7 Brides for 7 Bodies

by Bond, Stephanie

  Carlotta threw up a prayer and veered left to take the final case into the kitchen. She slowed her step and scanned for Randolph’s salt and pepper hair, his fit frame.

  Nothing.

  Someone took the last case from her, and as she walked out, dock guy shouted. “The rest go in the icebox.”

  She and Hannah met at the top of the ramp and she shook her head. They walked down together, both of them breathing from exertion. Carlotta fought back tears of frustration, and she knew Hannah was as disappointed as she was.

  “Let’s get this done,” Hannah muttered.

  The last trips took them longer because they had to climb into the truck to retrieve the cases in the back. With five cases left to carry up the ramp, the muscles in her arms were screaming.

  “I’ll get the rest,” Hannah said.

  “No,” she said, not about to let her friend carry her load.

  But on the next trip, her shoulder gave way and she dropped the case she was carrying on the floor in front of one of the enormous refrigerators. Instantly, yoke and white began to leak from the case.

  The dock guy winced, then stepped to the door and shouted, “Cleanup!”

  Hannah walked by and made a cut-off motion with her hand, indicating she’d get the rest. Carlotta didn’t argue—she was bungling things.

  A man emerged with an industrial size roll of paper towels. Carlotta stared at the oozing mess in dismay and thought it pretty much represented the state of her life—fragile, fractured, and out of control.

  She reached for a handful of the towels, and looked straight into Randolph’s blue eyes.

  She inhaled sharply, but he didn’t notice or recognize her, was intent on cleaning up the mess she’d made. Her pulse went haywire and her limbs froze until she remembered she only had a few seconds to pull this off. She got down on her hands and knees and put her head close to his as she wiped at the goo.

  “Dad, it’s me,” she whispered.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him stiffen.

  “Don’t look at me.” She continued to wipe.

  “Carlotta, what are you doing?”

  “I had to talk to you. Are you okay?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where’s Valerie?”

  The guy from the dock rolled a trash can over. “Here you go. Hurry it up, Wren.”

  Her father stood and hefted the case of broken eggs into the trash can. She stood and dropped her towels inside. It took every ounce of restraint she had not to look at him.

  “Where’s Mom?” she said through gritted teeth, knowing they were running out of time.

  “Here comes the mop bucket,” the guy said, gesturing for them to get out of the way.

  “Go home, Carlotta. Everything you’re looking for is there. Don’t worry about me. I have evidence stashed to exonerate me, but I can’t come forward yet. I love you.” He turned and walked back to the door, wiping his hands on his grey jumpsuit.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  “FEELING BETTER?”

  Wes looked up from the computer screen he’d been staring at for forty-five minutes. “Hm?”

  His boss at ASS, Richard McCormick, was a dumpy nerd, but a genuinely nice guy. “Your bout with the flu? You’re feeling better, I hope.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Wes sat up in his chair. “Thanks.”

  “The flu lasts for more than a day,” Meg supplied from the other side of the workstation without looking at him.

  “I guess it was more of a stomach bug,” Wes said.

  Ravi reached for a squirt of his hand sanitizer and eyed Wes warily.

  “I’ve even heard of the flu lasting for as long as…nine months,” Meg added.

  Wes pursed his mouth.

  “I once had mono for six weeks,” Jeff said. “It’s called the kissing disease.” He smiled and nodded, as if he’d gotten it from the Homecoming Queen, when he’d probably gotten it from his sister.

  “Well, let’s try to keep kissing to a minimum around here,” McCormick said cheerfully.

  Meg looked at Wes for the first time all morning. “No worries.”

  McCormick went on his way. Wes studied Meg, her head bent over some task. She must have callblocked him, because when he called her phone, it didn’t even ring, gave him a message about the call not going through at this time. Ditto on texting—all of his bounced back as undeliverable.

  “Hey, Jeff,” he said. “What do you think about time travel?”

  Jeff nodded. “Yeah, totally possible. I think we’ll see it in our lifetime.”

  “If you could get in a time machine, where would you go?” He could tell Meg was listening even though she pretended not to.

  Jeff twirled a Sharpie pen over his fingers. “Maybe fifty years into the future and talk to myself as an old man, get some advice.”

  “He’d tell you to dress better,” Ravi said, eliciting laughs.

  “How about you, Ravi—where would you go?” Wes asked.

  “Scientists predict in twenty years, we’ll be able to walk into a pharmacy and order a custom-blended antibiotic for any kind of germ or infection. I’d like to go there.”

  “I think the medication you need is already available,” Jeff offered. “And it’s not an antibiotic.”

  They all laughed, including Ravi.

  “How about you?” Meg asked, looked at Wes. “Where would you go?’

  “That’s easy,” he said. “I’d travel back in time one week, and do everything different.”

  “Ha!” Ravi said, then stopped. “Wait, that’s not funny.”

  “Ravi,” Jeff said, pushing back his chair. “Why don’t we go get something to drink?”

  “I’m good,” Ravi said, clueless to Jeff’s maneuvering.

  “Then go with me to help me pick out something I want.” He frowned, then jerked his head toward the hallway. Ravi got the hint and they left Meg and Wes alone.

  “Walked right into that one, didn’t I?” Meg said.

  “Kind of. I think something’s wrong with your phone.”

  She shook her head. “Nope.”

  “How am I supposed to reach you if I have something important to tell you?”

  She shrugged. “I guess you’re out of luck.”

  “The baby isn’t mine.”

  There was a small tic of surprise in her eyes, then it disappeared. “Okay.”

  “I thought you’d be happy.”

  “Why? It doesn’t affect me one way or the other.”

  “You said some nice things last week. I thought you meant them.”

  “This thing is, I didn’t.” She splayed her hands. “Sorry. You’re not the only one who wishes they could go back in a time machine and do everything different.”

  Man, that hurt.

  She checked her watch. “Ooh, gotta go. I have a lunch date.”

  Probably with that preppie architect who wore plaid. Wes packed up his stuff to get out of there, too. When he reached into his backpack, his hand touched the jewelry case he was still carrying around with him. He opened it to look at the bracelet he’d thought would be so perfect on Meg. Earlier this week he might’ve gotten to third base with it, or even home plate. But now…

  He glanced over to her desk. Next to her lamp sat a teddy bear wearing a Georgia Tech sweatshirt. She loved that teddy bear, had named it, and would sometimes idly stroke its fur when she was deep in thought on a project.

  Wes removed the bracelet from the box and looped it over the bear’s neck. Nice. From a distance, no one would notice it. It might even be a while before Meg noticed it. But it made him feel better knowing it was at least near her.

  He slung his backpack over his shoulder and left after waving goodbye to McCormick.

  It was a nice day, and for the first time in a long time, he didn’t have anything he had to do. He rode back to the pawn shop and told the lady the marriage proposal hadn’t worked out. She seemed almost happy for him, but told him they didn’t offer refunds, only store credits. So he p
ut a hold on an item and said he’d be back to pick it up soon.

  Then he went back to the townhouse and fed Einstein. He remembered that Carlotta was returning to work today and had plans this evening. With hours of free time on his hands, he decided it would be a good opportunity to tackle some of the drywall repairs from installing the alarm system—that would make Carlotta happy.

  With a bucket of spackle and a putty knife, he filled as many superficial holes and blemishes as he could. After the spots dried, he would go back and sand them smooth. There were a couple of holes large enough to require a drywall patch, which he’d learned how to do from watching a YouTube video.

  Near the bottom of the doorframe, he noticed the drywall was warped and remembered one of Mouse’s guys telling him he’d have to cut it out and replace it. The guy had even left him a quarter sheet of drywall in the garage for the repair. He figured while he was at it, he might as well do that, too. In the garage he found a hand saw for the job.

  He used a drill to create an opening big enough to get the saw in (more YouTube), then started hacking at it. A few minutes in he realized the wall had been repaired before because a crack appeared along a perfect square around the damaged area. He stopped sawing and used his fingers to try to pull it out. The piece of drywall was stubborn, but he put some muscle into it and it popped out so quickly, he fell back on his butt.

  When he sat up, he squinted at the opaque black bag sitting between the drywall studs. He pulled out the bag and looked inside.

  “Holy shit.”

  He reached inside and pulled out a stack of bills. All hundreds, brand new, and the currency strap around them read $5000. By his quick estimation, there had to be at least a hundred stacks…a half a million dollars?

  “Holy shit!”

  Had his father put it there? It made sense, but if so, why wouldn’t Randolph tell them? They certainly could’ve used the cash over the years—he’d seen Carlotta cry over unpaid bills too many times to count.

  Wes pushed his hand into his hair. Who should he tell? Carlotta, probably, although she’d go straight to Jack. Liz would turn it over to the cops, too. He couldn’t tell Chance because he’d blab to cronies who would commit murder for a lot less.

  He was stuck…everyone he knew was either too good or too bad to tell.

  For now…it would be his secret. But one thing was certain—he needed to find a big poker tournament.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  “HOW WAS YOUR FIRST DAY BACK?” Lindy Russell asked Carlotta.

  “Quiet,” Carlotta said. “Which after the week at the Wedding World Expo, I was ready for.”

  Lindy smiled. “Everyone is singing your praises—Edward King, Jarold Jett…and especially Patricia.”

  “I’m glad it all worked out the way it did. As for me, I was just in the right place at the right time.”

  “That’s been happening a lot lately.” Lindy angled her head. “You seem to be into all kinds of things.”

  Thinking that Lindy was questioning her loyalty to Neiman’s, Carlotta tried to recover. “But retail is my number one priority.”

  “I understand Jarold Jett might be trying to woo you away.”

  Carlotta arched an eyebrow. The last thing she wanted was for her boss to think she was shopping for another job. Lindy had given her several passes for misdeeds. “I—”

  “I just want to inform you…”

  She closed her eyes. That you’re suspended…that you’re fired?

  “That we value you here very much, Carlotta. And I’m going to be looking for a place in our organization where you can contribute at a higher level.”

  She opened her eyes. “A promotion?”

  Lindy nodded. “Meanwhile, I know you worked a lot of hours at the Expo, and you represented Neiman’s beautifully. Why don’t you take a few paid days off, and we’ll talk when you get back.”

  “I…thank you.”

  “I’ll call human resources and have the paid time added to your check.”

  When Lindy walked away, Carlotta laughed into her hand. This had to be one of the best days of her life—she was getting a promotion…her personal life seemed to be taking shape…and this morning she’d seen and spoken to her father.

  It was still surreal. She’d managed to keep quiet about the encounter until Hannah had driven outside the prison grounds. Her friend had been morose, believing the escapade had been for nothing, so when Carlotta told her about the spill and her conversation with Randolph, Hannah almost ran the truck off the road.

  All day Carlotta had been repeating the brief conversation in her head. Randolph hadn’t answered the most basic question about their mother’s whereabouts, and he’d seemed almost unconcerned about his own plight, as if he were biding his time until the timing was right. His advice to her was more philosophical than practical.

  Go home, Carlotta. Everything you’re looking for is there.

  Like Dorothy in The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, whose ultimate acceptance of the mantra “There’s no place like home” had transported her back to a safe place.

  She was angry with him for not simply being straight with her—how long would it have taken to simply tell her if Valerie was dead or alive? And where?

  It was as if he were talking in code…as if he were afraid she was wired or something. He knew the D.A. had once set up a fake funeral for her and had to know she’d been in on it. Did he still think she was working with Kelvin Lucas to bring him down?

  Go home, Carlotta. Everything you’re looking for is there.

  Carlotta headed to the employee break room to retrieve her purse, keeping an eye on the time. Peter was supposed to pick her up at six thirty to whisk her away to an out of the way place to have dinner and catch up.

  She sighed. Peter had been wonderful lately, and so patient with her while she sorted through her feelings. And although he’d been on board with her decision to hit the pause button on their relationship until the situation with Randolph was resolved, she knew he wouldn’t be held at bay much longer. Which was why she’d decided to tell him tonight they could only be friends.

  It would be a difficult conversation, but she knew it was the right thing to do to clear her head and heart, to see where her feelings for Jack would take her.

  Go home, Carlotta. Everything you’re looking for is there.

  The very idea that Randolph would use the word home was so hypocritical. The townhouse had never felt like a home, even when he and Valerie had lived there. It was simply the place where they’d landed when they’d stopped rolling downhill. To her, home would always be the house in Buckhead where she and Wes had grown up. Which probably explained why when she’d been transported to the other place in her travel-dream, she had climbed out of her car and found herself standing in front of it…

  Go home, Carlotta. Everything you’re looking for is there.

  And then the answer slammed into her head with amazing clarity.

  Go home…the place she considered home.

  Was it possible Randolph was monitoring the listening device from their old home?

  She fumbled for her phone to call up an app Wes had shown her to map the distance between two points. She entered the address of their townhome, and the address of their previous home in Buckhead. The driving route was more than two miles. Randolph had been an excellent runner—he’d boasted about his seven-minute mile. But even he couldn’t run two miles in the short span of time between Abrams attacking her and the time Randolph had arrived, which she estimated to be about five minutes.

  She did the reverse math and, assuming his running speed had slowed with age, she calculated that in five minutes, Randolph would be able to travel about six-tenths of a mile.

  Going back to the map app, Carlotta changed the route between the houses from a driving route, which was circuitous, to the pedestrian route, which was practically as the crow flies, cutting across a lawn or two. The result was seven-tenths of a mile.

  Definitely runnable
in five minutes.

  Her hands were shaking as she pulled up Sammy Sanders’s number and connected the call.

  “Hello, Carlotta.”

  “Hi, Sammy. I need another favor.”

  “At five o’clock on Friday? There had better be another coupon involved.”

  “Absolutely. Can you look up an address and tell me the recent purchase history of the house?”

  “Sure. I’m at my computer…do you have the address?”

  Carlotta recited it slowly, even though her pulse was running wild.

  “Oh, that’s one of mine,” Sammy said. “Did I mention I’ve been the number one agent in Buckhead for the last three years?”

  “Um, yes, I think you did mention it.”

  “Here we go…oh yes, I remember this one. Nice place in an established neighborhood, but it sat empty for a long time. I sold it about six months ago.”

  She gripped the phone tighter. “What can you tell me about the buyers?”

  “Well, I only met the husband. His wife is supposed to be joining him shortly.”

  “Do you remember their names?”

  “Bill and Melanie, I think?”

  “What about a last name?”

  “I can’t recall, but let me find the contract.” There were sounds of file cabinets being opened and closed, paper shuffling. “Yes, here it is—last name…Randolph.”

  Chapter Thirty-five

  RUNNING LATE, meet you at the restaurant.

  Carlotta hit the send button. A few seconds later, Peter texted back. Ok…can’t wait to see you. xox

  She sat in the rental car in the driveway of the Buckhead house. Home. The curved flagstone walkway was the same, and the front door, with stained glass accents. But the landscaping was overgrown, a few shingles were missing, and the corners appeared to be sagging a bit.

  For the fifteen minutes she’d been parked there, she’d seen no signs of activity. The house appeared to be empty.

  So why was she still sitting here?

  Because she was afraid of what she might find inside?

  The idea that Randolph had been monitoring them from here still seemed too fantastic to believe. But there was only one way to find out.