Читать книгу Body Movers Books 1-3 - Stephanie Bond, Stephanie Bond - Страница 19

The lost look on Peter’s face made Carlotta’s heart swell in agony. Before she had time to think, she was out of the car and moving toward him in the semidarkness. “Peter?”

He turned at the sound of her voice and when he saw her, his face creased in confusion. “Carlotta? What are you doing here?”

“I dropped off Wesley. He’s here…in an official capacity,” she said vaguely. “We had no idea this was your house…that Angela—” She broke off, at a loss for words.

He embraced her and she could feel desperation palpating through his heated skin. She could also smell the gin on his breath and on his shirt. He was drunk, and she wondered how much his clinging to her was to keep himself upright. Then he buried his face in her hair and pulled her body against his. She ached to give him the comfort he sought, but when she realized that Detective Terry was gaping at them, she reluctantly pulled away and cleared her throat.

Detective Terry’s eyebrows sat high on his forehead. “I take it you two know each other?”

“Old friends,” Carlotta supplied quickly, then her gaze caught on the pool about twenty yards below them, shrouded in the mist that rose from the surface of the heated water. Angela’s body, clad in black, lay on the pale background of the concrete pool surround, her limbs at awkward angles. Carlotta swallowed hard against the cold truth that Angela was dead.

Peter looked at the scene and dragged his hand down his face. “I have to go to her,” he said, and the detective relented with a nod, falling into step behind him.

Carlotta didn’t know whether to stay or to go, or to walk down with the men. She didn’t relish seeing the body up close, but she also didn’t want to just leave. She hugged herself, running her hands up and down her arms to ward off the damp chill that blanketed everything that didn’t move—which would include Angela’s body, she noted ruefully.

Peter turned back. “Carlotta…I could use a friend right now.”

She hesitated, darting a glance at the detective, who looked extremely irritated at the idea of her going with them.

“Try to stay out of the way,” Detective Terry said, then continued tromping down the incline.

She followed them, careful to stay behind while still in Peter’s peripheral vision. She couldn’t take her eyes off him. He seemed so…so…disconnected. She wondered if he was in shock. No tears, no prostrate hysterics. Maybe the alcohol had numbed his senses, but back when they had dated, alcohol had always made him more emotional.

He moved like an automaton, staring straight ahead, his hands hanging limply by his sides as he walked by the vehicles parked in the paved turnaround in front of the house, including a car with the medical examiner’s shield on the side and a plain white van that Carlotta assumed belonged to Cooper Craft. As they approached the tall wrought-iron fence that enclosed the pool, Carlotta glanced around nervously.

She took in the palatial lines of the brick house, the sweeping steps that led from the turnaround, the huge fountain, the two-story entryway and the soaring Palladian windows, eerily dark. The house looked cold, empty…dead. By contrast, the gated pool area adjacent to the house was blazing with lights, the deep water an unnatural blue. With steam rising from the surface, the water resembled a witch’s cauldron. Taking deep breaths against the turmoil in her stomach, she followed the men down a short lighted stone path to a gate that had been propped open. The scent of chlorine burned the air, which seemed swollen with humidity and sadness.

Wesley and Cooper stood off to the side of the pool next to a small waterfall, apparently waiting for the police to complete their investigation. A youngish man with Medical Examiner on his jacket stood over Angela’s body, taking photos. Carlotta made eye contact with Wesley, who looked confused at her appearance. Then his gaze went to Peter and back to her, wide-eyed. She nodded, trying to answer the questions that must be whirling through his mind, and walked over to where they stood.

“Isn’t that Peter Ashford?” Wesley whispered.

“Yes,” she murmured.

“And that’s his wife?”

“Yes.”

“Jesus,” Wesley said. “Nice place.”

“Wesley!”

He looked contrite and pressed his lips together.

“Do you know the family?” Cooper asked them asked under his breath.

“That’s sis’s old boyfriend,” Wesley offered. “The one she was crying—”

“Do you know what happened?” she cut in, shooting Wesley a lethal look.

“Accidental drowning is what I was told,” Cooper offered quietly. “She must have fallen in.”

Her gaze cut to Angela’s still body and the gray wetness around her on the concrete from her saturated clothing. When she’d been shopping for swimsuits, Angela had mentioned that she didn’t know how to swim. She was still wearing the chunky-heeled black knee boots that Carlotta had sold to her—they must have felt like lead when she’d gone under the surface of the water. The pool was about twenty-five feet wide—she would have been a mere body’s length from safety. The vision sent a shudder through Carlotta. The entire scene was surreal, an unimaginable nightmare.

“The maid found her,” Wesley added, nodding to an open sliding glass door leading into the house. A small, older woman stood in the doorway, her shoulders hunched, a handkerchief covering her face.

The uniformed officers apparently had been waiting for Detective Terry to arrive because when they saw him, they straightened from the body. Peter’s knees buckled and Detective Terry steadied him, guiding him toward the open door into the expansive house. She heard the detective say something about coffee. The maid scurried aside and turned on a light. The wall facing the pool was made almost completely of glass. From where Carlotta stood, she saw Peter sink into a chair around a table in a room that appeared to be a sunroom or a casual dining room. He covered his face with his hands.

Carlotta’s body strained toward him, but she forced her attention away from the man with whom she had been so recently and so bizarrely reunited and back to the scene unfolding around the pool.

The officers talking to Detective Terry gestured toward the water, perhaps indicating where they had found the body. At the end of the pool sat an outdoor kitchen with a stone fireplace, appliances and a bar. From her vantage point she could see at least two bottles of gin, along with a silver flask that looked like the one Angela had drunk from in the dressing room. Behind the bar area was a small cottage—the guesthouse, Carlotta presumed, recalling what Peter had said about the pool addition being more than he had envisioned.

But she silently applauded Angela’s ambition. It was a garden paradise, with huge sago palms in clay pots, beds of lush flowers and a flagstone path to a hot tub lined with mosaic tiles. It was a picture out of Better Home and Gardens…except for the body lying poolside. Angela Ashford hadn’t lived to enjoy the luxurious addition to her posh home.

Next to the pool, Detective Terry had been in discussion with the medical examiner, and now knelt over the body, pulling a set of plastic gloves from his jacket pocket. He snapped them on and lifted the mass of golden hair that had fallen across Angela’s neck. Then he lifted her lifeless hands, one at a time. Carlotta tried to reconcile the still form lying on the concrete with the animated, angry woman who had been so alive just hours ago. Her stomach rolled, sending acid to the back of her throat; she thought she might be sick.

“Maybe you should go,” Cooper suggested quietly, his mouth near her ear. “This isn’t something that everyone should see, especially if you have a connection to the deceased.”

She nodded, breathing deeply, and turned to leave. She walked to the open door where Peter sat, staring off into the distance, his jaw clenched. He looked up and a desperate look came into his eyes. He lifted his hand to her. With her heart clicking, she stepped into the house, immediately assailed by a sense of grandeur—the scale of the woodlined ceilings alone was awe-inspiring.

“Will you close the door?” he asked, turning his head away.

She did, glad to shut out the sounds of hushed voices and staticky police radios. The vacuum of the door closing sealed her into a room where the air was surprisingly stale, as if the house was rarely used. Through the wide doorway in the back of the room Carlotta caught a glimpse of the maid bustling around in a large kitchen. Hallways and stairways that extended out of her line of vision spoke of the house’s spaciousness. The scent of strong coffee wafted on the air.

The room she stood in was another designer feat, a den with a soaring brick fireplace, built-in cherry-wood cabinets jammed with expensive-looking bric-a-brac, over-stuffed leather couches and chairs, plus a long carved mahogany table and twelve matching chairs. Peter sat in the chair near the end of the table, his back to the pool, fingering the tip of a flower in what had to be the most hideously huge silk flower arrangement that Carlotta had ever seen.

“We argued about this stupid flower arrangement,” he said, still staring straight ahead.

She stood motionless, letting him talk.

“It didn’t matter that it was ugly,” he said with a laugh. “What mattered was that some upscale florist came to our house and designed it especially for Angela. He even gave it some ridiculous name, and I’d be ashamed to tell you how much it cost. Do you believe that we had a party so that people in the neighborhood could come and look at the damn flower arrangement?”

He looked up as he finished, the anger in his voice traveling to his startling blue eyes, hardening the drunken lines of his face until he looked almost…mean.

Carlotta was glad when the maid appeared with a coffee tray and set it on the table. The woman filled a cup and slid it in front of Peter, then offered Carlotta a watery smile. “Coffee, miss?”

Carlotta shook her head. “I don’t think—”

“Please,” Peter implored. “Sit with me, just for a little while.”

She hesitated, then took the chair opposite him. Too late, she realized it gave her a direct view of Angela’s body. The woman’s pale face was turned toward Carlotta, her eyes slightly open. It was as if she were determined to watch Peter and Carlotta, even in death.

Just as the maid set a cup of steaming coffee in front of Carlotta, the glass door slid open, revealing Detective Terry. He stepped in without being asked, although he did make a perfunctory pass at wiping his feet on the doormat.

He scowled at her briefly before addressing the maid. “I understand, ma’am, that you found the body?”

The old woman’s eyes teared and she nodded.

“What’s your name, please?”

“Flaur Stanza.”

He made a note on a palm-size notebook he carried. “Can you tell me what happened, Miss Stanza?”

“I…come home from store,” she said in broken English. “I see Miss Angela’s purse, so I know she is here. I call her name to see if she want tea, and she no answer. I come out here to sweep, and…and—” She began to sob, her shoulders shaking.

“Take your time, Miss Stanza,” Peter said, his voice strangely calm.

“I see her…in deep end…floating facedown,” the woman said. “She fell in, I think.”

“Had she been drinking?” Peter bit out.

Detective Terry frowned. “Mr. Ashford, if you don’t mind, I’ll ask the questions. Miss Stanza, did you see anything else, any signs of where she might have fallen in?”

She nodded and pointed to the far end of the pool. “A broken glass on the edge. I show policeman when he get here.”

Detective Terry made another note. “Anything else?”

“Black marks, I think from her boots.”

The detective nodded. “And you called 911?”

“Yes, sir. And Mr. Peter.” She shot a quick glance at Peter and her face crumpled again.

“It’s okay,” Peter soothed, patting her arm. “It’s not your fault. I was afraid something like this was going to happen.”

Detective Terry perked up. “Oh? Has something like this happened before?”

Peter pursed his mouth. “You mean Angela drunk? Only all the time. And she was a poor swimmer.”

Detective Terry told the maid that she could go. The woman looked to Peter for confirmation, and he nodded. “Go home, Miss Stanza. I’ll call you tomorrow.” When the woman left the room, Peter gestured to the tray. “Would you like some coffee, Detective?”

“No, thank you.” Then Detective Terry looked at Carlotta. “Ms. Wren, will you excuse us for a moment?”

Realizing that he was asking her to leave, she started to stand, but Peter’s hand on her arm stopped her.

“Stay,” he said, his voice beseeching, then he turned to the detective. “I have no secrets. Ask me anything.”

The detective looked back and forth between them until Carlotta averted her gaze. This was really beginning to feel…wrong.

“Okay,” Detective Terry said with a sigh. “Mr. Ashford, was your marriage in trouble?”

Next to her, she felt Peter stiffen. “No more so than any other marriage, I would suspect.”

Outside, the medical examiner and the police had stepped away from the body. Cooper unfolded a white sheet, whipped it open and allowed it to float down over Angela’s body. Carlotta stared until the woman’s face was completely obscured by the sheet. Wesley lowered what resembled a long plastic tray with scooped sides and black handles. With care that impressed her, Coop rolled the covered body toward him until Wesley had slid the tray underneath. Then he gently lowered the body and situated it onto the carrier. Both men tucked the sheet around the body with respectful concentration. She felt a swell of pride for Wesley, that he was handling such a terrible job with professionalism and obvious detail.

“Were the two of you discussing a divorce?”

The question yanked her attention back to the conversation.

“No,” Peter said defiantly.

Carlotta shifted in the uncomfortable chair, the memory of their kiss now even more sordid. She closed her eyes briefly and when she opened them, found Detective Terry studying her before he turned his attention back to Peter.

“Has your wife ever threatened to hurt herself?”

“No, of course not.” Peter’s expression darkened. “You’re not thinking that she did this on purpose.”

“Just covering all the bases, Mr. Ashford. Was she taking any medication?”

Peter rubbed his eyes and sighed. “Sure, it was always something with Angela. She had insomnia and back trouble, and she took a ton of vitamins. You can check the medicine cabinet in her bathroom if you want the specifics.”

Detective Terry cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should both go check, to see if Mrs. Ashford left a note.”

Peter’s jaw clenched. “There’s no note.”

“How can you be sure?”

Peter pulled his hand down over his faced and sighed. “Because…I asked Miss Stanza to look for a note when she called me. She didn’t find one.”

“So you suspected suicide?”

Peter lifted his hands in a helpless gesture. “I didn’t know what to think, but it crossed my mind. You didn’t find one on…on her?”

“No. The guesthouse was also checked, plus the sedan in the garage—I assume that’s Mrs. Ashford’s car?”

“No, actually. Her Jag is at the dealership for regular maintenance. The sedan is a loaner.”

“Mr. Ashford, where were you when Miss Stanza called to give you the bad news?”

Peter’s mouth tightened. “If you must know, I was at a bar, Geary’s, not far from my office.”

“Where do you work?”

“Mashburn and Tully Investments. I’m a broker.”

Recognition flashed in the detective’s eyes and his gaze flicked to her, then back. He’d made the connection that her father had once been a partner there. A harmless yet suspicious coincidence.

“Were you alone at the bar, Mr. Ashford?”

“Yes. What’s that got to do with anything?”

Detective Terry shrugged his big shoulders. “I just wondered why I got here before you, that’s all.”

“There was construction on the connector,” Peter said hotly.

Warning bells sounded in Carlotta’s brain. Surely Detective Terry didn’t suspect that Peter had something to do with Angela’s death? She bit her lip, wondering whether to say that she’d seen Angela earlier that day and what her state of mind had been. But if she did, she’d have to admit that Angela thought that she and Peter were having an affair, and wouldn’t that only throw more suspicion on Peter?

She clamped her mouth shut, telling herself that she was doing the right thing. Angela’s death was just a tragic accident, a result of a bad vice and bad balance. She felt the detective’s gaze on her and decided that her presence might be doing more harm than good. She pushed to her feet. “Peter…it’s time for me to leave.” Her throat convulsed. “I’m…so sorry for your loss.”

“Before you go, Ms. Wren,” the detective said, holding up his hand, “I’d like to ask one more question.” Then he gave Peter a pointed look. “Were you, sir, having an affair?”

Carlotta’s pulse skipped and she forgot to breathe. Peter put his hands on the table, then slowly pushed to his feet. “No, Detective, I wasn’t having an affair. My wife’s death was an accident, pure and simple. I’d think that the police have enough on their plate without trying to turn this tragedy into a crime.”

Detective Terry closed his notebook, then looked contrite. “How right you are, Mr. Ashford. My sincere condolences.” Then he swung his gaze to her. “Ms. Wren, since I’m leaving, too, I’ll walk you out.”

She couldn’t think of anything less appealing, but since she couldn’t think of a way to refuse, she simply nodded. “Peter, call me if…I can help.”

He looked at her for a long while, then nodded. “Okay.”

Aware that the detective was hanging on their every word, she quickly walked to the door, slid it open and stepped outside. Detective Terry was on her heels. She retraced her steps down the stone path back to the front of the house where Wesley and Coop were closing the door on the back of the van.

“You okay, sis?” Wesley asked, his face contracted in concern.

“I’m fine,” she said, slowing her pace. “Wesley, you remember Detective Terry.”

“Hard to forget,” Wesley said wryly, then nodded. “How’s it going, man?”

“Glad to see you got a job,” Detective Terry said.

“This is my boss, Cooper Craft.”

The detective nodded. “The doctor and I know each other.”

Coop nodded, but his eyes were…wary? Carlotta wondered about the men’s history. And had the detective called him doctor?

Detective Terry looked around. “I see the M.E. already left. Do you have the report?”

Coop nodded and handed it to him.

Detective Terry looked over the form, then glanced up. “Do you agree, Coop?”

Coop hesitated. “It’s not my place to agree or disagree.”

The detective’s mouth tightened. “I’m asking.”

“Since you’re asking…no, I don’t agree with the report.”

Carlotta pressed her lips together. This couldn’t be good.

The detective grimaced in thought then said, “I want an autopsy. Take her to the morgue.”

“But—” Coop began.

“I’ll handle the paperwork,” the detective cut in.

Coop gave a curt nod, then said, “Let’s go,” to Wesley.

“We have another call after this one,” Wesley said to Carlotta. “Coop said he’d give me a ride home.”

“Okay.” She turned to walk up the steep driveway, eager to be away from death and all this talk about the morgue.

“Ms. Wren,” the detective said, catching up to her easily, “how exactly are you acquainted with Peter Ashford?”

Her skin tingled as she pumped her arms to manage the climb in her high-heeled Mary Janes. “Peter and I used to date, ages ago, when we were kids. He’s older and when he went to college, we broke up, just like a million other teenagers.” She was proud of herself for how nonchalant her voice sounded.

“He seemed pretty eager to rekindle your friendship. When was the last time you saw him?”

In another few steps they were at the top of the incline in front of their vehicles. She stopped and turned to face him, breathing hard and blinking into the glare of a street-light. “I’ve seen him twice in the past ten years, Detective, once at the mall when he wasn’t aware of it, and once at a cocktail party.”

“When?”

“Three nights ago.”

His eyebrows climbed. “Is that so?”

“There’s nothing going on between me and Peter Ashford, Detective.”

He studied her as if trying to determine whether she was telling the truth. Then suddenly he leaned forward and she had the insane notion that he was going to kiss her. She jerked back. “What are you doing?”

“What happened to your neck?” he asked, squinting.

She raised her hand to the welts on her skin that still felt raw and tender. Panic bolted through her chest that she bore marks left upon her by a woman who was now dead. “Nothing happened. I’m fine.” She turned and walked to her car, fumbling in her pockets for her keys before remembering she’d left them in the ignition.

He followed her, wearing a dubious expression. She fisted her hand that hid the marks from his prying eyes. “Detective, would you please stop staring at my chest?”

He lifted his gaze, but took his time. “Yes, ma’am. Good night, Ms. Wren. I’ll be seeing you.”

“Stop spying on us. You’re making my neighbor paranoid.”

“Wouldn’t have to if you’d cooperate.”

She glanced at the purse that she’d left on the car seat and thought of the postcard from her parents tucked inside. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Right,” he said, then turned and walked toward his own car.

Carlotta stuck her tongue out at his back, then glanced down at the house just as Coop turned the white van around. When he pulled away, the open garage was fully lit, revealing a dark sedan sitting inside. Carlotta recalled the morbid conversation about checking Angela’s car for a suicide note, and grimaced.

But as she stared at the loaner car, a memory chord strummed in the back of her mind. She couldn’t be sure, but the car looked like the one that had nearly run her down in the parking garage today.

She jerked her attention away and hurriedly swung into her car, frantic to be gone. In her haste she nearly flooded the engine, but finally the ignition caught and she pulled away from the house, her hands clammy, her mind ringing with one truth: It was a good decision to have kept her mouth shut about her run-in with Angela, or that pesky Detective Terry might try to implicate her in the woman’s death by pointing out that she had plenty of motivation for wanting Angela dead.

Carlotta rubbed at her temple where a headache had settled. As if she didn’t already have enough problems to deal with.