Читать книгу Body Movers: 2 Bodies for the Price of 1 - Stephanie Bond, Stephanie Bond - Страница 14

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but we don’t reveal the names of our customers,” declared a hurried-sounding man on the other end of the phone.

“But I think the flower delivery might have been a mistake,” Carlotta protested. “I don’t know anyone by the name of the person on the card.”

“Nice try. Look, sweetie, if you want to find out if your boyfriend is sending flowers to someone else, you’re going to have to ask him.”

Carlotta blinked. “But I—” She stopped because the man had hung up.

“Omigod,” Michael exclaimed as he walked into the break room. “Who sent you the to-die-for roses?”

Carlotta hung up the phone and studied the bewildering bouquet she’d set on the corner of the stained lunch table. “I have no idea.” She showed him the card. “I don’t know anyone named Mason. Does it ring a bell for you?”

Michael shook his head. “Some guy you met in a bar maybe?”

“No, I’m sure of it.” Her nerves were unraveling. Had her father sent the flowers? Was it some kind of message? Or was it simply a misdelivery?

“Then you must have a secret admirer. Someone dropped a mint on these American beauties.”

Her expression must have reflected her dour mood, because he shook his head with a sigh, then produced a business card. “Here. Dr. Delray said he could squeeze you in Wednesday afternoon at six, but only for thirty minutes, so you’ll have to talk fast.”

“Thank you.” She folded the card into her pocket.

Michael fingered a perfect bloodred rose and sighed. “Meanwhile, if you don’t want this guy, send him my way, okay? Buh-bye.”

“Bye.” She carefully removed one long-stem rose and stroked the velvety petals. Had her mother liked roses? Her father? She couldn’t recall. And Mason wasn’t a family name that she knew of, nor a place they’d been, nor a pet they’d owned. If the roses were from her father, the message was lost on her. She tightened her grip on the stem in frustration and was rewarded with a zing of pain as a thorn pierced her palm, drawing blood.

“Dammit!” Carlotta put her mouth to the tiny wound, feeling the return of tears that were too common lately. She wondered if Michael’s shrink would be able to help her, or would her life scare even a trained professional?

Pushing aside the troubling thoughts, she picked up the pay phone and dialed the number to the auto body shop. Carlotta hated the blue muscle car that she’d gotten stuck with after taking it on a twenty-four hour test drive that had gone wrong, but since she owed more for the car than it was worth, she was resigned to driving it until it was paid for or until the wheels fell off.

She had hoped the wheels would have fallen off by now, but no such luck.

The repair shop was recommended by Wesley via his odious friend Chance, so even though it had taken in her car immediately and promised a quick turnaround, she was leery. After several rings, a man answered with a half-grunt, told her to hold, then told her that the Monte Carlo wasn’t ready yet. “Wednesday,” he promised.

She pinched the bridge of her nose. “What time Wednesday?”

“After noon?”

“Okay,” she said wearily, then hung up.

Carlotta turned and eyed the enormous bouquet, weighing the hassle of getting the flowers home on Marta versus the cost of a cab in rush hour. With a sigh, she slung the strap of her bag over her shoulder and scooped up the vase. During the trip through the mall and the half-block walk to the train station, she garnered lots of enviable stares. On the packed train however, the stares became murderous as she inadvertently poked an eye here, snagged someone’s clothing there.

“Sorry,” she mumbled to no one and to everyone standing near her in the shoulder to shoulder crowd. To save space, she brought the bouquet closer to her face but the sickeningly sweet scent of the roses reminded her of death—of the scent that permeated the funeral home that Cooper Craft ran.

She wondered if he’d called Hannah yet for a “body run” or if he and Wesley were working together today. Body moving wasn’t the sort of job she’d hoped Wesley would get, but with his recent arrest record and probation, she couldn’t complain. At least he was bringing in money legitimately, making his weekly payments to the thugs he owed and staying away from the card tables. And Coop seemed to be a good influence on Wesley, which was a relief. After raising Wesley, she had enormous respect for single mothers; the pressure was relentless. So was the guilt.

Things should have been so different for Wesley. For her. The thought only fueled her frustration and confusion over her father’s cryptic phone calls. What should she do? Report it? Wait? Report it, then wait?

“Lindbergh,” the conductor announced. “Lindbergh is your next station.”

The train slowed to a swaying halt and the doors lurched opened. Carlotta pushed her way to the platform and rode the escalator to the street level. A whipping wind had descended with the promise of rain before she could walk the few blocks home.

She picked up the pace, cursing the questionable repair shop and thinking that if she’d known her car wouldn’t be ready, she wouldn’t have worn her Stuart Weitzman mules to work. They were good for standing still or for sashaying around the sales floor, not so good for eating up uneven sidewalks while wrestling an enormous vase of roses. By the time it started to rain, she had the beginning of a serious blister or three. She muttered a string of curses as she tried to shield her Nancy Gonzalez clutch. It was last year’s style, but didn’t deserve water spots.

She glanced around at the slightly shabby homes in her neighborhood, Lindbergh or as locals liked to say, east Buckhead. When they’d moved here after her parents had lost their lavish home, Wesley had called it Limberg, like the cheese, and her mother had said it was fitting. The cramped, nondescript town house had been a jolt to them all after living large. Even the weather in this part of town seemed to reflect the plight of the people who lived here—not quite as good as anywhere else. She’d bet that a few miles away in Buckhead, skies were blue.

She was hobbling in pain by the time she reached the stoop of their home. The rain had stopped, but she was thoroughly drenched as she fumbled with the flowers and her key ring.

“Well, aren’t you special?”

Carlotta turned her head to see their neighbor Mrs. Winningham standing on the other side of the fence she’d erected. The tall, skinny woman sported a bright red helmet of teased hair, elastic-waist polyester pants and a shiny button-up shirt. In her arms she held an umbrella and her dog, Toofers, the ugliest, meanest canine imaginable. Over the years, the bizarrely black-tufted dog had sunk its razor teeth into Wesley more times that she could count. And always when they could least afford a trip to the emergency room for stitches.

“Hello, Mrs. Winningham. Hello, Toofers.”

Toofers growled at her, and the woman gave him a reassuring pat. “Nice flowers, Carlotta. Do you have a man friend?”

“Uh … no.”

“There’ve been a lot of men coming around lately. The man who drives the dark sedan, for instance, and the man with the fancy little sports car and the man who drives the white van.”

She’d bet the woman had copied down all the license plates, too. “Those are just friends of ours, Mrs. Winningham.”

“What about the woman with the striped hair and the chains?”

“Uh … that’s another friend.”

Her neighbor frowned. “Are your parents ever going to come back for you?”

Carlotta almost dropped the vase of flowers, then considered throwing it at the biddy and her bite-happy pooch. Instead she gritted her teeth. “I wouldn’t count on it, Mrs. Winningham.”

“Your townhouse is in terrible disrepair. It makes the entire street look bad.”

She so didn’t need this.

“I wasn’t happy when the two homosexuals moved into the house next to yours, but they have at least updated the place and keep it looking nice. Although that solarium sticking out in the backyard does block the view to the houses on the other side.”

Carlotta gave the woman a flat smile. The two men who had moved in next door about five years ago kept to themselves and had never talked to her or Wesley. Then she bit into her lip. Maybe she should make an effort to get to know them. They probably thought everyone in the neighborhood was as homophobic as this woman.

On the other hand, if they were witness to some of the goings-on at the Wren house, they were probably keeping their distance for a reason.

“You must have noticed that Wesley spruced up our back deck. We’ll get to some of the other things as soon as our budget allows.”

The woman sniffed. “From the looks of what was carried in there today, you got money for other things.”

It was Carlotta’s turn to frown. “What do you mean?”

The woman lifted her shoulders in a dramatic shrug. “It’s not my place to say.” She turned and walked away, leaving Carlotta to stand there soggy and miserable.

The door opened suddenly and Wesley stood there smiling. “Hey, sis!”

Instantly, she was suspicious. “What’s wrong?” she asked as she limped into the living room.

“Nothing’s wrong. Need a hand? Wow, where did you get the flowers?”

“Never mind,” she said absently, dripping on the carpet and staring at something past Wesley, something that even upstaged the little aluminum Christmas tree that had stood in the corner ever since their parents had taken off. “What is that?”

Wesley grinned. “It’s a big-screen TV.”

“I can see that.” The sixty-inch screen was hard to miss since it took up most of the real estate in the room. “What is it doing in our living room?”

“Surprise! I bought it for you.”

“For me?”

“For us. Isn’t it great? The old one was about to go out anyway.” He looked so pleased with himself, just like when he was little and had brought her frogs.

She touched her stinging, injured palm to her forehead. “Wesley, this had to cost a fortune. Where did you get the money?”

“I sold my motorcycle.”

She conceded a spurt of relief and a tug of affection that he would sacrifice something he loved, but her generosity was short-lived. “I’m glad that you sold the death machine but Wesley, we could have spent that money on a hundred other things!”

“You don’t like it?”

He looked so wounded that she bit her tongue and counted to three. “Of course I like it, but.” She gestured to the basket of overflowing statements that she hadn’t bothered to open in too long to admit. “But we need to pay bills! Catch up on the mortgage! And what about those thugs you owe?”

“I made my payments this morning—a day early.”

“What about next week?”

His shoulder sagged as he gestured toward the massive television. “I just thought it would make you happy. You’ve been so morose lately.”

Here came those damned tears again. Oh, God, and hiccups too. The wide-eyed panic in Wesley’s eyes at the waterworks made her turn away. Carlotta wiped her cheeks and said over her shoulder, “We’ll talk about this later.”

“Okay,” he muttered. “Oh, sis, there’s a phone message.”

She came up short. Had their father called? She turned on her heel, inhaling sharply into a hiccup. “Did you listen to it? Who was it?” The shrillness of her voice vibrated in her ears, but she couldn’t help it.

He frowned. “It was Peter. He wants you to call him back. He sounded weird.”

She swallowed and forced her muscles to relax. “Okay. Thanks.” She turned back to the hallway and walked toward her bedroom.

“Are you going to call him?” Wesley called behind her.

“No,” she said blandly. “I’m off work tomorrow. Don’t wake me up until Wednesday.” She was putting off the inevitable, but she didn’t care. She just wanted everyone—fugitive father, body-moving brother, interfering cop, schizoid friend and repentant ex-fiancé—to leave her the hell alone.

Was that too much to ask?