t as if she had something better to do. “Okay, just don’t make a habit of this.”

He whooped. “Thanks, sis. I’ll grab my backpack while you put on a bra.”

She glared and swatted at his arm as he walked by, then pushed away from the table. The things she did for love. She went to her room wondering what would be appropriate to wear. She surveyed her flare-leg Levi’s, Juicy Couture T-shirt, Michael Kors high-heeled Mary Janes, and decided the outfit would have to do. She donned a bra and added a brown shrug sweater against the evening chill, then slid chocolate-pink lip balm onto her lips to keep them from getting chapped, not because Cooper Craft thought she was cute.

“Come on,” Wesley said from the doorway of her bedroom. “You’re dropping me off. You don’t need lipstick.”

“It’s lip balm.”

“Whatever, come on already.”

She swung her purse to her shoulder. “You owe me for this.”

“Yeah, well, add it to the list.”

They blew by Mrs. Winningham who was weeding her flower bed. “Wait! I want to talk to you two!”

“Some other time, Mrs. Winningham!” Carlotta promised the woman as they ran for the garage.

“But someone has been parking on the street and watching our houses! Don’t you care?”

“No!” they yelled in unison, ducking under the opening garage door and bolting for the Monte Carlo.

“Christ,” Carlotta muttered under her breath. “It’s probably that Detective Terry snooping around.”

“Yeah, probably,” Wesley said in a noncommittal voice.

Or any one of several other undesirables, she conceded miserably. “Do you have the address?” she asked as she backed out.

“Yeah, it’s in Buckhead.” He read off the street name and number and Carlotta frowned. “Hmm, that’s a nice area. Did he mention the neighborhood?”

“Yeah, it’s Martinique Estates. Know it?”

She frowned. “Maybe. It sounds familiar, but I can’t place it.” She’d probably crashed a party there sometime, but didn’t want to say so in front of her brother. Besides, those days were behind her—no more party-crashing. She’d made an exception the other night and it had put her in the path of Peter Ashford, a scene which may have caused the humiliating takedown today at work. Her skin crawled at the memory and she touched the tender place on her throat. Thank God Lindy hadn’t called the police or the situation could have spiraled into something much more messy.

“Did someone have a heart attack in their home?” she asked.

“Coop didn’t say, but that’s a good guess.”

Unbidden, her parents came to mind. They would be in their mid-fifties now. If her mother was still drinking, she couldn’t be in good health. And her father had smoked like a chimney and enjoyed his bourbon. Occasionally she wondered if she and Wesley would even be notified if they were sick…or worse. But according to the postcard that Wesley had kept hidden, they were still kicking.

She glanced sideways at her brother in the dark cab of the car, unspoken words simmering on her tongue. But his face was a mask of concentration. It wasn’t an appropriate time or place to bring up their parents’ latest communication.

Ten minutes later they were winding through the community of Buckhead, Atlanta’s premier address, featuring enormous tree-laden lots and even more enormous amenity-laden houses. Old money met new money behind the soaring gates of the private communities where residents lifted a collective nose at the rest of Atlanta. Carlotta knew, because she’d grown up in just such a neighborhood.

“You missed the turn,” Wesley said, exasperated.

She frowned and looked in her rearview mirror. “I’m doing the best I can. It’s so dark out here!”

“Turn around!”

“Shut up and put on your seat belt!”

They bickered until they pulled up to the wrought-iron gates of Martinique Estates. A squad car with a silent, flashing light sat next to the gatehouse.

“Lot of commotion for a heart attack victim,” she said, impressed.

A security guard accompanied by a uniformed police office approached the car as she rolled down the window. Wesley leaned forward and flashed an official-looking badge with his photo and something about the medical examiner’s office. The policeman looked at it, then handed it back and signaled for the gatekeeper to let them in.

Recalling all the tickets that Wesley had counterfeited for her, she frowned. “Is that a fake badge?”

“What? No. Coop gave me this. I’m official. Turn here.”

She did and again had the feeling that the street name was familiar for some reason. She stared up at the monstrous brick houses that looked more like compounds than homes and, God help her, she felt a stab of envy. Money didn’t buy happiness, but it made certain aspects of life a whole hell of a lot easier. She’d lived on both sides of that wrought-iron gate, so she knew.

Wesley was craning for house numbers, but that became a moot point when they both caught sight of a squad car and an ambulance, lights flashing, and various other official-looking vehicles parked at angles on the curb and in the downward-sloping driveway. The megamansion sat below curb level, judging by the way the land fell away and by the downward gaze of the onlookers. “I think we found the right house.” She guided the car closer, picking up an approaching cop in her headlights, then stopped and zoomed down the window.

“You need to keep moving, ma’am.”

“We’re here to help transport the body,” Wesley said, sounding amazingly mature. He handed the badge to the cop, who, after scrutinizing it, handed it back. “Okay, but you’ll have to park here and walk onto the property. The pool is down there.”

“Pool?” Wesley asked.

“The woman drowned,” the cop said curtly.

Carlotta shuddered, then looked at Wesley. “Do you see your boss’s vehicle?”

“No, but he’s probably parked near the house.”

“I’ll pull over and wait a few minutes. If you don’t come back or call my cell, I’ll know you found him and I’ll go.”

He sighed. “You worry too much.”

“I know. Go.”

He scrambled out of the vehicle and disappeared down the driveway. Carlotta pulled over to the curb and put the car into Park, giving the cop a little wave. Headlights shone in her rearview mirror, and then a car parked behind her. A suited man climbed out and walked by her car, his destination obviously the house. With a shock she realized it was Detective Jack Terry, just as he turned and recognized her. He stopped and tapped on her window. Reluctantly, she zoomed it down.

“Ms. Wren, what are you doing here?”

“Just dropping off my brother, Detective. He got a job with a local funeral home operator who contracts with the morgue to…uh…move bodies.”

He pursed his mouth. “Did he now? Well, that explains why a hearse was parked in front of your place a couple of days ago.”

She glared. “Stop spying on us.”

His gaze raked over the Monte Carlo and one side of his mouth lifted. “I like the car—not exactly what I thought you’d be driving, though.”

She put her hand on the gearshift to keep from swinging at him. “Good night, Detective.”

Suddenly another set of headlights shone in her rearview mirror, these from a smaller car approaching very fast. Detective Terry flattened himself against the Monte Carlo as the little car careened past and screeched to a halt at a haphazard angle, leaving the smell of burnt rubber in the air. It was a dark Porsche, but she couldn’t discern the model.

“Looks like the husband is home,” the detective said, his voice rueful. “This is always the hard part.”

Carlotta felt an unexpected stab of compassion for the detective as he walked toward the man who flung himself out of the car. How horrible it must be to work with angry, distraught, and sometimes violent people, day in and day out.

And based on the body language of the man who was trying to push past the detective, those were just the survivors.

Riveted, she watched as Detective Terry visibly tried to calm the man. They were about the same height, but the detective’s bulk gave him the advantage of leverage. He led the man to where they could look down upon the house. From the way the man bent over and gripped his knees, she presumed they could see the pool from where they stood—and the body. Then the husband turned, as though to gather himself, and lifted his head in Carlotta’s direction.

The breath froze in her chest as recognition slammed into her.

Peter Ashford, looking disheveled and inebriated.

She glanced at the monstrous house, eerily illuminated by uplights and headlights. This was Peter’s house?

Which meant, she realized with dawning horror, that the woman who was dead was…Angela Ashford.