2 Bodies for the Price of 1

by Stephanie Bond

  “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 sh
oulder, “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?

  9

  “Wren,” barked the woman behind the desk, leveling a stare on Wesley as he slouched in a chair waiting to see his probation officer for their regular Wednesday meeting. “You’re up.”

  He sprang to his feet, then remembered to play it cool and slowed his stride as he approached the office of E. Jones. He’d asked, but she’d refused to tell him what the E stood for. She said that he didn’t need to know that much about her.

  He knocked on the door with two sharp raps of his knuckles and waited for her sexy voice to call out. The glass of a nondescript framed print on the wall was a passable mirror. He glanced at his reflection, nodding in approval over the two-day old beard; he’d heard that women liked the scruffy look. Then he ran his fingers through his light brown hair to give it a tousle and pulled on the lapels of a sport coat that Carlotta had bought for him.

  “Let me know when you’re finished primping,” that sexy voice said right behind him.

  Wesley started, then turned to see E. Jones laying those big green eyes of hers on him, her pink mouth curled into a wry smile. Heat flooded his neck. “I wasn’t primping.”

  “Right.” She reached past him and opened her door, then preceded him inside. “Close the door and have a seat.”

  Still smarting, Wesley did as he was told.

  “How did you get here?” she asked as she settled into a chair behind a neat desk and opened a file folder that had his name on it.

  “Bicycle.”

  Her eyebrows went up. “You didn’t ride your motorcycle?”

  She’d busted him previously by following him when he’d left his appointment. Not only had he been driving his motorcycle with a suspended license, but he’d gone on a drug drop for Chance to make some money. E. had caught him red-handed and had let him off with a warning as long as he took the delivery back where it had come from.

  “I sold my motorcycle and bought a bike.”

  “Ah. Does that mean you can pay your five-thousand-dollar fine to the court?”

  For reparations to the city for the little hacking job he’d done into the courthouse records. “Uh, no.”

  “You didn’t make a profit?”

  “I did, but I bought a new TV. The one we had was shot.” E. had also seen their place, thanks to a surprise drop-in visit. The woman now knew pretty much everything about him—his family history, where he slept and who he hung out with. And that the dusty box of Trojans in his bathroom medicine cabinet had never been opened.

  “That’s nice, but in your situation do you think a TV should have been your top priority?”

  He shifted in his seat. “I wanted to do something nice for my sister. Don’t worry, I’ll still be able to make my weekly court payment.”

  “Good.” E. sat back and scrutinized him. “Are you staying out of trouble?”

  He swallowed involuntarily. Could she possibly know about the gambling? “Yeah, I’m clean.”

  “Are you still hanging around with that friend of yours?”

  “What friend?”

  “The one who is such a good friend that he would ask you to do something that could ruin your life.”

  Wesley cracked his knuckles. “I’m not giving you his name.”

  “I don’t want his name. I don’t care if he flushes his life down the drain. I only care about you.”

  He stopped, wondering if she meant it, and on what level. Was she saying that she cared only because she was responsible for getting him through probation and out of the system with as little fuss as possible? A great-looking woman in her mid-twenties could never be into him. Could she?

  “How’s your sister?” E. asked, breaking the tension. “I read about her involvement in the Buckhead murders. Sounds like she was lucky to escape with her own life.”

  Wesley nodded, unwilling to think about how close he’d come to losing his sister. “Carlotta is tough.” Then he grinned. “She has to be to have put up with me all these years.”

  “Do you stop to consider the impact your actions have on her life?”

  “Not enough,” he admitted.

  “Is that fair?”

  “No one in my family has gotten a fair shake.”

  “Oh, right. You believe that your father is innocent of the crimes he’s charged with.”

  He sat up straighter. “Yes.”

  She angled her head. “If he’s innocent, why do you think he would skip town? Leave his family?”

  Wesley shrugged to cover the anger accumulating in his chest. “I don’t know, and it’s really—” He wiped his hand over his mouth.

  “None of my business?” she finished for him.

  He glanced around her office. “Don’t you have a cup for me to pee in or something?”

  She gave him a flat smile, then rifled through the papers in his file. “I have good news. I’ve spoken with Richard McCormick at the central IT department. He said he could meet with you later this week to set up a time when you could begin your community-service work.”

  Excitement skittered along his skin, but he tamped down his reaction. “When?”

  She handed him a piece of paper. “You need to call him.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  E. removed a plastic cup from a drawer. “And you do need to give a urine sample before you go.”

  “Okay.” He stood to leave. “Are we through? I need to get to work.”

  “Still moving bodies?”

  “Yeah.”

  She seemed amused. “And do you still like it?”

  “Like it?” He scratched the scruff on his chin. “I don’t know. It’s something that has to be done, and I’m better at it than most, my boss says.”

  E. nodded and studied him in a way that made him uncomfortable, like she was wondering when—with his dysfunctional family, friends and part-time job—he was going to blow.

  “See you next week,” she finally said, then looked down at another folder—another misfit case. “And you might think about shaving before you meet with Mr. McCormick about that job.”

  He frowned at her bent head, then left, wondering what it would take to impress the unflappable E. Jones and if he would ever have a chance with a woman like her.

  After whizzing in the cup and leaving it with the doughfaced uniformed attendant, Wesley walked out into the summer heat, removed his jacket and shoved it in his backpack along with the papers E. had given him, then unlocked the new bicycle and headed for home.

  On the way, he thought about the postcard that his parents had recently sent, postmarked Miami. The message had been simple, Thinking of you or something like that. He’d hidden it because Carlotta had threatened to burn any more postcards they received. But she’d found it in the tennis-ball can in the garage where he’d hidden it along with his emergency stash of cash. Instead of asking him about it, she’d put it in her purse and somehow Detective Jack Terry had gotten his hands on it. Now the jerk cop was probably stepping up his efforts to find their father, which meant that Wesley needed to get his hands on his father’s secure case files as soon
as possible.

  The sooner he started his community-service job “to improve the security of the city’s legal records,” the better.

  Cooper Craft was waiting for him when Wesley wheeled into the driveway. He stored the bike in the garage, shrugged back into the sport coat, then swung up into the passenger seat of the plain white van that Coop typically used when retrieving bodies for the morgue; he saved the hearse for more ceremonial pickups. “Hey man, been waiting long?”

  “Just a few minutes. How was your probation meeting?”

  “Fine.” Coop seemed to know a lot about the probation system. Wesley wondered if the man would ever give him details about how he’d gone from being the coroner to retrieving bodies for the morgue and running his uncle’s funeral home. “What’s on the schedule today?”

  Cooper gave him a wry look. “For you, a shave.” He gestured to the glove box. “There’s an electric razor in there. Use it. And where’s your tie?”

  Wesley pulled a tie out of the pocket of his jacket, then rummaged for the razor. “Where are we going?”

  “Grady Memorial Hospital first, then Crawford Long, then St. Joe. Then a couple of nursing homes and a delivery back to the funeral home. A full day.”

  Wesley nodded, flipping on the razor. He noticed that Coop looked more pensive than normal, that a muscle ticked in his jaw beneath his neat sideburns. “You okay? Sorry I kept you waiting.”

  “No, you’re good.” Coop looked a little sheepish. “Actually, I’ve been thinking about what you said.”

  “What was that?”

  “That if I wanted to get your sister’s attention, I needed to do something bold.”

  Wesley grinned. “What did you have in mind?”

  “I don’t know. Does she like flowers?”

  “No offense, dude, but getting flowers from a funeral director seems a little morbid, don’t you think?”

  “I wasn’t going to send her a damn wreath.”

  “Whatever. Besides, some guy sent her, like, two dozen red roses Monday.”

  “Oh. Who was that?”

  “Peter Ashford, I guess. She didn’t want to talk about it. She’s been acting strange the last couple of days, moping around. I’m kind of worried about her.”