The booth already had a few lookers, so Carlotta stepped forward to introduce herself to a hostess who was smoothing a gray throw over the back of a leather club chair. “Hello, I’m—”
The woman turned and her familiar face erupted in surprise. “Carlotta! I didn’t know you’d be here! I thought you were on vacation.”
Carlotta maintained her smile for Patricia Alexander, her prim but energetic coworker at Neiman’s. The blonde was like an annoying puppy yapping at her ankles, and just when she started to tolerate the woman, Patricia would reveal a witchy side.
“My trip was cancelled,” Carlotta said. “I thought you were doing inventory back at the store.”
“So did I. But someone working the show called in sick and I happened to be standing there, so Lindy asked me to fill in.” She beamed. “I guess she knew I’d be interested in weddings.” She thrust out her left hand and wiggled the sparkling ring on her finger. “Leo and I got engaged!”
Carlotta’s eyebrows rose. “Wow. I thought you broke up with him.”
“I did, because I felt like he was keeping something from me. And he was—he has a daughter, and he thought I wouldn’t accept it. He apologized and told me everything and then he proposed!”
“When did all this happen?”
“Last week—the night of the full moon. It was so romantic. He took me to Stone Mountain and proposed during the outdoor laser show.”
“That’s...super.”
“Isn’t it? And you’ll get to see Leo again—he’s going to be in the celebrity fashion show on the last day.” Patricia clasped her hands together. “How great is it that you and I will be working together all week?”
“Great,” Carlotta agreed.
Then Patricia gasped. “But are you okay?” She leaned in and lowered her voice. “I heard you were stabbed by The Charmed Killer?”
“Er...yes.” Carlotta inadvertently touched her shoulder. “But I’ll be fine.”
“What a relief that maniac is behind bars.”
“Yes.”
Patricia’s eyes widened. “And your father is back in town?”
The woman’s family had deep roots in Buckhead society, and she knew the entire sordid story of the Wrens’ ruin. Carlotta tried to smile. “That’s right.”
“He just showed up, out of the blue?”
She felt compelled to defend Randolph, especially since Patricia would likely retell the story. “He saved my life, actually. Somehow, he knew I was in trouble.”
Her jaw dropped. “He’s been watching you all this time?”
“I don’t know.”
Patricia’s neck turned blotchy. “But he’s been...close by?”
“Uh...” Carlotta gestured to a couple of customers who looked as if they had questions. “We probably should get busy. What can I do?”
Patricia straightened, as if she suddenly remembered where they were. “Just answer questions. And if customers find something they like, offer to help place an order online.” She indicated two kiosks equipped with flat screen monitors and keyboards.
“Anything else?” Carlotta asked, noticing Patricia seemed distracted.
“We, um...get commission on any Neiman’s merchandise we sell. Too bad we don’t have any wedding gowns on display—I bet we could’ve made a bundle.” Her throat convulsed. “So...your father’s in jail?”
Carlotta nodded, puzzled over Patricia’s sudden unease. Maybe she was afraid Randolph had been stalking Carlotta and her coworkers at the store?
“Good,” Patricia said, then caught herself. “I mean, I’m glad he’s back...for your sake, of course.”
“Thank you.”
“Oh, and one of us is supposed to help with the fashion show this afternoon,” Patricia continued, her voice stronger. “Neiman’s is supplying all the menswear. It’s going to take place in the rear of the hall—they’re still putting together the runway. And don’t forget to download the Wedding Expo app to your phone...”
Carlotta nodded, allowing the woman to drone on, steeling herself for a long, boring day standing on her feet. But it was better than bouncing off the walls of the townhouse. She spent the next few minutes familiarizing herself with items in the expansive booth and assisting browsing customers. She passed the first sluggish hour handing out coupons for free shipping on website orders, then smothered a yawn.
When had retail gotten so godawful boring?
Across the aisle, a woman screamed. Carlotta wheeled, all senses on alert for danger. Thief? Stalker? Rapist?
But instead of fighting off an assault, the woman was holding up a frothy white dress, her face lit up with the discovery that had elicited the loud response. Carlotta exhaled and shook herself—she had to stop looking for intrigue in every situation.
She glanced around at the smiling, hopeful faces of the women pouring into the exhibition hall, chattering excitedly. There was nothing here but happy people planning happy occasions, set to embark on happy lives.
She sighed. Everyone, it seemed, was happy...except her. She glanced back to the squealing bride, tempted to approach her and ask her how her life had gotten to such a happy place. But when she saw the woman’s companion, she froze.
Tracey Tully—now Mrs. Dr. Lowenstein. A friendly acquaintance of Carlotta’s back when they’d attended private high school together, and daughter of Walt Tully, Randolph’s former partner at the firm.
In Carlotta’s vivid dream that had swept her to an alternate universe, she and Tracey had been best friends because their lives there had traveled along similar paths...but in this world, she and Tracey were on less affable footing. She took a step backward to evade detection and bumped a piece of luggage that toppled with a loud thud.
To her chagrin, Tracey looked up, then made a beeline for her through the crowd. “Carlotta Wren, what are you doing here?”
Carlotta straightened and extended her good arm to indicate the masculine-themed booth behind her like a game-show hostess. “I’m working...with Patricia,” she said, including the blonde in her vague gesture. The two women knew each other, still moved in some of the same circles.
“Oh,” Tracey said with a sniff. “Well, I knew you weren’t here planning a wedding. I heard you and Peter broke up.”
Well, at least Peter had gotten the word out—no doubt Walt Tully had told his daughter posthaste.
“You and Peter broke up?” Patricia asked. “Is that why you cancelled your vacation?”
“Among other reasons,” Carlotta murmured.
“Oh, right—your felon father is back,” Tracey said with a tight smile. “Did he happen to say where he’s been all this time?”
Carlotta’s face burned. “Actually, I haven’t talked to Randolph. He was taken into custody.”
“Your mother wasn’t with him?”
“No.”
“So she’s somewhere living high on the money your father stole from clients?”
“That was never proven,” Carlotta said, lifting her chin.
“Because he didn’t stand trial,” Tracey snapped. “My father personally paid back a portion of some of the money clients lost, but the partners couldn’t fix everything. People lost their homes because of your father.” Then she swung her gaze to Patricia. “Didn’t they, Patricia?”
Carlotta looked to Patricia. “What is she talking about?”
But Patricia wouldn’t make eye contact.
“You didn’t know?” Tracey continued. “Patricia’s parents were two of Randolph’s biggest clients. He stole a small fortune from the Alexanders.”
From the look on Patricia’s face, Carlotta knew it was true—no wonder Patricia had been acting strange about Randolph’s return. Dismay flooded her chest. Patricia had made occasional comments since they’d worked together about money being tight, but Carlotta thought the woman was worried about buying an extra pair of Louboutin shoes, not referencing her family’s overall financial well-being.
Patricia squirmed. “Mom and Dad were hanging in th
ere until the real estate market tumbled.”
Carlotta thought she was going to be sick. She mentally retracted every bad thought she’d ever had about the woman. By all rights, Patricia should hate her.
Patricia nodded toward a customer. “Excuse me. It was nice to see you, Tracey.”
“You, too, Patricia.” Then Tracey turned her smug mug on Carlotta. “Are you starting to realize the kind of damage your father did?”
Carlotta blinked. She’d assumed the individuals who’d suffered losses blamed on Randolph were tycoons or institutional investors...she hadn’t thought about the actual faces on the other side of the scandal. She’d been too young and too busy trying to feed herself and Wesley.
“And why,” Tracey continued in the silence, “Peter can’t be associated with you?”
Carlotta finally found her voice. “Yes. I wouldn’t want Peter to be punished for someone else’s sins.” Then she glanced around. “But this isn’t the time or the place for this discussion. I have customers waiting.” Carlotta started to turn away, loath to let Tracey know her words had found their mark.
“Maybe you can help my friend,” Tracey said quickly. When Carlotta turned back, the woman who’d screamed over the dress walked up. “This is Iris Kline. She’s looking for a gift for her fiancé. Iris, this is Carlotta. She’s my favorite salesclerk.”
Ignoring the barb, Carlotta extended a smile to the woman. “Hello. Do you have something in mind?”
Iris shook her head. “Not really. It’s just a little make-up gift.” She blushed. “Greg and I had a little argument. Planning a wedding is murder on a relationship.”
“I can imagine,” Carlotta soothed. “Does he have any hobbies?”
“He golfs...but he has every kind of golf gadget you can imagine. I’d like to get him something more personal.”
“Absolutely,” Carlotta said, morphing into sales mode. “If you had to choose, which one of these labels best describes your fiancé?”
The woman scanned the displays. “Warrior...king...lover...magician.” She laughed. “I’m not sure.”
“Is this some kind of riddle?” Tracey asked, annoyed.
“Just a fun way to identify a man’s personality,” Carlotta said cheerfully.
“Like, what’s an example of each?” Iris asked, circling the displays.
Carlotta wasn’t expecting to have to supply an explanation. She surveyed some of the items presented in the first section—leather couch, rugged casual wear and boots, a no-nonsense black suit and red tie, fishing gear and a waterproof smart phone. “I’m no expert, but I suppose a warrior could describe an alpha guy, like a military man or a...cop.” Like Jack.
“And a king?”
Carlotta scanned the second section—club chair, preppie clothes, modern slim-fit suit, golf equipment, humidor, and ultra thin laptop. “Maybe someone who is a natural-born leader, or who has a good pedigree.” Like Peter.
“And a lover?”
A suede chaise, trendy clothes, surf board, leather-bound books, globe, and electronic tablet filled out the third section. A hot flush began to climb Carlotta’s neck. “I would say that’s a man who...is fun and sweet and...cerebral.” Like Coop.
“And a magician?”
The last display featured a convertible leather sofa, black clothes head to toe, a poker table and deck of cards, expensive sunglasses, and several electronic gadgets. “Um...someone who can transform himself...and make you believe anything is possible?” Like Randolph.
Iris looked troubled. “I’m starting to think I don’t know Greg very well.”
Ever eager to salvage a sale, Carlotta plucked an item from a table and held it up. “How about this stainless steel comb? It’s on-trend, very sculptural, and heirloom quality. Luxurious, but useful.”
The woman smiled. “He is a little vain. I’ll take it.”
“I told you,” Tracey said to her friend. “Carlotta is simply the best little salesgirl ever.”
Carlotta gritted her teeth and rang up the sale with practiced civility. When they left, she gave Tracey a cheerful wave, resisting the urge to accentuate with her middle finger. How ironic that under different circumstances, the two of them might’ve been close.
She straightened items around the displays, marveling over the fact that the men in her life so exactly matched the four archetypes. Was that why she’d had so much trouble sorting through her feelings for Jack, Peter, and Coop—because they were so different, and because they each appealed to a different part of her?
And all three of them different still from Randolph. Which was a good thing...wasn’t it?
She glanced at Patricia, who was at a kiosk with a customer, hopefully racking up a big, fat commission. Humiliation and anger rolled through her that Randolph had done something to affect the life of someone she knew. It made her that much more antsy to talk to him...to confront him and ask if he’d actually stolen money from people who trusted him.
The theme projected across the back of the booth mocked her. Your perfect man.
If only such a creature existed.
“Hello, there.”
At the sound of a familiar deep voice, Carlotta winced, then lifted her gaze.
Jack.
Perfect timing.
Chapter Six
“STANDING HERE THINKING about me, I see,” Jack said, nodding to the Your Perfect Man proclamation on the booth background.
Carlotta angled her head at him. “You have self-esteem issues, Jack—you have way too much of it.”
Unfazed, he shrugged his wide shoulders.
“What are you doing here?” she asked. “Planning a wedding?”
“Right,” he said dryly.
“What then?”
He put his hands in his pockets and shifted uncomfortably. “After my run-in with the state boys at the jail, and...some other things, my captain thought I needed a few days off. So I put in for security work, and this ridiculous event was my draw.”
Indeed, the orange lanyard around his neck proclaimed SECURITY OFFICER.
The thought of him in the middle of this feminine fracas made her smile. “What exactly are you supposed to be keeping secure?”
He squirmed. “A muckety-muck celebrity thinks he needs a bodyguard from his adoring fans.”
“Jarold Jett?” she asked hopefully.
“Sounds right.” He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket, then nodded. “Yeah. What is he, a reality TV star?”
“Close. He’s a wedding dress designer, and he’s a judge on a competition design show.”
“Great.”
“I’ve heard he suffers from anxiety attacks—he doesn’t like crowds. That’s probably why he wants a bodyguard.”
Jack looked heavenward. “I should’ve gone fishing.”
She grinned. “Actually, I’m hoping to get his autograph.”
He stuffed the paper back into his jacket. “Is that why you’re here?”
“Not exactly.”
“Don’t tell you’re planning a wedding?” His gold-colored eyes were suddenly serious.
Patricia walked close, then reached between them to pluck a sterling silver flask from a shelf. “Not Carlotta,” the blonde offered triumphantly. “She and her boyfriend broke up.” Then she sailed away to show the item to a customer.
Carlotta glanced after the woman. Minus ten points, Patricia.
Jack’s eyebrows rose. “Broke up, huh? Did Ashford take his letterman jacket back?”
She frowned. “I’m working, Jack.”
He frowned back. “Shouldn’t you be taking care of your shoulder?”
“I’m being careful. I need to keep busy, and my boss thought this would be more light duty.”
He conceded with a nod. “Have you made contact with your father?”
“You mean has he made contact with us? No. Liz explained the visitation process and it seems that once again, Randolph is holding all the cards.”
His mouth tightened. “I’m not taking
up for him, but the feds are probably keeping him under wraps.”
“Why?”
“Maybe they’re afraid you or Wes will help him hide or destroy evidence.”
Unbidden, a conversation she’d had with the doctor who’d treated her broken arm a few months ago came back to her. Doctor Eames told her he’d been a tennis partner of Randolph’s, and that Randolph had once confided he thought someone in his firm was trying to frame him. He’d asked if he could bring an unnamed item to Eames for safekeeping. But before the exchange could take place, Randolph had been arrested, then had disappeared.
But assuming such evidence ever existed, Carlotta certainly didn’t know of its whereabouts. She scoffed. “Wes and I just want to have a conversation with our dad.”
“I know. But if and when you do, be aware that your communication will be monitored.”
“Liz told me. I don’t understand what’s going on—why do the feds even want him?”
“Securities fraud falls under the jurisdiction of the Secret Service and the FBI. They might eventually pass the case back to the county D.A., but my guess is they want to see if the case is juicy enough to hang on to. Randolph wasn’t connected to The Charmed Killer case, except where you’re concerned, but they don’t know that yet.”
“Are you going to get to question him?”
Jack dropped his gaze for a few seconds, then looked back to her. “No.”
“But you’ve been working Randolph’s case, and you were the arresting officer.”
“I’ve...um...been warned to stay away.”
“Because of what you did for us at the penitentiary?”
“Maybe. Whatever the reason, I had to hand over the case files, and I was told only the feds are allowed to talk to him.”
She made a frustrated noise.
“I know it’s hard, but sit tight, and everything will eventually work out.”
She nodded, trying to believe him, then gestured to a customer. “I really should get back to work.”
“Me, too. After all, I did agree to stay away from you.” He looked her up and down, taking in her pale yellow silk blouse, slim turquoise skirt, and strappy pink sandals. “Remind me why I did that?”
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