Body Movers: 2 Bodies for the Price of 1

by Stephanie Bond

  Since Hannah had a huge crush on Wesley’s boss, Carlotta chose her words carefully. “Maybe he had a funeral today. Or maybe Wesley is out with him. I’m sure he’ll call you soon.”

  “I hope so. I can’t wait for my first assignment.”

  “Hannah, I’m not so sure that body moving is the kind of job that one should feel so enthusiastic about.”

  Hannah waved off her concern. “Death fascinates me. I guess that’s why I’m so intrigued by Cooper—you have to be a special person to work around bodies all the time. Do you think he has a casket at home?”

  “I certainly hope not.” Even though his job of running his uncle’s funeral home and moving bodies for the morgue was creepy, Cooper Craft was a surprisingly normal-looking guy. Attractive, even. He’d hinted, as Jack Terry had said, that he was interested in Carlotta, but Cooper was so intellectual, he intimidated her.

  Of course, nothing earthbound intimidated Hannah.

  “I’ve always wanted to lie down in a coffin, you know, just to see what it’s like.”

  Carlotta grimaced. “We’ll all know soon enough, Hannah. You can let me out here,” she said, pointing to a mall entrance.

  “Okay. Do you need a ride home after work?”

  “No, thanks. I hope my car will be ready by this evening. But if not, I can take the train.”

  “Okay. Are you sure you’re okay to work today?”

  Carlotta managed a smile. “With a mortgage and loan sharks to pay, I don’t exactly have a choice.” Sudden tears welled in her eyes. Mortified, she tried to blink them away. “Sorry,” she mumbled.

  “Hey, don’t apologize,” Hannah said, looking concerned—and panicked—at the sight of tears. “Promise me you’ll call later.”

  “I promise,” she said, then jumped out before she completely broke down.

  Maybe Hannah was right, she thought as she dabbed at her eyes. Maybe she needed to talk to someone with professional objectivity, someone who could give her advice on coping with disillusionment, on how to let go of the past.

  But that would have to wait. For now she needed to decide whether to tell Jack Terry about her father’s phone calls.

  She was hanging her clothes in a locker in the employee break room when a familiar male voice said, “I heard Lindy nailed you yesterday.”

  Carlotta closed her locker door and smirked at Michael Lane, friend, coworker, and self-proclaimed queen of the shoe department. “She confiscated my phone. I have to go to her office and ask for it back like a good girl.”

  “Yikes, good luck with that.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “I was kidding. You’re one of her top salespersons. Lindy’s not going to fire you.”

  “Was one of her top salespersons,” Carlotta corrected, feeling dangerously close to tears again. “I’ve been toppled by Buckhead Barbie.”

  “Oh, you’ve met Patricia.”

  “She was following Lindy around yesterday like a shih tzu.”

  “Funny you should say that. You know Patricia’s only doing so well because of the new line of doggie wear in accessories. Those little inflatable bathing suits are flying off the freaking shelves.”

  “No, I could be doing more. I’ve lost my touch.”

  “You’re just in a slump.” Michael gave a dismissive wave and glanced over a memo he was holding. “Hey, you’re in luck. Lindy’s off until Wednesday.”

  Carlotta blinked rapidly. She wouldn’t be able to get her phone back, wouldn’t know if her father had called again. There was a way to check messages from another phone, but she had never set up a PIN to access the system remotely. She’d told herself she’d decide whether to tell Jack about the calls after retrieving her phone, but another forty-eight hours of torture loomed before her.

  “There, there, it’s just a phone,” Michael soothed.

  “It’s not just the phone,” she murmured. “It’s…personal.”

  “With all this business of Angela Ashford’s murder behind you, I figured you’d be skipping and singing.”

  “No skipping and—lucky for you—no singing.”

  He angled his head. “Is your brother in trouble again?”

  Poor Wesley. Everyone automatically assumed he was the root of all of her problems, even now when there were so many more potential culprits. “No, it isn’t Wesley.”

  “Having financial problems?”

  She gave him a flat smile. “Yeah, but what else is new?”

  “Good grief, why don’t you file bankruptcy and get it over with?”

  His advice rankled her. She didn’t like people knowing so much about her perpetual indebtedness. “I told you, I’m not that desperate…yet.”

  “So if it’s not Wesley and it’s not money, what is it?”

  “It’s…personal.”

  Michael’s eyes gleamed with interest. “Want to talk about it?”

  Carlotta hesitated. As chief grinder of the store’s gossip mill, Michael was always looking for grist. “Actually, I was wondering if you could recommend someone…professional…who I could talk to about…everything.”

  “Oh. My therapist, Dr. Delray, is fabulous and he accepts our company insurance. He’s taking new patients only on referral but I’d be happy to put in a phone call.”

  “That would be super. And if you don’t mind, Michael, I’d like to keep this quiet.”

  He made a zipping motion across his lips and Carlotta hoped that she could trust him.

  On the other hand, anyone who’d been privy to her recent goings-on might be relieved to know that she was seeking help.

  She took her place on the sales floor and tried to push aside thoughts of her father. But as the day unfolded and customers blended together, her imagination began to spin wild scenarios.

  If her father was aware of some of the details of her and Wesley’s lives, was he spying on them? The notion had her distracted, looking around, constantly scanning for someone hiding behind clothes racks. Would she even recognize her father? He was bound to have aged in ten years and no doubt had altered his appearance to avoid detection. Same for her mother.

  She glanced around, suddenly claustrophobic as shoppers zigzagged by her. Either one of her parents could be within easy reach and she wouldn’t know it.

  “Hello, Carlotta.”

  Carlotta turned to see one of her best customers, Dixie Neilson, walking up wearing a cheery smile. The flamboyant, trim older woman with a dramatic shock of silver in her dark hair—and her impressive purchases—never failed to lift Carlotta’s spirits. “Hi, Dixie. What can I do for you today?”

  “I need a new dress, darling, for a dinner party. I was thinking something red and slinky and ridiculously expensive.”

  Carlotta laughed. “I think I have just the thing.” But while she was helping Dixie select a dress, she continued to scan the throng of shoppers. Later, while she rang up Dixie’s sale, a tall man by a rack of women’s cruise wear caught her eye. He seemed out of place as he flipped through the hangers of bright clothing. Who wore a long coat in the dead of summer? And he kept looking in her direction….

  She handed Dixie the dress in a garment bag and said goodbye. The long-coated man was still there, still looking her way.

  Carlotta wet her mouth and tasted perspiration on her upper lip. She could spot a disguise a mile away; she’d donned enough of them in her party-crashing days.

  A touch to her arm startled her so badly, she cried out.

  “Easy, girl,” Jack Terry said. To the people who had turned to stare, he sent an easy smile, dissolving their idle interest.

  Carlotta’s heart leapt to her throat as she perused his dark suit and tacky red, white and blue striped tie. He was on duty. “What are you doing here?”

  “Trying to get your attention. You’re awfully jumpy.”

  She told herself to relax or else she’d only raise his suspicion. “Sorry. I guess I’m more tired than I realized.”

  “Ashford keep you up late?” he asked dryly.r />
  She hesitated, trying to decipher the expression on his face. Jealousy? Impossible. More likely, he was still smarting over the fact that he’d been wrong about Peter’s guilt in Angela’s murder. “That’s none of your business, Detective.”

  One eyebrow arched. “Back to ‘Detective’ are we?”

  “Looks like you’re on duty.”

  “I am, which is why I need to make this quick.”

  Her stomach flipped. Did he know about her father’s phone call? “Need to make what quick?”

  “I got a call that my suit is ready.”

  “Oh.” She exhaled in relief. “Right.”

  He squinted at her. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah.” But she glanced again at the suspicious-looking man, who nervously averted his gaze.

  “Someone you know?” Jack murmured.

  She had horrible thoughts of her father being apprehended in the middle of Neiman’s. Wouldn’t her boss Lindy love that? “Uh, no.”

  Too late—Jack zeroed in on the guy. She tried to distract him by stepping into his line of sight, but since he towered over her, that was practically impossible. He stepped around her and strode toward the man, who turned and began to walk away quickly. Jack broke into a jog and Carlotta raced after him, her heart thudding. “Jack, wait!”

  But he ignored her, reaching one long arm forward to capture the man by the back of his collar, bringing him up short with a choking sound. “The jig’s up, buddy.”

  Carlotta skidded to a stop beside them, her mind racing to reconcile the man’s features with those of her father.

  “This is harassment,” the man stammered.

  Jack shook the man’s shoulder hard enough to make his head loll. “Open your coat. Now.”

  The man complied reluctantly with long, bony fingers—fingers that proved he wasn’t Randolph Wren in disguise. Until this moment, she had forgotten how large and capable her father’s hands had been…hands that had once pulled her close for hugs or to tweak her nose in a moment of teasing good humor.

  When the man’s coat hung open, Carlotta gasped. The garment was lined with clear pockets, each one stuffed full of jewelry or small clothing items.

  “Getting your Christmas shopping done early?” Jack asked the man.

  “I’m not the criminal here.”

  “Right, buddy. Do yourself a favor and keep your mouth shut.” Then Jack looked at Carlotta. “Maybe your security department should take it from here.”

  Carlotta located the nearest phone and called security, feeling like an idiot for not pegging the man for a shoplifter. This thing with her father was driving her mad.

  After the man had been handed off, she accompanied Jack downstairs to pick up his suit, keenly aware of his big body near hers. His size was comforting but this new cordiality had her off-balance. Of course, he was probably playing her, hoping she’d cooperate with the investigation into her father’s disappearance.

  Guilt stabbed her because she knew she held the one piece of information that he’d been hoping for. Communication from Randolph Wren. And possibly a way to lure him in.

  “Thanks for catching that guy,” she murmured.

  “It’s my job to catch the bad guys,” he said easily.

  She swallowed hard, acknowledging that everyone considered her father one of the bad guys. If she confessed to Jack Terry about the phone calls, she could end this ten-year ache, but would it only lead to something worse—an irrevocable break in her relationship with her parents and maybe with Wesley? And would it destroy this tentative friendship with Jack Terry that seemed to be developing?

  No, Carlotta decided on the spot, she wouldn’t tell Jack about the phone calls. She’d handle it with Peter’s help. And who knew, it might come to nothing anyway.

  She located the garment bag with Jack’s name on it and unzipped it to double-check that it was the suit he’d selected and that it was indeed ready.

  “Want to try it on?” she asked, flashing back to her glimpses of him half-naked during the initial fitting. Hannah’s suggestion of a night of meaningless sex came to Carlotta as visions of her and Jack tangled together in the dressing room flitted through her head.

  “That’s okay,” he said. “I trust you.”

  At his offhand comment, she pasted on a smile and assuaged her guilt by letting the threat of making him shop for new shoes slide. Passing a table of ties, she scooped up a gorgeous black and deep purple tie that would complement Jack’s dark coloring.

  “My treat,” she said, stuffing it into a jacket pocket. “You’ll look stunning when you accept your award. When is the ceremony?”

  “Two weeks from today,” he said, then shifted from foot to foot. “Listen, Carlotta…about this awards dinner…”

  She looked up. “Uh-huh?”

  The detective pulled his finger around his collar, further loosening his hideous tie. “I know I mentioned before that I’d thought about asking you if you wanted to go with me.”

  She froze. He was on the verge of asking her—something he’d never do if he knew what she was keeping from him. Her stomach churned with the sudden realization that despite everything looming over her and Jack Terry, she wanted very much to go on his arm and see him accept his award.

  The color rose in his cheeks. “Well—”

  “Carlotta Wren?”

  She turned to find a man standing in front of her, holding a clipboard in one hand and a vase of at least two dozen red long-stem roses in the other hand. “I was told I could find you here. These are for you, ma’am.”

  Her eyes widened. “For me?”

  “Yep. Sign here.”

  She signed her name, still perplexed when the man handed her the hulking bouquet. “I wonder who they’re from.”

  “I can guess,” Jack offered wryly.

  Carlotta realized he was referring to Peter. Although it was just the kind of grand gesture he would make, she was surprised and a little disappointed that he was pushing her so soon after their conversation about taking it slow.

  “Thanks for helping me pick out the suit.” Jack swung the garment bag over his shoulder as if it contained a sixty-dollar rental instead of a thousand-dollar tux. “I’ll see you around.”

  “Okay,” she said to his rapidly retreating back, craning to watch him leave. She wondered why she felt so let down when spending an evening with Jack Terry was just a bad idea all the way around.

  With a sigh, she ferreted out the card in the roses.

  Carlotta, thanks for a great time. Mason

  Carlotta glanced over the brimming arrangement that had easily cost a couple of hundred dollars, then bit her lip.

  Who the heck was Mason?

  8

  “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 produc
ed 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.