7 Brides for 7 Bodies

by Bond, Stephanie

  “Oh, that’s right—he works for Randolph’s old firm.”

  “Yes.”

  Liz sighed. “The past and the present have a tendency to fold back on each other, don’t they?”

  So the woman was nursing her own demons. When Carlotta had visited the other place where everyone’s lives had taken a different path, Valerie suspected Randolph of an affair with Liz there, too. Was the beautiful barracuda of a lawyer destined to have bits and pieces of different men whose hearts belonged to other women?

  At the District Attorney’s office, they were led to a meeting room to wait for Kelvin Lucas. An administrative assistant offered them bottled water and said Mr. Lucas would be in shortly.

  “Lucas likes to make an entrance,” Liz offered. “I’ll stop the interview if he goes too far, but you don’t have to answer anything that makes you feel uncomfortable. This should be routine.”

  But that didn’t keep her pulse from accelerating when Kelvin Lucas, a reptilian man, strode into the room with a young man at his heels. To make matters worse, GBI agents Green and Wick brought up the rear. They smirked at Carlotta, no doubt remembering their last encounter at the city detention center.

  Lucas grunted a greeting and made introductions. “This is ADA Finke, Agents Wick and Green of the GBI. Liz, I didn’t know you’d be here.”

  Liz smiled. “I guess that makes us even since we didn’t know the GBI would be here.”

  “The Charmed Killer case is theirs,” Lucas said, gesturing for everyone to sit. “Are you representing the entire Wren family now?”

  “I’m here in the event Carlotta needs an advisor, that’s all.”

  Lucas’s attention shifted to Carlotta. “Ms. Wren’s always been able to take care of herself. But I guess she’s had to, since her daddy ran out on her when she was still in knee socks.”

  Anger ignited in her stomach, but she didn’t want to rise to his bait. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m on my lunch break.”

  “Then let’s get to it,” Lucas said. “Finke here is going to take notes. Ms. Wren, this interview is to get your version of the events that took place during and around the incident where Dr. Bruce Abrams was taken into custody at your residence. Agents, she’s all yours.”

  She gritted her teeth over the misogynistic tone, but endured Wick and Green’s questions about how well she knew Dr. Abrams and what had happened the day he’d attacked her at the townhouse.

  “How did he get in to your home?”

  “I don’t know. I had stopped there to get some clothes. I was on my way out of town, so I was in a hurry. I might’ve left the door unlocked.”

  “Where were you attacked?”

  “In the kitchen. I was taking aspirin for a headache, and I was struck from behind. As I fell, I hit my head again on the edge of the countertop. I nearly blacked out. I saw it was Abrams and that he had a knife.”

  “What kind of knife?” Finke asked, scribbling away.

  “I…don’t remember exactly. It was serrated, I think, maybe eight inches long.”

  “Then what happened?” Agent Wick prodded.

  “I talked to him, tried to stall. He seemed happy to tell me about his plan to frame Cooper Craft by killing all those women.”

  “Did he say why he wanted to frame Craft?”

  “He said he didn’t like the way his employees deferred to Cooper. I’ve heard that when Coop was the chief medical examiner, he was well liked. I guess Abrams felt as if they respected Coop’s opinion more than his.”

  “Did Abrams mention why he used charms as his signature?” Green asked.

  “He said he got the idea when he saw Shawna Whitt’s charm bracelet.”

  “Shawna Whitt was one of the victims.”

  “Yes.”

  “And did he indicate why he wanted to kill you?”

  She swallowed hard. “He said I had caused too much trouble, and I got the feeling he thought my death would hurt Coop.”

  “Because you and Craft have a relationship?”

  “I work with Coop sometimes as a body hauler.”

  “And that’s all?”

  “We’re good friends, but Coop and I have never had a romantic relationship, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  “Back to the attack,” Wick said. “What happened next?”

  “Abrams was holding a knife to my throat. I was screaming for help, and suddenly someone came through the front door. It distracted Abrams and I pulled away, but he sliced my shoulder.” She touched her arm and smoothed a hand over the bandaged area. “Then I heard a shot, and when I turned around, Abrams was lying on the floor bleeding.”

  “And who fired the shot?”

  Carlotta shifted in her chair. “My father, Randolph Wren.”

  “And when was the last time you saw your father?” Lucas asked mildly, as if he were trying to slip the question into the flow of the conversation.

  She glanced at Liz, who sat forward.

  “I don’t see how that’s relevant to this case.”

  “It’s relevant if Ms. Wren had an expectation that her father would come and save her life.”

  “I didn’t,” Carlotta said with a frown. “No one was more surprised to see Randolph than I was.”

  Lucas scoffed. “So did your fugitive father explain how he just happened to be strolling by when you were being attacked by a serial killer?”

  “No.”

  “What did he say?”

  “We didn’t exactly have time to chat. Detective Terry arrived and placed him under arrest.”

  Lucas crossed his arms in slow motion and settled a heavy-browed scowl on her. “So how do you think your father knew you were in danger?”

  Liz made a noise of protest. “Carlotta can’t be expected to know what her father was thinking or doing. Why aren’t you asking Randolph yourself?” When he didn’t respond, Liz angled her head. “The feds aren’t letting you near him, are they?”

  Lucas’s face flushed to burgundy, but he kept his cool. After a slow blink, he said, “I’m merely asking Ms. Wren to speculate. Her father was never there for her before—he didn’t even show up for her funeral.”

  “My fake funeral,” Carlotta said through gritted teeth. And Randolph had been there, in disguise. She longed to throw that info in Lucas’s toady face, but exercised restraint.

  “He didn’t know that,” Lucas said. “Unless you and your brother have been lying and you’ve been communicating with your father all along.”

  “We haven’t,” Carlotta said evenly. Not knowingly. She wasn’t about to mention the listening device they’d found in the kitchen, or that her father had said he was keeping tabs on them.

  “Because if you have been communicating with your father,” Lucas said, as if she hadn’t spoken, “now’s the time to come clean in order to avoid aiding and abetting charges.”

  Sheer loathing pumped through her veins. “We. Haven’t.”

  “Then help me out, Ms. Wren. What would explain your father’s uncanny sense of timing to show up at precisely the right moment to save your life?”

  Carlotta lifted her shoulders in an exaggerated shrug. “The Charmed Killer was national news, and if you recall, Agents Wick and Green—” She smirked in their direction. “—even named Randolph as a suspect. Maybe he decided to come back and keep an eye on things.”

  “Lucky for you,” Lucas said.

  “Yes, wasn’t it?” Carlotta pushed back from the table and stood. “Gentlemen, I’ve told you everything I know. I need to get back to work. The taxpayers aren’t paying my salary.”

  She walked out of the room, and Liz followed.

  “I think Lucas was right,” the blonde said as she stabbed the elevator call button. “You didn’t need me in there.”

  “It helped,” Carlotta said grudgingly.

  “It helped me, too. No wonder Lucas is chomping at the bit—the feds are keeping him out of the loop. He’s trying to get his information sideways.”

  “Wh
y wouldn’t law enforcement be working together?”

  Liz gave a harsh laugh. “It’s all territorial. The big cases draw a lot of media attention. A lot of media attention means bigger budgets and promotions. You can bet the feds are going to get their meat and toss the scraps to Lucas, if there are any left.”

  “But why is it taking so long?”

  Liz hesitated until the elevator doors opened. “My guess? They’re making Randolph sweat, letting him see what life is like in a federal pen.”

  Carlotta chewed on the inside of her cheek as they rode down with a small knot of people. What did it say about her that she was okay with Randolph suffering a little for all he’d put them through? She wouldn’t wish anything terrible on him, of course, but bland food, a narrow cot, and a stainless steel toilet seat might shrink his ego down to size.

  She and Liz exited the building together. “Thanks again for coming, Liz.”

  Liz inclined her head. “Glad to help.”

  Carlotta pressed her lips together, conscious of the fact that this woman was going to be part of their family—whatever that might look like when the dust settled. She opened her mouth to extend an olive branch, but Liz’s phone rang and she waved goodbye, connecting the call as she strode across the parking lot.

  Whew, saved by the bell.

  In profile, the whip-slim Liz was definitely sporting a little tummy pooch. As Carlotta watched her, Liz set her briefcase inside her car, then, still talking into her phone, her free hand moved to caress her stomach.

  The gesture was so offhand and gentle, Carlotta was struck with a sense of wonder. She knew in that moment Liz was going to handle motherhood like she handled everything else—in stride, and with no apologies.

  And then another sensation, this one more alien, curled deep in her own abdomen, an ages-old primitive pull that caught Carlotta by surprise.

  Envy?

  The conversation she’d had with Jack about children came back to her. She loved Wes dearly, but she well remembered the difficult times of raising him alone—the times when he’d cried and she’d cried along with him because she couldn’t fix whatever ailed him. She’d nursed him through skinned knees and near-sightedness, chicken pox and puberty, all while trying to banish the sadness and feelings of neglect that lingered after their parents had left.

  She’d always told herself that her mothering was done…but she realized now that her view of parenting had been skewed—both because her parents had been lousy at it and because it had been forced upon her.

  But having a child of her own…

  She gave herself a mental shake at the wildly premature thought—before she did the baby thing, she really needed to get the man thing right.

  Which reminded her: The Your Perfect Man booth beckoned.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  MONDAY AFTERNOON, THE FIFTH DAY of the Wedding World Expo, was decidedly slow, Carlotta observed.

  Security was soft—she was able to walk in the “employees only” show entrance without even flashing her lanyard. After the frantic foot traffic of the weekend, the booths and decorations were looking a little tired and picked over—balloons drooped and bunting sagged. And the workers themselves were looking a bit done in—smiles had faded and eye contact was dodgy. For the most part, everyone seemed to be using the time to clean, straighten, and resupply their stock for the show finale on Wednesday. To draw customers in on the last day, most booths would be giving away prizes and the runway area would be busy with back to back entertainment.

  Melissa Friedman, the director of the show, seemed to sense the lull in enthusiasm because she was walking around in her pink pantsuit like a one-woman cheerleading squad trying to rally the team for the last quarter of the game.

  “Great show!” She clapped her hands and pumped her fist in the air. “Great show, everyone! Keep it up!”

  Carlotta appreciated the effort, but she, too, was suffering from vendor fatigue.

  “There you are,” Patricia said when Carlotta walked up the booth. “I was getting worried.”

  “Sorry,” Carlotta said. “My meeting took a little longer than I thought.”

  “You didn’t miss anything, it’s dead around here.”

  “Still, thanks for holding down the fort. How’s Leo dealing with the loss of his friend?”

  “He’s devastated. And he feels so guilty.”

  Carlotta frowned. “Why?”

  Patricia glanced around as if she were afraid someone would overhear her. “He thinks his buddy might have been taking a little, um, sex booster to keep up with his fiancée…and his girlfriend.”

  “Oh. And Leo thinks his friend might have overtaxed his heart?”

  “Right. And Leo feels awkward around Jeffrey’s fiancée. I told him not to tell her.”

  “You don’t think she knows?”

  “That’s the point—I do think she knows. I mean, don’t you think most women know when their man is stepping out?”

  The way she asked the question gave Carlotta the sense there was something driving it. “I believe a woman’s intuition is generally strong—and accurate. Is everything okay between you and Leo?”

  Patricia rubbed her thumb over her engagement ring. “Just a rough patch, I guess, first the blip with his daughter, and now this.”

  “Relationships are complicated. But it speaks well of Leo that he and his ex are on good terms.”

  “Actually, I give Kaitlin most of the credit for that. Leo says she has obsessive-compulsive issues, but I admire the way she tries to do everything just right.”

  Rather unconsciously, Carlotta was sure, Patricia smoothed a hand over her perfect bob. She wondered if Patricia saw a little of herself in Leo’s ex…and perhaps feared the woman’s present situation as Leo’s ex-wife would be her future situation?

  “They were probably opposites in a lot of ways,” Carlotta offered.

  “She hated that he dipped snuff.” Patricia made a face. “I kind of hate it, too.”

  Carlotta understood, but since she sneaked cigarettes, it didn’t seem fair to pile on. “I’ll give you some advice a wise older man once gave me. He said an engagement ring is just something nice to wear while you make up your mind.”

  Patricia curled her hand over her engagement ring as if she were protecting it. “But I made up my mind when I told Leo yes.”

  “I think what he meant is an engagement is a time when you try each other on for size before you make a legal commitment. I’m sorry you and Leo are going through all of this,” she added gently, “but isn’t it better to go through it now to see how you interact rather than after you’re married?”

  Patricia pulled back in a defensive posture. “What do you know about being engaged or being married?”

  She balked. “I…not much, I suppose.”

  “Well, don’t give up hope, Carlotta. Maybe Peter will change his mind.”

  Carlotta’s mouth twitched to say she could marry Peter anytime she wanted to…but in hindsight, Peter hadn’t put up much resistance when she’d suggested they not see each other for a while. And what would happen if Randolph was tried and convicted?

  “By the way,” Patricia added, “Jarold Jett was here a few minutes ago asking for you or that detective.”

  “Did he say what he wanted?”

  “No. But he seemed kind of upset.”

  “Do you know where I can find him?”

  “He said something about the mattress booth. Everything’s fine here if you want to check in with him.” She turned her back as if Carlotta had already left.

  Carlotta decided to let the woman stew—she had a feeling she’d touched a nerve earlier.

  After consulting the Expo app on her phone to find the mattress booth location, she headed in the general direction. On the way, she spotted Hannah getting a cup of coffee. She was hard to miss, standing over six feet tall in heels and topknot. Carlotta took a moment to marvel over her statuesque beauty…and her dual personality. Carlotta held back to make
sure Hannah was alone since her friend had made it clear she didn’t want Carlotta talking to her family members—apparently she didn’t intend for her two worlds to overlap. Carlotta pushed down the resentment and waved to get Hannah’s attention.

  “Oh, thank God,” Hannah said. “Someone sane. I feel like I’m in Groundhog Day and this show will never end.”

  “We’re in the home stretch,” Carlotta said with a laugh.

  “Want a coffee?”

  “I’m good, thanks.”

  Hannah sipped from her cup. “Where are you headed?”

  “I have a wedding gown designer in crisis. Want to come with?”

  “Will you need some muscle?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I don’t have anything better to do.”

  Carlotta led the way. “When do you move into your new apartment?”

  “Not soon enough.”

  “Trouble at home?” Carlotta asked sweetly.

  “Chance is being a big baby, don’t get me started. So, what did you do with the info we got from Greg Pena’s neighbor?”

  “Nothing yet. Everyone thinks I’m being an alarmist. And maybe I am.”

  “How are things with Wes?”

  “Evolving. We’re both…stressed.”

  “No word from your father?”

  “No. And honestly, I don’t know what to do.”

  “Isn’t the next move up to him?”

  “I guess so. I just feel so…powerless.” She blinked back sudden moisture. “I’m just tired of waiting for my father to acknowledge me.”

  Hannah looked pained.

  Carlotta inhaled to gather herself, then tried to smile. “Sorry—didn’t mean to get all emotional on you.”

  “It’s fine,” Hannah murmured, although she looked unnerved, as if she were out of her depth. “So this is where the crowd is.”

  Carlotta looked ahead to see the sign for a well-known local mattress company. Peachy Mattresses had one of the largest booths in the exhibit, hoping to sell lots of marital beds. “No wonder Jarold is a little freaked out.”

  “Hm?”

  “The designer—he has a problem with crowds.”

  She didn’t see Jarold, but assumed he was inside the booth. As she threaded her way through the throng of people, she noticed a camera crew. When she reached the front, she saw lenses and lights focused on the set of an elaborate bedroom, complete with sparking chandelier overhead. But the feature was a bare white mattress and pillow. Dressed in a black tuxedo, Jarold Jett was evidently filming a commercial.