“If you ask me,” Hannah said, “the entire population of Buckhead is one therapy session away from drinking the magic Kool-Aid. Most of these people are nuts, or have you forgotten so quickly the murder plot we stumbled into last fall?”
“As much as I’d like to forget being hauled to the police station and grilled like a piece of chicken, I haven’t been able to yet.” Then she clasped her hands together. “That reminds me—I got a letter from Jolie yesterday. She and Beck are doing great. She says she’s never been happier.”
“Do they have plans for returning to Atlanta?”
“Not anytime soon. And after everything she went through, I can’t say I blame her.”
“I know. And look how quickly that story disappeared from the headlines. Three people dead, and after the murderers were caught, the people in their social circle pulled in tight to keep it hush-hush. Unless someone was in the middle of it, like we were, they might not even know the whole thing had happened.”
“The wealthy are masters at self-preservation,” Carlotta said. “I’d be surprised if the police have any luck questioning the Martinique Estates residents about what might have happened. Even if anyone knows something, they’re likely to remain silent just to keep property values high.”
“A friend of mine told me yesterday that she once bartended a party in that neighborhood, and that by the end of the evening, everyone had traded partners and disappeared into bedrooms.”
Carlotta winced. “Swinging?”
“Don’t look so outraged. It happens all the time, especially in high circles where people feel entitled and bored.”
“I know.” Yet the thought of Peter and Angela indulging in something so sordid made her queasy. Maybe Peter hadn’t loved Angela, but he had cared for her. And surely his own sense of integrity would have kept him from handing his wife off to another man. She rubbed her chin as another thought occurred to her. Was Peter so adamant that Angela hadn’t had an affair because he didn’t want his own shame to be revealed?
Her cell phone rang and she pulled it out, grateful for the distraction. The local number that came up on the screen was one she didn’t recognize, but she pushed the call button. “Hello?”
“Is this Carlotta?” a woman’s voice asked.
“Yes. Who is this?”
“June Moody, darlin’, from the cigar shop. I thought you might want to know that one of the people who bought the cigar you asked about is sitting upstairs in my bar.”
“Who?” Carlotta asked, worrying her lip.
“Dennis Lagerfeld. He’s with a buddy.”
Carlotta’s mind raced. “I’d like to talk to him.”
“Want me to stall him until you get here?”
Carlotta covered the mouthpiece and looked at Hannah. “Want to go on a field trip?”
“Hell yes.”
She moved her hand. “June? I’ll be right there.”
29
“T ry to look normal,” Carlotta said on the sidewalk in front of Moody’s, then took in Hannah’s silver-studded black leather jumpsuit and sighed. “Scratch that.”
“Don’t worry,” Hannah said with a flip of her striped hair. “I’ll lie low.”
Carlotta had her doubts but walked inside. She was surprised to find the shop crowded with men in suits and noted that it must be a popular lunchtime destination for businessmen in the area. Across the long, narrow room, June Moody caught her eye and made her way toward them.
“He’s still upstairs,” June said without preamble. “I gave him a nine-inch cigar on the house, so he’d have a reason to stick around.”
“Thanks,” Carlotta said. “I’ll be discreet.”
At her words, June stared at Hannah with a half smile.
“June, this is Hannah,” Carlotta said. “Believe it or not, she can be discreet, too.”
“It might help if you’re smoking,” June offered.
“I’ll have the same thing I had the other night,” Carlotta said. “An Amelia.”
“And I’ll have a Tamboril Torpedo,” Hannah said.
June raised her eyebrows, apparently impressed. On the other hand, nothing Hannah did surprised Carlotta—her friend’s travels and experiences would fill a book.
June left, then returned shortly with two cigars. “You can pay when you leave. You’d better get up there before he and his companion remember that there’s an X-rated video store next door.”
Carlotta gave her a grateful smile. “Come on,” she said to Hannah.
“Okay, I love this place,” Hannah said as they climbed the stairs and entered the bar area.
Most of the chairs and couches were occupied, but Carlotta’s attention went immediately to the bar. Dennis Lagerfeld was impossible to miss, his big, athletic body taking up more than his share of space, his pale eyes latching on to her as soon as they walked in. She smiled a greeting, then slid onto a stool, leaving one empty between her and the businessman Dennis was talking to.
“He’s still gorgeous,” Hannah murmured.
Nathan was tending bar again today. “You’re back,” he said to Carlotta. “And I see you brought a friend. What can I get for you ladies?”
She ordered a cosmopolitan, and Hannah ordered scotch on the rocks.
“Put those on our tab,” Dennis Lagerfeld said, then got up from his seat and took the empty one next to Carlotta. He was the only man in the place not wearing a suit, instead showing off his buff bod to perfection in flat-front trousers and a close-fitting knit shirt—Salvatore Ferragamo…nice. “I’m Dennis Lagerfeld,” he said with a wolfish grin.
“I know who you are,” she said, playing to his ego.
He grinned wider. “Then you have me at a disadvantage. What’s your name?”
“Carly,” she said easily. “And this is my friend Hannah.”
“This is my agent, Patrick Forman,” Dennis said, leaning back to allow the suited man to say hello. The guy looked a bit annoyed, as if he was accustomed to business meetings with Dennis being interrupted, but he nodded hello. The nod—and his wedding ring—were enough of an opening for Hannah, who made her way over to stand in front of him, all smiles.
“So, Patrick,” she cooed, “tell me about yourself.”
Carlotta almost felt sorry for the man, but focused on Dennis. “He’s your agent?” She lifted her glass for a sip. “Are you still playing football?”
“Nah,” Dennis said with a dismissive wave. “I retired from the rough stuff. Patrick handles all my endorsement deals and schedules my public appearances.”
“Sounds exciting,” Carlotta said, then picked up a cutter and snipped the end of her cigar.
“Can I light your fire?” he asked with a throaty laugh. He lifted a lighter and with a flick of his thumb, offered her a three-inch flame. Sometime between the time they’d sat down and now, he’d lost his wedding ring.
Smooth.
She smiled and moved in to light her cigar. The man’s cologne was more overpowering than the smoke. She coughed lightly, then batted her eyelashes. “Thank you.” She drew on the cigar, slightly dismayed at the way her body rejoiced when the first dose of nicotine hit her system.
“What do you do, Carly?”
“I work at Neiman Marcus at the Lenox Mall.”
“Really? I shop there. I’m surprised I haven’t seen you.”
“I work in the women’s department,” she said. “And I see you aren’t married, so I don’t suppose you’d have a reason to be there.”
His smile faltered a bit before he recovered. “Right.” Then he whistled low under his breath. “There is nothing more sexy than a beautiful woman smoking a cigar.”
She forced a little laugh. “Does that mean I could get your autograph?”
“Sure,” he said, his eyes devouring her. “Is there anything special you want me to sign?”
Repressing an eye roll, she pulled her autograph book from her purse. “Here?”
He signed the book and handed it back to her. It read, To Carl
y—a woman who’s hotter than the tip of her cigar. Dennis Lagerfeld.
She realized the man had moved closer—and that his breath smelled of brandy. “So, do you live around here?” she asked.
“In Buckhead.”
“Buckhead’s a big place. What neighborhood?”
“Why do you want to know?” he asked lazily. “Are you going to pay me a visit?”
Easing off lest she raise his suspicions, she took her time taking a puff and exhaling. “No, I’m just curious where celebrities live in Atlanta.”
He grinned. “I live in Martinique Estates.”
“That’s a big neighborhood.”
“Huge,” he agreed.
“I know someone who lives there,” she said with a little frown. “Or I should say, I knew someone. She died.”
“Oh?”
“Angela Ashford, she was a customer of mine.”
He drew back slightly and lifted his glass for a drink. “I heard about that. She drowned, didn’t she?”
“That’s what I was told…at first,” she said, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Then I read in the paper this morning that she might have been murdered.”
His eyebrows raised, and then he smiled and shook his head. “Don’t believe everything you read in the papers, sweetheart.” His hand suddenly landed on her knee. “Why don’t we change the subject to something more…personal?”
“Okay,” she said silkily, lifting her cosmopolitan for another drink. “Do you come here often?”
“Not often enough, apparently,” he said, squeezing her knee. “Maybe I would have run into you sooner.”
She resisted the urge to slap his hand away and nodded at the long cigar he clamped between Erik Estrada teeth. “That’s one huge cigar.”
He grinned. “You ain’t seen nothing yet.”
Suddenly Carlotta remembered why she hated going to bars. “I’m new to this cigar-smoking thing. Do you have a regular brand you like?”
He shrugged. “It depends. When it comes to cigars, you definitely get what you pay for.”
“So you like expensive cigars?”
“Sure, because they’re the best—Cohiba, Opus X, Cupido. I like to think that the pricey ones are made the legendary way—rolled between the thighs of virgins.”
Carlotta squinted—was that even possible?—then laughed as if he were the most clever man in the universe. She made more small talk about cigars while their drinks were depleted. Then, not sure she was going to get anything new out of Dennis Lagerfeld, she tucked her hair behind her ear, the prearranged signal for Hannah to intervene.
“Carly,” Hannah broke in, forcing Dennis to pull back, “I’m sorry, but I need to get back to work.”
“If your friend wants to go on, I can give you a ride,” Dennis offered.
“Dennis,” his agent said, checking his watch, “if you don’t mind, we really need to finish up.”
Carlotta wanted to kiss Patrick Forman. “Thanks for the drinks,” she said, pushing to her feet and peeling Dennis’s hand from her leg at the same time. “And the autograph.”
“You’re so welcome,” Dennis said, looking her up and down with appreciation. “Maybe I’ll see you around sometime.”
“Maybe,” Carlotta agreed, then waved her cigar at him before turning to head back downstairs.
“Did you get anything?” Hannah asked. “I tried to listen, but couldn’t hear anything other than the man purring.”
“The guy’s a player, but that doesn’t mean he’s a murderer. When I mentioned Angela Ashford, he changed the subject, but I couldn’t tell if it meant anything, or if he was just trying to get into my pants.”
“Maybe both.”
“Did you get any info out of his agent?”
“Zippo. He’s all business, seemed irritated that I existed. All I noticed was that he took care of the tab while Dennis was trying to stick his hand up your skirt.” At the bottom of the stairs, Hannah looked up and stopped. “Did I mention how much I love this place?”
Carlotta glanced up and nearly stumbled to see Cooper Craft leaning on the lacquered black counter, talking to June. He wore worn, faded Levi’s that hung low on his hips and a navy blue T-shirt that molded some impressive biceps. He noticed them midsentence, did a double take, then flashed a knee-weakening smile.
“Hey,” he said as Carlotta wobbled closer, “fancy meeting you here.”
June looked back and forth between them. “You two know each other?”
“My brother works for Coop,” Carlotta said.
“Remember me?” Hannah asked Coop, her voice teenage-shrill.
“Sure—how’s it going, Hannah?”
Hannah put her cigar in her mouth, sucked in deeply, then exhaled a figure-eight smoke ring. “Grrrreat,” she growled.
“Uh…right,” he said, then looked back to Carlotta. “I wouldn’t have taken you for a cigar smoker.”
She flushed sheepishly. “I don’t suppose I could convince you not to mention this to my brother?”
He raised his eyebrows.
“I don’t want him to know that I…smoke.”
“He won’t hear it from me.”
She nodded her thanks, then squirmed, remembering their last conversation about crushes and her being smart. She pointed to the stack of cigar boxes on the counter. “You must have your own humidor to buy that much inventory.”
“They’re empty,” he said, lifting a lid to show her. “June is nice enough to supply me with boxes for my hobby.”
“What hobby is that?” Hannah piped up.
“Miniatures,” he said with a shy smile. “I build miniature vignettes in my spare time.”
“Vignettes?” Carlotta asked, suddenly feeling not so smart.
“Scenes,” he explained. “I take a photograph and reproduce it in 3–D.”
It sounded like an obscure, tedious hobby, but whatever floated his boat.
“I’d like to see one sometime,” Hannah said, then clicked the tiny barbell in her tongue against her teeth.
Carlotta cast about for something to distract Hannah. Deciding against setting her on fire with the cigar she held, Carlotta asked Coop, “Do you live around here?”
“Not far from here—Castleberry Hill. You and Hannah should come by sometime. I’ll show you my boxes.”
Carlotta yanked on her friend’s halter to circumvent whatever bawdy remark was about to roll out of her potty mouth.
“Ouch,” Hannah yelped.
“We’ll do that sometime,” Carlotta promised, then looked at June. “I need to pay you for the cigars.”
June rang up the sale on the cash register. “I hope you got what you needed,” she said, her tone casual.
“It was useful, yes,” Carlotta said. “Thank you very much.”
“No problem,” June said, handing over her change. “Come back and see me.”
“I will,” Carlotta said, surprised at the kinship she felt with this woman she’d just met. Then she turned to pry Hannah off Coop. “We need to go, Hannah,” she said, concerned that Dennis Lagerfeld would come down and she’d be trapped again.
“I’ll walk with you,” Coop said, stacking up the boxes and thanking June. They left the shop with Hannah walking between them, chattering like a toddler.
“You know, Coop, if you ever need a hand moving bodies, just give me a call. In fact,” Hannah said, whipping out an ink pen and turning over his hand, “here’s my number.” Then she proceeded to scrawl across his palm. “I’m as strong as a fucking ox.”
“You don’t say,” Coop said, nodding.
Carlotta looked away to swallow a smile as they reached Hannah’s van. “Bye, Hannah,” she said brightly. “Call me tomorrow.”
Hannah pouted, then said goodbye to Coop and climbed into her van.
“She definitely likes you,” Carlotta said, her mouth twitching.
Coop laughed and looked at his graffiti’d hand. “She’s hard-core.”
“I’m parked over there,”
Carlotta said, pointing to her Monte Carlo. “But you don’t have to walk with me.”
He fell into step with her, though. “I actually wanted to let you know something about the Bolton woman’s murder.”
“Lisa Bolton?”
He nodded. “You’re probably hoping the Bolton case will help to clear your—I mean, Peter Ashford in his wife’s murder.”
“It had crossed my mind,” she admitted. “If a serial killer is on the loose, then the police will stop focusing on Peter.”
Coop pressed his mouth into a flat line and studied her. “Do you know if Peter was acquainted with the Bolton woman?”
She weighed her words carefully. “They were neighbors. I assume he knew her.”
“Okay, don’t take this wrong, but I thought you should know…Lisa Bolton was pregnant.”
The implication hit her like a punch in the stomach. Coop—and probably the police—suspected that Peter was the father…and the killer. Numb, she opened her car door and slowly lowered herself into the seat. What kind of fresh hell was this?
Coop closed her door and leaned down. “Just be careful, Carlotta. I’m not pointing fingers, but I’m not sure this Ashford guy is who you think he is.” He wet his lips. “We don’t know each other that well, but…I like you. I don’t want to see you hurt—physically or otherwise.”
She studied his sincere face, his intelligent eyes, and felt a little tug on her heart. Then as if he realized he might have confessed too much, he straightened and winked.
“Of course, maybe I’m just trying to get rid of the competition.”
She laughed, happy for the break in tension, and started her car. “I’ll be careful. See you around, Coop.”
“I hope so,” he said with a smile.
But as she watched him in her rearview mirror, she noticed that his smile faded to an expression of concern that mirrored the fearfulness building in her stomach.
Maybe Coop was right—maybe Peter wasn’t the person she thought he was.
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