Body Movers

by Stephanie Bond

  “I have a guest appearance later today,” he said. Gesturing vaguely to the racks of clothing around them, he said, “Meeting you yesterday reminded me that I needed some things.”

  “Suits? Sportswear? Shoes?”

  “Yes,” he said with a moneyed smiled.

  Her return smile was genuine—a potential murderer’s money was as good as anyone else’s. Maybe she could repair her sales record while plying him for more information. “Then let’s get started, shall we?”

  She gave him a guided tour through every section of the men’s department, making suggestions along the way, although she soon realized that Dennis Lagerfeld had developed an eye for what types of clothing complemented his large physique. She could see how a woman could get caught up in his aura, she decided. Just watching the man move was a treat—his physicality suggested he’d probably be a great lover. Plus, he was undeniably handsome…and rich.

  And married, she reminded herself. And on the prowl.

  And quite possibly, a dangerous man.

  He shopped for shoes first, flirting with her while he walked around picking up exquisitely made styles. “I wear a size fifteen,” he announced, “but I like a tight fit.”

  She squirmed, unable to stop from visualizing the exact image that he’d intended. “I’m sure we can accommodate you,” she murmured, wondering what it would be like to be the mistress of someone like Dennis Lagerfeld. He seemed like someone who enjoyed the chase but would probably tire of the conquest.

  A chill settled over her when she returned with a selection of size fifteens and knelt before him. Was he pursuing her because he’d recently rid himself of a mistress and was in search of a new one?

  His cell phone rang and he answered while working his foot into a black ostrich-skin lace-up dress shoe. “Yeah, Patrick, what’s up?”

  Carlotta tied the shoe slowly, shifting when she realized that Lagerfeld was trying to look up her skirt. What a cad.

  “I don’t want to deal with this right now,” Dennis said into the phone, his voice agitated. “Just make it go away, Patrick. That’s why I pay you the big bucks.” He snapped the phone closed.

  “Trouble?” she asked lightly.

  “Comes with the territory,” he said. “There’s always someone plotting to sabotage me or trying to get to my money—fans, competitors, strangers…even friends. It gets to the point that I don’t know who I can trust.”

  “Sounds lonely,” she observed.

  “It is,” he said, then leaned forward and gazed into her eyes with a pained expression so convincing she could see how a woman might fall under his spell. “More lonely than you could possibly imagine.”

  She smiled nervously, then stood and looked down at the two-thousand-dollar pair of shoes. “What do you think?”

  He didn’t even look down. “I think I’ll wear them. You’re a great salesperson.”

  She laughed, going along with his flattery. “Then let me sell you something else.”

  She led him into the suits section, accumulating armfuls of things he liked, eventually stopping next to a rack of cashmere jackets with a crest embroidered on the lapels—the same brand that Angela had purchased. She hung back, watching his reaction. He fingered the same jacket that Angela had purchased, even removed it from the rack, then frowned thoughtfully. Carlotta held her breath. Did he recognize the jacket?

  “Nice jacket,” she murmured. “Would you like to try it on?”

  He glanced up, then grinned. “Only if you’ll help me get undressed.”

  She blushed and delicately picked a hair off his sleeve. She was getting pretty good at DNA collection on the sly. “You’re going to get me into trouble.”

  “Trouble excites me,” he said with a low laugh. Then he donned one of those interested-in-an-offhand-way expressions. “Say…do you ever take back clothes that have been worn?”

  Her mind flashed back to the days when she’d returned worn clothes herself. She made a rueful noise. “Not unless there’s a defect…although funny you should ask. A woman just returned that same jacket a few days ago, you know, the customer of mine who drowned.” She frowned. “It was very strange. She caused a bit of a scene, so we took it back—not that it mattered in the end.”

  His eyebrows rose almost imperceptibly. “I’m curious. What happens to clothing that’s been returned?”

  The back of her neck prickled. Resisting the urge to run, she said, “In this case, I put it with our other returns. It was too…soiled…to be put back on the floor. Eventually it’ll be sent back to the manufacturer, I suppose.”

  “Ah.” He leaned down and wet his curvy lips in slow motion. “What time do you get off work?”

  “S-six.”

  “Let’s go somewhere,” he said. It wasn’t a question but a foregone conclusion in his mind.

  “I can’t,” she said. “I…already have a date.” He didn’t have to know it was with her brother and a plate of lamb chops.

  Dennis pouted. “I promise I’ll show you a better time than he can.”

  “Maybe some other time,” she said and conjured up a hopeful smile.

  He continued to flirt while he tried on the clothes and then she rang up his sale. When she told him the total, he shook his head and handed over his credit card. “This is the most money I’ve ever spent just trying to get someone to go out with me.”

  “Really? I pictured you as a generous guy—lingerie, perfume, the whole bit.”

  He grinned. “Well, I admit, I do have a weakness for a beautiful woman wearing beautiful lingerie. I’ve purchased quite a lot of lingerie here, in fact.”

  Her pulse picked up, but she played the demure flirt as she handed back his card. “Well, I’m not so sure I want to be part of a harem. You probably have ladies falling all over you. I bet you don’t even have to look farther than your own neighborhood to find a willing woman.”

  In the span of two seconds, his expression morphed from playful to panicked. He jammed his credit card back into his wallet. “It’s not like that.”

  “Come on,” she said, baiting him. “A celebrity like you—you’re probably fueling the fantasy of every housewife in your zip code.” She gave him a sexy wink. “Women talk, you know.”

  His swarthy coloring faded to a sickly green-gray. “You don’t say.” He glanced at his watch. “I didn’t realize it was getting so late. I need to go or I’m going to miss my speaking engagement.”

  She handed his bags over the counter. “Thank you for shopping with us. See you around?”

  “Yeah,” he muttered, then picked up his shopping bags and strode away.

  Carlotta crossed her arms and watched him walk away, wondering if Detective Terry had questioned Dennis Lagerfeld, if he’d given any credence to her information that a man who smoked the same cigar that she’d found in the pocket of the returned jacket just happened to live in the same neighborhood where both women had been murdered. And who seemed inordinately interested in what had happened to a jacket that had been returned.

  She held up the Baggie with the hair she’d plucked from Lagerfeld’s sleeve. The detective would probably be furious with her if he knew she was still poking around, but she’d resigned herself to the fact that the man was in a perpetual bad mood where she was concerned.

  As she walked back to her department, her cell phone rang—it was Jeanine.

  “Got those names for you,” she said.

  “Go ahead,” Carlotta said, certain now that Dennis Lagerfeld’s name was on the list and that she had cracked the case.

  “Six garments sold, two of them cash sales. The credit card sales were in the names of Rebecca Bright…Regina London…Robert Kenny…and Peter Ashford.”

  Carlotta froze, her vital signs going haywire. Peter?

  “Are you there?” Jeanine asked. “Does this answer your question?”

  “Yes,” Carlotta managed on an exhale. “Thanks, Jeanine.”

  “When will I get my gel?”

  “It’s in the
mail,” Carlotta murmured, then disconnected the call, feeling as if she were moving in slow motion. Peter had bought the lingerie that Lisa Bolton had been wearing when she died? She recalled something that Angela had said on her last shopping spree when she had bought some lacy underthings. Peter likes me in black.

  Perhaps he liked all of his women in black.

  She covered her mouth, afraid she might be sick. Had Peter been having an affair with Lisa Bolton? Had he gotten her pregnant? Had Angela found out? And had both women died at his hands? Had he always possessed the capacity for violence and she hadn’t seen it, or had he changed after they’d parted? Feeling light-headed, she considered crawling behind the counter and curling up in a ball. But no, she could—and would—collapse later. Right now she had to make a phone call.

  She picked up the counter phone, dialed the police station and asked to speak to Detective Terry. After a few minutes, his voice came on the line.

  “Terry here.”

  “Detective…it’s Carlotta Wren.”

  “Yeah. What’s up?” She could hear him shuffling papers in the background.

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “So talk.”

  “Not now—I’m at work. But I get off in an hour. Can I meet you somewhere?”

  “I’m leaving soon, too, and I need to make a few stops. How about I meet you at your place?”

  “My brother will be there.”

  “Even better. I’d like to talk to him as well.”

  Why did she have the feeling that he had more questions about her parents? She sighed and massaged her temples. “Okay, I’ll see you there.”

  Somehow she made it through the next hour without flying apart. But by the time she got to her car, her feet and her heart were dragging. She was terrified that Peter might be waiting for her again, but thankfully he was nowhere in sight. Still, when she climbed into the car, she locked the doors.

  Gripping the steering wheel kept her hands from shaking, but the day’s events were beginning to take their toll on her. She backed out of the space jerkily and made a wrong turn before exiting the garage into traffic. She settled in for a stressful commute home, her brain running a constant loop of images of Peter, past and present. No matter how hard she tried, she simply couldn’t reconcile the man she’d fallen in love with all those years ago to the man whose ties to the dead women could no longer be ignored.

  About a mile from the town house, she was jarred from her fog by a set of headlights behind her that seemed to be approaching at high speed. She tapped her brake a few times, hoping her flashing lights would signal the driver to slow down, but the car kept coming. She gasped and gripped the steering wheel hard as the car whipped around her just before impact, then veered right to sideswipe her car. Sparks flew as metal ground against metal. Carlotta screamed, pumping the brake and struggling for control as the dark car tried to force her onto the shoulder.

  An air horn blasted. She jerked her head up to see a large delivery truck barreling toward them.

  Impending crash—minus ten points.

  32

  C arlotta screamed at the sight of the oncoming truck. She slammed on her brakes just as the other car pulled away and slid in front of her, narrowly missing the blaring truck. Her seat belt pulled her up short of bouncing against the steering wheel. Other car horns sounded behind her and cars screeched to a halt to prevent a pileup.

  She gasped for breath, her mind numb as she tried to assimilate what had just happened. When she realized that she wasn’t bleeding and how close she was to the town house, she straightened the car and pulled away slowly, her arms trembling with the force of clinging to the steering wheel.

  Someone had nearly run her off the road. Accident, or premeditated?

  Her vital signs had yet to return to normal when she pulled into the driveway leading to the garage. As the garage door went up, she saw Detective Terry emerge from his car across the street.

  God help her, but she was glad to see him.

  She climbed out of her car on unsteady legs to survey the damage to the car under the overhead garage light. Long, horizontal scratches marred the dark blue paint job, and the rear fender was badly dented. She tried to recall the amount of her deductible on her car insurance. Five hundred? A thousand? Christ, would she ever be out of debt?

  “Gee, what does the other car look like?” the detective asked wryly as he walked up.

  She frowned at him. “I wish I knew—the driver almost killed me.”

  He sobered. “What happened?”

  “Someone tried to run me off the road about a mile from here.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She crossed her arms. “Does it look like I imagined it?”

  He pulled out his notebook. “Describe the other car.”

  She sighed and touched her forehead. “I don’t know. It all happened so fast. Dark, maybe.”

  “Dark? I’m going to need more than that to go on.” He bent and ran his hand over the scratches. “Looks like green paint. Was it a car, an SUV, a truck?”

  “A car.”

  “Two-door or four-door?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did you see the license plate?”

  “No.”

  “Not even the color of the plate, maybe the state?”

  She shook her head. “Sorry.”

  “Did you see the driver?”

  She squinted, trying to remember. “There was only one person in the car, a man.”

  “Did you see his face?”

  “No. He was wearing a hat…maybe.”

  His mouth flattened. “Tell me what happened.”

  Carlotta explained as best she could, but realized that little about her story seemed concrete, except the scratches. “But it felt…deliberate.”

  “Do you remember doing anything that might have triggered another driver’s anger—cutting someone off, for example?”

  “No. If I did, I wasn’t aware of it.”

  He put away his notebook. “I’ll file a report before I leave.”

  She put a hand to her temple. “Let’s go inside. Wesley should be home.”

  But he wasn’t. She’d expected to be met with the savory aroma of lamb chops, not the scent of maple syrup, because she’d left out the container this morning. In a flash, she recalled that the spot behind her Miata had been empty—Wesley’s motorcycle was gone. Christ, what now?

  “Is something wrong?” the detective asked.

  She closed her eyes briefly. If she told him that Wesley was driving on a suspended license, the man would likely arrest him as soon as he arrived home. “Wesley must have been called out on a job.” She turned on lights as they walked into the living room, then gestured to the couch. “Would you like to sit down?”

  “Okay,” he said, then settled where only a couple of nights ago she had been prepared to make love with Peter.

  She averted her gaze and sat in the chair adjacent to the couch.

  “What did you want to talk about?” the detective asked. “I assume this has something to do with the Angela Ashford case.”

  She nodded, then took a couple of deep breaths for strength. “I’ve…been asking some questions.”

  His eyebrows went up. “Surprise, surprise.”

  She glared at him. “Do you want to know what I found out or not? Because I’d just as soon skip this little conference and go to bed.”

  When the whisper of a smile lifted his mouth, she realized her gaffe. “I meant alone…of course.”

  “Of course,” he said. “Yes, Ms. Wren, please, please tell me what information you found.”

  Ignoring his sarcasm, she told him about initiating a conversation with Dennis Lagerfeld at the cigar bar, and that the man had come by the store that afternoon. “He picked up the same jacket that Angela had purchased, then asked what happened to clothing that got returned.”

  “That’s not exactly conclusive evidence,” he said.

  “But this might be,” sh
e said, holding up a little plastic sandwich bag.

  He squinted. “What is it?”

  She smiled triumphantly. “A hair from Dennis Lagerfeld’s sleeve. I thought you could match it to any hairs you might have found on the jacket that Angela returned.”

  He looked incredulous. “Are you kidding me?”

  “No, I thought you’d be grateful!”

  He lifted his hand. “Okay, okay, I’ll take it.” He held up the bag, studied the single dark hair inside and wrote something on the plastic Baggie.

  “Lagerfeld asked me what time I got off work. He could’ve had someone run me off the road.”

  The detective sighed impatiently. “Did he happen to ask you out?”

  “Yes.”

  “No offense, but I suspect he was more interested in doing you than doing you in.” He gave her a flat smile. “Anything else, Sherlock?”

  She frowned and told him about the consultation appointment with Dr. Suarez and her conversation with him. “He said I had a lovely neck.”

  The detective stared. “That’s all? You want me to target this guy because he’s got a thing for your neck?”

  “Don’t you see? A man who strangles people would notice someone’s neck!” She pulled another Baggie out of her purse. “Here.”

  He rolled his eyes heavenward. “Another hair?”

  “Chewing gum. I saw the doctor take it out of his mouth myself.”

  He snatched the Baggie from her hand. “You are unbelievable.”

  “Why are you so hostile? I know that Angela was a patient of Dr. Suarez, and get this—I saw a picture of Lisa Bolton in the before-and-after pictures on his computer screen.”

  His eyebrows went up. “I didn’t realize you knew the woman well enough to recognize her.”

  She swallowed hard. “I…remembered something.”

  “Oh?”

  “I saw the Bolton woman before.”

  “Where would that be?”

  “At the party…where I ran into Peter…a couple of weeks ago.”