“Take both and decide later.”
“With the Valentino sandals?”
“Oh, yeah, they’ll go with either dress.” Maria pointed. “With the Lauren Merkin bubble clutch.”
“Good choice,” Carlotta agreed, then pulled it from a shelf.
She put both dresses in a garment bag, then backed out and Maria closed the closet. They retraced their steps to the front door, then Carlotta cursed. “I forgot about being on the scooter. I can’t get these to Peter’s.”
“Give me the dresses,” Maria said. “I’ll follow you.”
“That’s not necessary,” Carlotta protested.
“No problem. That way I can tell Jack you got home okay.”
Carlotta was nervous having Maria behind her on the short ride to Peter’s, but she conceded that the woman was going above and beyond the call of duty to make sure that she was safe. All for Jack, of course.
At the entrance to Martinique Estates, Carlotta punched in Peter’s code and waved to the guard as she and Maria drove in. When she pulled the scooter into the driveway to the immense house, she grimaced at the sight of the broken fountain. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a flash of yellow fur disappear into the thick foliage of the landscaping. It seemed that the pesky stray cat hadn’t yet found its way home.
“Nice place,” Maria said from the car.
Carlotta climbed off the scooter and walked over to take the garment bag the woman held out the window. “It is, isn’t it?”
“I can see why Jack is jealous.”
Carlotta’s head came up. “Jealous? I don’t think so.”
Maria’s mouth twitched downward. “There’s something you should know. The state agents took Jack off The Charmed Killer case.”
Carlotta gasped. “What? Why?”
“Territorial issues. They want to run their own investigation and they think Jack’s too close to some aspects of it.”
Realization dawned. “You mean too close to me, don’t you?”
“Among other reasons,” Maria said. “Carlotta…you need to be more careful about the men you let into your life.” Then she drove away.
11
Peter squeezed Carlotta’s hand as they walked into the twinkling ballroom of the Bedford Manor Country Club. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” she said, conjuring up a smile. In truth, she couldn’t get Maria Marquez’s words out of her head. Jack had been removed from The Charmed Killer case. He must be going crazy.
“You look more than fine in that red dress,” Peter said, raking his appreciative gaze over her. “You look amazing.”
“Thank you.” At the last minute, she’d decided against the dress that would make her fit in, in favor of the one that would make her memorable, as Maria had put it. And based on some of the looks they were getting from milling guests, she had hit the right note. “You don’t look so bad yourself.”
Peter preened in his black Joseph Abboud tux that fit his lean frame and broad shoulders flawlessly. “I was hoping you’d notice.”
“I noticed,” she murmured, giving herself a mental shake to return to the present. Hadn’t she dreamed of this moment, when she would take her rightful place among to the people who had cast her out, on the arm of one of their own?
She pushed Jack’s dilemma and The Charmed Killer from her mind as she glanced around at the beautiful people gathered at draped tables, wineglasses clinking and diamonds winking. No one in this grand room was worried about the sordid things that went on outside their community—their lives were insulated with glamour and amusement and privilege. Crime was something that happened to other people. She suspected the only reason they hadn’t turned their backs on Peter when Angela had been murdered so fantastically was because of his parents’ far-reaching influence.
“Mom, Dad,” Peter said as the prim couple approached. “Good to see you.” He embraced his mother and shook hands with his father. “You remember Carlotta Wren.”
“Of course,” his mother said with a nod.
Carlotta extended her hand to each of them in turn. “Good to see you, Mrs. Ashford, Mr. Ashford.” The couple seemed unnerved by her presence, glancing around as if to see if anyone else had noticed she’d broken rank.
“I was told there are two empty seats at our table if you’d like to join us,” Peter said.
“Oh, we’d love to,” his mother said, then wet her lips. “But we promised the Daileys that we’d sit with them.” She looked to her husband for confirmation and he nodded vigorously.
Carlotta’s face stung at the reproach.
“Another time, then,” Peter said easily. After the couple moved on, he said, “Sorry about that.”
“Don’t apologize for them,” she said, feeling sorrier for Peter than for herself. The couple treated him more like a business acquaintance than a son. She wondered if her relationship with her parents would’ve ended up the same way. Assuming, of course, that they hadn’t abandoned her. “We’ll have fun tonight anyway.”
He smiled down at her, his eyes shining. “Yes, we will.” Then he nodded at her clutch. “Keep an eye on your purse, though. We’ve had some reports of women’s bags going missing lately. It’s become a bit of a problem. Security has been beefed up, but you can’t be too careful.”
“Surely no one would steal at a charity auction,” she murmured.
“One would think,” he agreed.
They walked among the tables until they found their assigned seats. A couple was already at the round table, the poufy-haired young blonde coiffed within an inch of scientific probability, and her older companion, bleary-eyed, his hand curled around a drink.
“Carlotta Wren, meet my neighbors, Sissy and Tom Talmadge.”
“Hello,” Carlotta said as Peter held out her chair.
“Hi there,” the woman said, leaning forward on her elbows. “You must be Peter’s new houseguest.”
“Sissy and Tom live in the blue house just up the hill,” Peter offered.
With a start Carlotta realized that this was probably the person who’d been spying on her with binoculars. “That’s right. Peter and I go way back.”
“I see,” the woman said, her voice singsongy. “How long will you be staying?”
Carlotta blinked at the woman’s unconcealed nosiness.
“As long as she likes,” Peter answered for her. “Something to drink, Carly?”
“Red wine,” she murmured. “A big glass.”
“I’ll be right back.” He gave her a bolstering wink, then walked away.
When she looked up, she noticed that Sissy was watching Peter’s retreating back with an expression akin to longing. The woman glanced back to Carlotta and smirked. “Peter is quite a catch.” She slid a meaningful glance to her blob of a husband who sat in a stony stupor.
Carlotta’s mind raced to change the subject. “Do you, by chance, have a blond Persian cat?”
“No. Why?”
“We’ve seen a stray around Peter’s house.”
“It’s not ours. I’m allergic.”
“Hello all.”
Carlotta looked up to see Tracey Tully Lowenstein, the daughter of Walt Tully, a former business partner of her father’s, and Tracey’s trophy husband, Dr. Frederick Lowenstein. Tracey was seated and scooting her chair up to the table before she noticed Carlotta. The woman’s eyes went wide.
“Carlotta, I didn’t recognize you.”
“It must be that lovely dress,” Frederick Lowenstein offered, raking his wolfish gaze over Carlotta in a way that made her squirm.
Tracey glared. “No, it’s not the dress. You just seem out of place here. What brings you to the club?”
Carlotta hadn’t expected to be welcomed with open arms, but the thinly veiled hostility was disconcerting. “I came with Peter.”
Tracey wrinkled her nose. “Of course.”
At that moment, Peter returned with drinks in hand. “Hi, Tracey, Freddy.” He set a glass of wine in front of Carlotta, and slid h
is hand down her back in a proprietary fashion as he lowered himself into the seat next to her. “Nice to see you again.”
The last time they’d “seen” the couple, Tracey and Freddy had crashed her and Peter’s date at an outdoor showing of Breakfast at Tiffany’s, horning in on their blanket and their privacy.
“Carlotta, I hope you’re not going to run out on poor Peter like you did at the movie,” Tracey offered tartly. “You’re as bad as Freddy, disappearing at the drop of a hat.”
“I’m on call, dear,” her husband chided.
Carlotta shifted on her chair. She’d left the movie that night because Wesley had asked her to help him with a body removal nearby. She’d thought she’d be back before the closing credits rolled, but after they’d learned the deceased was another victim of The Charmed Killer, that hope had died.
Tracey lifted her bejeweled hand and snapped her fingers at a passing server. “You, there. I need a martini, stat.”
The server’s back went rigid, then she swung around. “You also need some manners, lady.”
Carlotta gasped. “Hannah?”
Her friend Hannah Kizer, a culinary student who also worked for catering companies, stood there holding a tray of empty glasses. Her goth makeup was more subdued than usual, but one of her eyebrows that went up was newly pierced—twice.
“Carlotta, what are you doing here?” Then her gaze landed on Peter. “Oh—right.” Then she gave Tracey a fake smile. “Martini, coming right up, Your Highness.” She strode away, but Carlotta excused herself and went after her.
“Hannah!” She caught up with her friend at the bar and touched her arm. “Hannah, why are you ignoring me?”
Hannah poured ingredients into a shaker. “Because I’m supposed to. Servers aren’t allowed to fraternize with guests.”
“But it’s me,” Carlotta said with a laugh. “You can’t just pretend you don’t know me.”
“I’m doing what’s best for you,” Hannah said lightly.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Hannah guffawed. “As if your pretentious friends are going to welcome me into their circle.”
Carlotta sighed. “They aren’t my friends.”
Hannah glared at her. “So why are you with them?”
“Did you get the message I left on your phone? I’m staying with Peter for a while.”
“Yeah, I got it.” Hannah’s posture relaxed a bit. “Was Michael Lane really living in your house?”
“Yeah—crazy, huh? I have to stay somewhere, at least until the police process the town house.”
“Is Wes staying with Peter, too?”
“No, he’s at his friend Chance’s place. The one who wants you, remember?”
“Yeah,” Hannah said with a dry laugh. “Fat chance.”
“You didn’t return my call. Do you have a new married lover?”
Hannah averted her gaze. “No. I’ve just been busy.”
Carlotta nodded, but again Maria Marquez’s accusation of not knowing her friend came back to her. “Okay, well…don’t be a stranger. Peter has a pool.”
Hannah’s expression was suspicious. “This living with Richie Rich—it’s really temporary?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sleeping with him?”
“No. And please quit calling him that. I’ll think of a cartoon when I look at him.”
Hannah grinned. “Is he buying you nice stuff?”
“He bought me a Vespa…after I wrecked his Porsche.”
“Ouch. The scooter sounds fun, though.”
“I’ll take you for a ride sometime. When can we get together?”
“I keep hoping you’ll call me on a body-moving job.”
She frowned. “I promised Peter I’d give it up for a while.”
Hannah made a face.
“Jack thinks it’s a good idea to lie low, too.”
“Because they think that Michael Lane is The Charmed Killer?”
“He’s the prime suspect, I think. The GBI is investigating now.”
“Have you seen Coop lately?”
Carlotta shook her head. “I heard that he’s doing more work with the morgue. And Jack seems to think he’s drinking again, or is on the verge of it.”
Hannah looked concerned—she had a wild crush on Coop. “Since he was the one who found the first charm, he probably feels responsible somehow.”
A head server walked by and gave Hannah a disapproving glance. She picked up the drink mixer and shook it vigorously. “I’d better get back to work,” she said, putting a skewered olive in the glass, then bathing it with crystalline liquid.
“I’ll take Tracey’s drink to her,” Carlotta offered.
“You don’t have to.”
“I want to,” Carlotta said, trying to let her friend know that she felt awkward about the role reversal.
“Wait a minute, it needs a stir.” Hannah looked around, then put her finger in her mouth and pulled it out, then used it to stir the martini.
“Hannah!”
“What? The alcohol will kill the germs,” Hannah insisted. “Most of them, anyway. Who knows where that finger’s been?”
Carlotta bit back a smile, then took the drink and carried it back to the table, where two other couples had joined the fray. Carlotta vaguely recognized the women and assumed they were friends of Angela’s that she might have seen at the memorial service.
“Here you are,” she said to Tracey and set the martini in front of her.
Tracey looked surprised—and suspicious. “Thanks.” She took a healthy drink, then introduced Carlotta to the new people—Bebe and Will Plank, Jada and Artie Westby—as if Carlotta was Tracey’s pet. Carlotta greeted them and reclaimed her seat next to Peter self-consciously. When his hand settled on her lower back she noticed the women exchanging knowing looks.
Tracey gestured to the charm bracelet on Carlotta’s wrist. “Interesting choice of accessory, Carlotta. But aren’t you afraid that The Charmed Killer might take it as an invitation? Or maybe you don’t read the newspaper.” She gave her table cronies a conspiratorial grin.
Carlotta’s hand tightened on the stem of her wineglass. “While it’s true that my having to work cuts down on my leisure reading, I heard about the article.”
“But you chose to ignore it? Maybe you know something that the rest of us don’t.”
Carlotta frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Daddy got a call from a GBI agent today,” Tracey said. “He wanted to know if he’d heard from your father lately. He said that Randolph is a suspect in The Charmed Killer case.”
Carlotta felt the blood drain from her face as condemning stares turned in her direction. Peter’s hand massaged her back. “That’s…ridiculous,” she murmured.
“Is it? Peter, you must have gotten a call, too. Daddy said most people in senior management at the firm were contacted.”
Carlotta swung her gaze to Peter’s profile. Her father had called him at work out of the blue a few months ago. Randolph had said he needed Peter’s help to prove he’d been framed for the charges he’d been accused of years ago. Had Peter told the GBI about the phone call?
Peter gave her an apologetic look that sent a knife through her heart. “I did receive a call,” he said to Tracey evenly. “I told the agent if he thought Randolph Wren had anything to do with these murders, he was grasping at straws.”
Carlotta glanced away to gather her wits and to her horror, saw that Rainie Stephens, the AJC reporter, was standing within earshot. And from the expression on the redhead’s face, she’d heard Tracey’s comments. The woman made a movement toward Carlotta, but was intercepted by someone else and drawn into a conversation.
Carlotta could only guess what tomorrow’s headline would be: Randolph “The Bird” Wren Implicated as The Charmed Killer.
Minus ten points.
Frederick Lowenstein stood suddenly, looking down at his pager.
“What is it, dear?” Tracey asked.
“Oh, no,” Tracey pouted, then glanced all around and sighed. “But that’s what it’s like to be an important doctor—he goes whenever he’s needed.”
Freddy dropped a kiss on Tracey’s cheek, then waved as he backed away from the table. Carlotta couldn’t help noticing that Tracey seemed to relish the attention. But at least it had diverted the conversation from her father being a serial killer.
She picked up her wineglass, then looked up at Peter. “Why didn’t you tell me about the GBI contacting you?”
“I’m sorry,” he said, his eyes warm. “I didn’t want to upset you.”
She sipped from her glass, knowing that Peter’s intentions were good, but still…
Dozens of servers suddenly appeared with laden trays and began to pass out salads. Hannah served their table from a rolling cart, shooting lasers into the back of Tracey Lowenstein’s head when she walked behind her and leaving Carlotta feeling uncomfortably superior as her friend used tongs to reach over her shoulder and place a warm roll on her bread plate. Carlotta had been excited to attend the fancy event, but the shine was quickly wearing off. Even Peter’s hand at her back was starting to feel invasive.
The host for the evening, a local weather personality, took the microphone. To Carlotta’s surprise, he introduced Rainie Stephens from the AJC as his cohost. The vivacious redhead was engaging as she welcomed the crowd, announced that the silent auction would be going on all evening and introduced a clip about the animal shelter that would benefit from the crowd’s generosity. The lights were lowered as the short piece ran, showing abandoned pets so big-eyed and forlorn that it left Carlotta feeling guilty for wishing bad things on the stray blond Persian that had caused her so much grief.
When the lights came up, everyone applauded politely, then turned to their meals.
Peter leaned in close. “I noticed several vacation getaways up for auction. How would you feel if I bid on a couple of them?”
A bite of bread wedged in her throat. “For us?”
He smiled. “Of course for us.”
She swallowed hard to push down the dry morsel. “I—”
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