7 Brides for 7 Bodies

by Bond, Stephanie

  “Maybe one of them just looked like a man.”

  Her head came up. “You mean one of them could be Mom in disguise?”

  “You tell me—you’re the one who crashed your own funeral in a getup so good no one recognized you.”

  “Except Dad,” she conceded.

  Much later she’d confessed to Wes that a stranger had bumped into her at the fake funeral and placed a note in her pocket identifying him as their father.

  “See,” he said excitedly. “It could be them!”

  But Carlotta was still shaking her head. “Do you hear what you’re saying? That Mom and Dad could’ve been living next to us all this time? That’s crazy.”

  He snorted. “No crazier than anything else that’s happened in our lives.” He was already moving toward the house. “And there’s only one way to find out.”

  Carlotta caught up to him and grabbed his arm. “Wes, wait!”

  He spun around. “Are you kidding? We’ve waited for ten years to see Mom, and at this very minute, she might be twenty feet away!”

  She gave him a tremulous smile. “I meant wait for me.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  AS THEY CROSSED into the dewy grass of the neighboring yard, Carlotta’s heart thudded against her breastbone to the point of pain. Her hairline felt moist. Mixed emotions assailed her. The thought of seeing her mother again was exhilarating—and terrifying. But other emotions crowded her lungs. If, incredulously, Randolph and Valerie had been living next door to them all this time, some part of her might find it comforting that they’d been keeping an eye on her and Wesley. But another, larger part of her would be furious if their parents had been so close and let their children believe they were missing—and worse.

  As fantastic as the story sounded, she found herself listing the reasons it made sense that Randolph and Valerie would be hiding in plain sight. Since Valerie had been emotionally dependent on Randolph, she probably wouldn’t be content to be parked somewhere alone while Randolph roamed around and made surveillance trips to Atlanta. And if Randolph and Valerie had grown a conscience about abandoning their children, moving in next door would probably assuage their guilt.

  Her legs were rubbery when they climbed the steps to the front door. There were no signs of life in or around the little house—no cat in the window, no blaring TV, no aromas of breakfast sausage wafting outside through a vented stove hood.

  Which only made Carlotta more anxious because Valerie was allergic to cats, famously hated watching TV, and would ingest sausage only if it had been soaked in vodka.

  They stood on the stoop for a few seconds in silence. She knew Wes was waiting for her—the eldest—to make a move, but she was frozen in fear and anticipation. When Wes stepped forward and rang the doorbell, pride welled in her throat. Somewhere along the way he’d gone from being a timid little boy to a gutsy young man. Granted, he didn’t always make the best decisions, but she was glad he didn’t let life intimidate him.

  She wet her lips as the muffled chime of the doorbell echoed throughout the house. As she stared at the door, a strong sense of déjà vu washed over her. There had been another time she’d been standing in front of a door, and when it swung open, Valerie had emerged. Carlotta frowned, her memory churning wildly, and then suddenly, she remembered.

  The scene had unfolded in her travel-dream. She had been transported back to the driveway of the lavish home in Buckhead where she and Wesley had grown up. After she had alighted from her Miata and was attempting to orient herself, the door to the mansion had opened, and Valerie had appeared, conversing with Carlotta just as if she hadn’t been absent from her daughter’s life for a decade. Because in that other-place, she hadn’t been. The unexplainable incident was a gift from the universe, Carlotta had come to realize, a glimpse into what her life might’ve been like if Randolph and Valerie hadn’t left.

  She still wavered back and forth as to exactly what she had experienced that night, but right here, right now, standing on this stoop, she knew she wasn’t dreaming. The thought of being a heartbeat away from being reunited with Valerie made her lightheaded.

  Behind the door, they heard a movement. Carlotta straightened and stared at the peephole. Was Valerie squirreled away and afraid, wondering what to do now that Randolph had been taken into custody? Was she looking at them now, panicking? Would she open the door to her children, or would she retreat into hiding?

  Open the door, she willed silently, or I’ll break it down.

  The click of a deadbolt sounded, then the knob turned, and the door slowly opened.

  A tall man stood there in dark jeans, shrugging into a white dress shirt, which he left unbuttoned. He wore a confused expression on his rugged face. “Yeah?” he asked on a grunt, squinting.

  Carlotta exhaled in scathing self-recrimination. What an utterly preposterous notion to think their parents had been living next to them all this time. Beside her, Wesley sagged, his disappointment palpable.

  “Can I help you?” the man asked in a sleep-rusty voice.

  He was all male, Carlotta registered in a glance, with a platter of muscle for a stomach and shoulders that bowed slightly from the stress of holding up all that bulging protein. A tattoo peeked above the edge of his waistband.

  “We’re your neighbors,” she said brightly, then nodded to their house. “I’m Carlotta and this is my brother Wesley.”

  “Nice to meet you,” he said.

  His voice wasn’t unfriendly, but neither was his body language welcoming. He spread his arms to span the door frame. His short hair was the color of tarnished brass and stuck up at all angles—it appeared he’d just gotten out of bed.

  As further proof, he yawned widely behind his hand. “It’s kind of early. Did you need something?”

  She glanced at Wes, at a loss. They hadn’t discussed what they’d say in the event the person who opened the door wasn’t their mother…which now seemed like an obvious oversight.

  “We just wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood,” Wes offered.

  Carlotta looked down and realized she was still holding the vase of allergy-inducing daisies Mrs. Winningham had rejected. She extended it. “Here.”

  He squinted, then took the vase, which looked ridiculous in his big hands. “Thanks, but I’m just renting this place for a few weeks.”

  Wes cut her an exasperated look. “We should go.”

  “Right,” she said, nodding. “It was nice to meet you, um…what’s your name?”

  “John…son. Hey—” The guy scratched his nose—great, the flowers were already inflicting damage. “—what’s with the police car parked at the end of your driveway the past few days?”

  “Oh, that,” Carlotta said. “That’s, um…”

  “Speed trap,” Wes finished, yanking on her arm. “Be careful driving on this street. See you around.”

  Wes practically dragged her off the stoop and back to their yard. Behind them, the door to the neighboring house closed soundly.

  “Easy,” she said, rubbing her arm.

  “Sorry. I have to get going,” he said, his eyes suspiciously moist.

  Her heart squeezed for him. “Wes, it was a good theory. I’m sorry it didn’t work out, but hopefully we’ll get to talk to Randolph soon and get some answers.”

  He nodded.

  “I’m glad you pushed me into going over there,” she added with a smile. “Even though we came up empty, it feels good to do something, you know?”

  He hesitated, then stabbed at his glasses. “Actually…I’m working another angle to contact Dad.”

  She frowned. “What other angle is there?”

  He squirmed. “A guy I know on my courier job. He has a friend on the inside.”

  Panic blipped in her stomach. Wes didn’t know she knew the “courier” job was the lie he’d told to cover for his work as a confidential informant in The Carver’s organization, at the behest of D.A. Kelvin Lucas, the toad.

  “On the inside? Of the prison? Who are y
ou, Baby Face Nelson?”

  “I figured if the authorities won’t work with us, we’ll go around them.”

  She stared at him with a mixture of pride and dismay. He was so damned resourceful…and how wretched that he had to scheme with thugs to communicate with their long lost father in jail. “And has your friend reported back?”

  “Not yet. But soon.”

  Resentment toward her parents for Wes’s predicament rose in the back of her throat. But knowing the futility of that path, she swallowed the bad taste. “Okay. Keep me posted?”

  “Sure.”

  Carlotta angled her head. “So, how are things with Meg?”

  She caught the darkening of his eyes before he averted his gaze. “She’s in Aruba with her folks.”

  While Wes was here conspiring to make contact with his jailbird dad. The contrast was heartbreaking. “When will she be back?”

  He started walking backward toward the garage where he stowed his bike. “I gotta run. Later.”

  Carlotta hugged herself and watched Wes scramble to retrieve his bike, lower the garage door, and take off. He waved as he pedaled past her. She returned the wave, then pushed her tongue into her cheek.

  Since Wes had deflected the subject of Meg, he’d probably done something he shouldn’t have…again. Hopefully, it wouldn’t be a deal-breaker for Meg because it was clear Wes had lost his heart to her.

  Carlotta sighed. Then her head pivoted back to the house next door.

  Their fugitive parents hadn’t been living there, but something was definitely amiss.

  “Johnson,” or whoever he was, had gone to great lengths to make it seem as if they’d gotten him out of bed. But while his hair was disheveled, his jaw was fresh-shaven—down to a tiny piece of toilet tissue blotting a cut, and the strong scent of his after-shave was another giveaway that he’d been up for a while.

  Also, for someone who’d just rolled out of bed, it was strange he’d had time to put on lace up shoes that were spit-shined.

  Plus, the tattoo at the man’s waist was a blue and gold emblem—perhaps military, perhaps law enforcement.

  And while bracing himself against the doorframe with his shirt hanging open had seemed like a casual pose—and not an objectionable sight—most likely it was an attempt to block them from seeing the big honking camera set up on a tripod facing the Wren house.

  The man could be a professional photographer…or a voyeur. But if she were a betting person (like her little brother), she’d wager it was no coincidence they had a new neighbor who was an even bigger snoop than Mrs. Winningham at the precise time that Randolph had returned.

  Chapter Sixteen

  WESLEY WALKED INTO the International House of Pancakes, still stinging from the disappointment of the visit to the neighboring house. How epically perfect would it have been for their parents to be living next door all these years?

  Chance waved from a booth. “Thanks for coming, man.”

  Wes swung into a seat. “What’s up?” He was wary. It wasn’t like Chance to ask to meet for breakfast—or anytime, for that matter. He wanted something—for Wesley to take an exam for him, deliver a package—something. And while Chance always looked a little on the disheveled side, today his chuffy blond buddy looked especially worse for wear.

  “I think Hannah is going to break up with me,” he blurted.

  Wesley sagged. “You dragged me out of bed early to talk about your love life?”

  “I’m starting to think she only started seeing me so I would pay to finish the tattoo on her back.”

  “Well, that was kind of the deal, wasn’t it?”

  “At first, maybe. Now it’s turned into something more for me…but not for her, apparently.”

  “Is that what Hannah said?”

  “No. She doesn’t talk much, you know, except to yell at me. But now she doesn’t even do that.”

  “You’re upset because she doesn’t yell anymore?”

  “Yelling means the person cares, man. Like my dad, who screams at me until his face is purple. It’s because he cares.”

  “O…kay.”

  Chance pulled his hand down his face. “I feel like she’s hiding something from me.”

  “What, like another guy?”

  “I don’t know, but something.”

  A harried waitress came by to pour coffee in their cups and take orders for tall stacks.

  When she left, to Wesley’s horror, Chance teared up. “Hannah didn’t come home last night.”

  “Chill, dude—she probably worked late and went back to her place.”

  He blinked. “Do you know where that is?”

  “No. She’s never told you?”

  Chance was morose. “No.”

  “Have you tried calling her?”

  “Only about a hundred times.”

  “Stalker, much? Did you two have an argument?”

  “Nah. I thought things were good. I was even thinking about canceling my account with Blackbook.”

  “Wow, cancel your prostitute service? That’s…romantic.”

  “I know. I’ve had that account since I was fourteen. But the last time a girl came by, all I could think about was Hannah, couldn’t even get it up. Tish and I played Candy Crush all night.”

  Wes nodded. He’d once shouted Meg’s name when he was banging Liz, but Liz had been cool about it. If he ever got the chance to sleep with Meg, though, he doubted he’d be thinking about anyone else.

  Not that he was ever going to get the chance to sleep with Meg.

  “But when I told Hannah about the service, she got mad.”

  “Dude, you told her you have a prostitute service? Are you nuts?”

  “She already knew about it—that’s not what made her mad. She got mad when I said I was going to cancel. Said I was ‘crowding’ her—what the hell does that mean? Should I buy a bigger bed?”

  Wes slurped his hot coffee. “I think she means you’re getting too serious.”

  “Isn’t that what chicks want?”

  “You’re asking the wrong person, man. I got women problems you don’t even want to know about.”

  “You’re banging your lawyer, and you got that little piece you work with on the line. What’s the problem?”

  “Never mind.”

  “No, tell me, bro. Might make me feel better.”

  Wes shook his head. “I can’t say.”

  “Fuck, now you have to tell me. It’s not as if you got one of ’em knocked up.” Chance snorted at his own joke.

  Wes felt his face drain of blood, and Chance must have noticed, too.

  “Oh, fuck—one of ’em is knocked up?”

  “You can’t tell a soul, man.”

  Chance made a solemn X over his chest with his finger. “I’m as silent as the grave. Which one?”

  “Liz. I, uh…haven’t been with Meg.”

  “Liz is the attorney?”

  “Right.”

  “Shit. Is she gonna keep it?”

  “Yeah, she’s old, like almost forty, so she’s afraid this is her only chance for a kid.”

  “What are you gonna do?”

  Wes lifted his hands. “Whatever Liz needs me to do. I don’t want the kid growing up without a dad like I—” He broke off, then took a quick drink from his cup and burned his mouth.

  Chance nodded. “Hannah told me you haven’t talked to your old man yet.”

  “No. Feds got him all tangled up.”

  “But at least you have good news for him—he’s going to be a grandfather.”

  Wes gave a nervous laugh. “I’m not sure he’s going to be happy about it.”

  “You don’t think?”

  “Liz used to be his mistress.”

  Chance did the math in his head—slowly. “Wow, that’s…wait—what is that?”

  “Messed up,” Wes supplied.

  “And what about the dish you work with?”

  “That’s history as soon as I tell her about the baby.”

  “So why d
on’t you sleep with her first?”

  Wes frowned. “That’s not an option.”

  “Hey, it’s not like Liz is going to want to have sex with you now that she’s pregnant.”

  That was probably true. This situation just kept getting worse.

  “Actually, though, you being a dad is kind of cool.”

  Wes blinked. “You think so?”

  “Yeah, I can see a mini Wes dude running around. You can teach him to ride a bike and shit.”

  Wes nodded. “I can do that.” He smiled. “I’m going to be a dad.”

  Chance reached over and thumped him on the shoulder. “Yes you are. Just don’t fuck it up like our dads did.”

  Wes’s smile wavered. “I’ll…try not to.”

  “Are you going to get a real job, man?”

  “Huh?”

  “Kids are expensive.”

  “Liz makes good money.”

  “What if she decides she wants to be a full-time mom? And what if she has twins?”

  “T-twins?”

  “Yeah, I heard on TV that older women are more likely to pop them out two and three at a time.”

  Wes’s stomach cramped. “No kidding?”

  “Does your sister know?”

  “No. And she already hates Liz.”

  Chance guffawed. “Man, Carlotta’s going to stroke out.”

  Wes swallowed the bile that had backed up in his mouth. “Tell me about it.”

  Chance’s phone rang. He dug it out of his pocket, then grinned. “It’s Hannah.” He brought the phone up to his mouth. “Hey, baby.”

  Wes cringed at the moony tone of his buddy’s voice…and wondered if he sounded like that when he talked to Meg.

  “I’m on my way!” Chance stowed the phone and pushed to this feet. “She has a catering gig today, but she’s going to stop by the apartment first to get some of this.” He reached down and cupped his balls through his jeans to jostle his manhood.

  Wes winced. “What about your food?”

  Chance tossed a few bills on the table. “You can have mine. Thanks for cheering me up, bro. Next to your problems, I’m good. See ya.”

  Wes watched his friend lope away, feeling like he’d been dive-bombed.

  His second cell phone rang—the one dedicated to Mouse and all related loan shark activities. He connected the call. “Yeah?”