Читать книгу Body Movers Books 1-3 - Stephanie Bond, Stephanie Bond - Страница 21

By the time Carlotta parked the Monte Carlo in her garage, she was shaking uncontrollably. A hot shower did little to dispel the chill that had seeped into her skin, a reminder that Angela Ashford would never again be warm. Sleep was out of the question. Instead, she huddled against her headboard wrapped in the fuzzy chenille robe, watching the Style Network through a haze of tears that wouldn’t fall and aching all over from a misery that she couldn’t define. Hovering along the edges of guilt over how many times she’d wished terrible things upon Angela was a profound fear that she’d never felt before—her own mortality.

She and Angela were the same age, and Angela had been surrounded by everything that Carlotta had once thought would be hers someday, including Peter. In Carlotta’s eyes, Angela had been the luckiest woman in Atlanta, yet it all had been snatched from her in the time it took to fall into a quarter-of-a-million-dollar swimming-pool addition and drown.

How long did it take for a person to drown? Carlotta wondered. One minute? Three? Five?

All that time, Angela would have been thrashing in the water in those boots that Carlotta had coveted, trying to hold her breath until at last giving in and drawing chlorinated water into her burning lungs.

Had Angela’s last thoughts been of Peter, of the man she’d married? Had she died thinking that her husband was having an affair with his former fiancée? Had she mourned that her life hadn’t turned out the way she’d hoped?

If so, Carlotta thought sadly, then she and Angela actually had a lot in common.

With her bedroom lights blazing, Carlotta listened to the comforting hum of voices from the television as the pretty people on the entertainment news show floated through their glamorous lives, smiling wide and lifting one-hundred-dollar glasses of Clarendon Hills syrah, climbing in and out of their European sports cars, wearing couture clothing from Milan. Their lives seemed so perfect…the life she’d always aspired to have.

She picked up the Cartier ring box from her nightstand and fingered the marquis-cut engagement ring that Peter had given her when she was seventeen. She’d been much too young to be thinking about marriage, she knew that now, but her love for Peter had obliterated any other goal she might have had for herself. The fact that the ring he’d given her surpassed what most adult women received spoke of the incredible wealth that Peter had at his disposal. Too young, too clueless and too wealthy…completely unprepared to deal with reality.

She sighed. After ten years of hard knocks, sometimes she still felt unprepared to deal with reality. Her mind churned, consumed with the quandary she’d put herself in by kissing Peter Ashford the night of the cocktail party. After ten years, she had run into him and fallen into his arms, and only a couple of days later, his wife was dead.

Life was nothing if not uncanny.

But as she dwelled on the horrific coincidence, the terrible thought that she had managed to keep at bay stubbornly worked its way through the nooks and crannies of her brain and presented itself: What if Peter had killed Angela?

As soon as the notion materialized, she dismissed it as absurd. Why would Peter kill Angela?

Because of you.

Angela’s accusations rang in her head like a gong. My husband is still in love with you. You’re fooling around with him behind my back, aren’t you?

Carlotta shook her head, refusing to believe any of her own foolish conjectures. How conceited would she be if she thought that Peter would murder his wife just so he could be free? The idea was positively ludicrous.

The blaring ring of the phone on her nightstand startled her so badly, she cried out. The clock radio displayed the time as just after midnight. She set down the ring box and answered, thinking it was Wesley because she hadn’t heard him return yet. “Hello?”

“Carly, hi. It’s me…Peter. Did I wake you?”

Her chest constricted painfully at the rasp of his voice. He sounded as if he’d been drinking again. “No, I was awake. How…how are you?”

“Not good,” he admitted. “I just finished calling everyone in the family. Angela’s parents are on a cruise, so it took me a while to track them down.”

“I’m so sorry, Peter.”

“I know,” he said. “I just called to thank you for…staying this evening. You didn’t have to.”

“It’s okay,” she murmured, struck by an overwhelming sense of déjà vu. How many times had she lain curled up in bed talking to Peter on the phone? Hundreds? Thousands? “I only wish that I could help you.”

“You did, simply by being there. I’m just sorry that you had to hear all the hateful things that Neanderthal detective said.”

She twisted a hank of hair that had fallen next to her ear, a nervous habit she’d given up years ago after her hair-dresser had chastised her. “I’m sure he was only doing his job.”

“Still, he tried to make it sound as if…as if I had something to do with her death.”

Carlotta’s heart pounded and moisture gathered around her hairline, but she remained silent.

Peter gave a little laugh. “I almost got the feeling that he thought you and I were having an affair or something.”

She tried to mimic his laugh, but the noise that emerged sounded high-pitched and strangled, a noise similar to what she imagined Angela had made in the throes of death. “Well…we’re not.”

“I know,” he said, “but I don’t have to tell you that if the police knew that we ran into each other earlier this week and that we…kissed…they might be suspicious. I’d hate to see you dragged into this mess over a misunderstanding.”

“Right,” she said, her mind spinning over his words and the memory of his searing kiss.

“Did the detective question you?”

“Yes. I told him that we dated when we were kids, but…I didn’t mention the kiss.” Or the fact that I’m still crazy in love with you.

His sigh of relief whistled over the line. “Good. Of course, the M.E. ruled the death accidental, so I guess there’s no reason to worry—about the police somehow involving you, I mean.”

His reaction raised warning flags in the back of her mind. On the heels of such a tragedy, was it normal for Peter to be concerned about such trivial things? Unless…unless he had a reason to be concerned. And hadn’t she heard with her own ears Detective Terry tell Coop to take the body to the morgue to be autopsied? Should she mention it to Peter?

“Peter, Angela came into the store today.”

“And?”

“And she wanted to return the man’s jacket that I told you she’d purchased.”

“She did?”

“Yes. But it looked, um…worn. And when I told her that I couldn’t give her a refund, she went berserk.”

“What do you mean?”

“She…attacked me.”

“What? Did she hurt you?”

“I’m fine,” she said. “She’d been drinking, and she accused me of fooling around with you behind her back. Why would she think that?”

He made distressed noises. “I don’t know. And I’m so sorry that Angela made a scene. I hope it didn’t get you in trouble at work.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m only sorry that the jacket must have been a sore spot between the two of you.”

“When a marriage is going south, petty things tend to get blown out of proportion.”

“I thought you’d love the color,” she said, fishing. “Brown always looked good on you.”

“Thanks,” he said. “It was thoughtful of Angela.”

Her hand tightened on the phone. The jacket was gray. Maybe Angela had bought it for someone else. But if so, why would Peter pretend otherwise? Or maybe he was just too overwhelmed with everything else to remember details like the color.

“Peter,” she said carefully, “I’m not sure it’s a good idea for you to call me, considering everything that’s happened.”

“Oh,” he said, his voice colored with disappointment. “I thought you were my friend, but you’re right—it was wrong of me to call.”

She closed her eyes, frustrated with her warring emotions. She was suddenly afraid—afraid he would ask her to come over, to comfort him in his grief, and that in a moment of weakness, she would. “I am your friend, Peter. I’m trying to advise you as to what’s best, that’s all.”

“I know, Carly. You’re the only person in my life who ever truly cared about me, and I ruined everything.”

She bit down on her tongue. The pain helped to clear her head. “Peter, I don’t think now is the time to discuss the past. You have other things to worry about. You’re not going to be alone tonight, are you?”

“Sort of. I couldn’t stay at the house, so I checked into the Ritz-Carlton for a while. Room 539.”

“That’s good,” she murmured, shifting on the bed but unable to find a comfortable position. Did he think she’d offer to come to the hotel and keep him company? She couldn’t do that, but somehow she wound up writing the room number on a notepad next to the phone.

Peter heaved a sigh. “Angela and I were having problems, but I never thought it would end like this.”

A chill went through her at the despair in his voice. Was he on the verge of making a confession? “Peter, I really don’t think I’m the person you should be sharing this with.”

“You’re right, of course. I won’t bother you anymore, Carly.”

“You’re not bothering me,” she said quickly, her mind racing. “But you need to take care of yourself. Try to sleep, okay?”

“Okay,” he said, sounding disoriented and childlike.

She gripped the phone, not wanting to let him go. “Good night, Peter.”

“Good night, Carly.”

She put down the receiver, her heart squeezing painfully, her head spinning. Why did life have to be so hard? Useless tears pressed on her eyelids as she fought the push-pull emotions she felt for Peter. She wanted to believe him, but could she? He had betrayed her trust once, and now he seemed remorseful, but the timing couldn’t be worse. Shouldn’t he be too consumed with grief to be worried about anything else?

She huddled down in the covers, turned up the volume on the television and immersed herself in the figures moving across the screen. As always, watching the exotic lives of the rich and the beautiful helped to remove her from the turmoil raging in her life and in her heart.

Even after paid programming came on at 3:00 a.m., she fought sleep. She didn’t want to go where she couldn’t control her thoughts and fears. There were too many faces to haunt her, too many questions pulling at her—her parents’ disappearance, the loan sharks’ lurking presence, Peter’s betrayal and their illicit reunion, and now, Angela’s death.

And the chief tormentor in her fitful dreams was Jack Terry, who prodded and poked at her, demanding to know the truth about her parents, about their lives, about her feelings for Peter, about her suspicions regarding Angela’s drowning. He pursued her, crowded her, menacing and relentless, his eyes all-seeing, his big hands reaching for her, as if he were going to wring the truth out of her—

“Carlotta.”

Her eyes popped open and she shrieked, scrambling away from the voice.

“Sis, hey, it’s just me.”

She blinked through the morning light and Wesley’s concerned face came into view. “Oh.” Her muscles relaxed in abject relief.

“Hard night, huh?”

She nodded against her pillow, then alarm seized her anew and her gaze flew to the clock. “What time is it? Oh my God, I overslept. Lindy’s going to fire me for sure!” She flung back the covers and swung her legs over the edge of the bed.

“I left you some breakfast on the table,” Wesley said. “I have to take off—I’m working with Coop today.”

“Okay, thanks,” she said, her head heavy as she stood. “What time did you get in last night?”

“Late.” He was headed toward the door, talking over his shoulder. “We ran into some trouble at the morgue with the Ashford woman’s body, and then—”

“Trouble?” she cut in, pushing her hair out of her face. “What kind of trouble?”

“The chief M.E. almost refused the body, said his examiner determined the death accidental and he wasn’t going to do an autopsy. There’s some history between the guy and Coop—they argued. I think they used to work together, but Coop didn’t want to talk about it.”

Carlotta waved her hands to dismiss the details about Coop—who cared? “Is there going to be an autopsy or not?”

“Not, from what I could tell. We had to leave the body there because we had another run, but we picked it back up a couple of hours later.”

No autopsy. She went limp with relief.

“I’ll be late again tonight,” he said. “Weekends seem to be a popular time to die. Don’t wait on me for dinner.”

“Okay,” she said, but he was already gone. Another glance at the clock had her jogging into the bathroom for a quick dip in and out of the shower before the water even had time to warm up. As she toweled off, her mind raced ahead to the things she had to do today and suddenly, the events of last night came rushing back full force. Angela Ashford was dead. And Peter Ashford was behaving suspiciously.

Before her thoughts became paralyzing, she pushed them away and forced herself through her morning routine at lightning speed, pulling a red jersey DKNY “emergency” dress from her closet. A gray cashmere shrug would pass for a jacket and trusty black Miu Miu slingbacks would get her through the day sans Band-Aids. She turned on the local-news radio station, and just as she was flossing her teeth, there was mention of Angela’s death.

“A Buckhead woman, Angela Ashford, was found drowned in her home pool yesterday. Alcohol is believed to have been involved. In other news…”

Carlotta paused in her flossing. Two sentences? Angela’s life and death had been acknowledged in two lousy sentences. She was here, now she’s gone, with the implication that her death had been her own darned fault. The woman was no saint, but still, it hardly seemed fair.

But life wasn’t fair. Hadn’t that lesson been her own constant companion over the past ten years?

Traffic was surprisingly light, so she wasn’t as late as she might have been when she crashed through the door and tossed her belongings into a locker in the break room. Still, Lindy Russell glared at her as she slid into place behind an available counter and offered to assist a customer. Carlotta moved like a zombie through the morning hours. Her department was busy, even for a Saturday, but everywhere she turned, she pictured Angela Ashford’s body lying next to the pool, with water streaming from clothes that she had bought here. She felt detached from what she was doing, as if she were floating above her own body. She kept telling herself that Angela’s death being ruled an accident was a good thing, but her conscience nagged at her.

Michael appeared midday, his eyes glittering and wide. “Did you hear about Angela Ashford?”

“I heard,” she offered noncommittally.

“She drowned,” he barreled ahead, “in her own pool. Can you believe it?”

“No,” she replied honestly.

“After that drunken scene that she caused yesterday, I’m not surprised that she fell in. Sad, though.”

“Yes, it is.”

He leaned in close. “I have a friend who works in a Botox clinic on Piedmont. She said that Angela was a patient there and always showed up drunk on her ass. Guess it was only a matter of time before she hurt herself or someone else.”

Carlotta chewed on her lip. Everyone seemed eager to believe that Angela had brought her untimely death upon herself. It did seem like the simplest, neatest explanation…but was it true? She hadn’t particularly liked the woman, but it was starting to dawn on her that she was in a peculiar position to ensure that Angela’s death received more than a passing glance.

Michael frowned. “Are you okay?”

Carlotta managed a nod. “It’s just such a shame, to die that way. She was so young and so beautiful.”

“That’s pretty big of you considering that yesterday the woman tried to kill you.”

“You’re exaggerating, don’t you think?”

“No,” he said flatly. “I still think you should have filed an assault charge. Your neck is bruised where she tried to choke you.”

She covered her neck with her hand. “It doesn’t really matter now, does it?”

“No,” he agreed, then sighed dramatically. “She’s gone, along with her big fat commissions. Poor you.”

“Yeah,” she said, trying to mimic his light tone.

“Of course, there’s always her husband,” he said, wagging his eyebrows. “Not to be tacky, but any chance that you’ll hook up with the grieving widower, or are you two really just friends?”

I thought you were my friend, Peter had said. But what if he was playing her so that she would protect him instead of revealing that he might have had a motive for killing his wife?

But how could she report the facts without implicating herself?

“Hey, I was only joking,” Michael said.

She exhaled and gave him a reassuring smile. “It’s not you. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“Hmm. Guilty pleasure or guilty conscience?”

She flushed under his gaze and murmured, “I need to find an aspirin.”

“Don’t dawdle,” Michael said softly. “Lindy is watching your every move.”

With his threat ringing in her aching head, Carlotta moved through the rest of her shift fighting bouts of paralyzing paranoia. If she went to Detective Terry with details about Angela and Peter’s relationship, things were bound to get a lot worse for her, and she couldn’t afford to draw more negative attention to herself at work.

No, she decided as she clocked out and made her way toward the mall, she would leave Angela Ashford’s death to the professionals.

And for now, she’d try not to think about the fact that Peter, the love of her life, was now a single man, and what that might mean to her life.

She wove her way through the Saturday crowds, dodging packs of suburban kids and in-town kids making their rounds, young marrieds on their way to the cinema, and pathetic people like her who had convinced themselves that an evening of window-shopping was better than a date.

With her new autograph book in mind, she decided to cruise by the Sunglass Hut to see if anyone famous was trying on the new Maui Jim sunglasses. Next to Blue Pointe restaurant in Buckhead and the Fulton County Courthouse, it was the best place in Atlanta for celebrity sightings.

She had just sidestepped a teenage couple who only had eyes for each other when the back of her neck prickled and she was overcome with the feeling that someone was watching her. She swallowed hard and tried to shake the eerie feeling, chalking it up to the events of the previous day and her frayed nerves. But as she continued walking, the feeling grew stronger. Fighting panic, she turned into the sunglass shop. From the display case, she picked up a pair of retro Ray Ban aviators and jammed them on her face, then adjusted the mirror to see behind her.

There…a few feet back in the mall stood a man, his torso and face obscured by a newspaper—a cartoonish ruse. She could tell little from the jeans-clad legs other than that he was a big man. Her pulse spiked. One of Wesley’s thugs, following her? Maybe planning to jump her on her way to her car and take her cash?

Fear coalesced into anger. She punched 911 into her cell phone, then whipped off the sunglasses and charged out into the mall and up to the man, wielding the phone like a weapon, her thumb over the Send button. “I’m onto you, mister, and I’m going to call the police.”

The corner of the newspaper came down, revealing Detective Jack Terry wearing a dry smile. “I don’t think that will be necessary, Ms. Wren.”