Body Movers 4 - 4 Bodies and a Funeral (27 page)

do with her hands. “I didn’t, not about the murders. She

gave me her card at the store. She was asking questions

about Eva McCoy, but I didn’t tel her anything…not

really.”

Jack frowned and snatched the card from the mirror. “I’l

take this off your hands.” He pointed his finger at her.

“Behave, Carlotta. I mean it.”

19

Carlotta was stil steamed at Jack as she drove to her

doctor’s office. Admittedly, she had involved—borrowing

Maria’s wording—herself in a police case or three. But

adding up all the pluses of her contributions and the

minuses of the problems she’d inadvertently caused, she’d

like to think that overall, she was stil in the positive range.

In the waiting room, she simmered to a slow boil and sat

glued to the news to see if the networks had jumped onto

the serial kil er story bandwagon. They had, with both feet.

The two known murders at the hands of The Charmed

Kil er were relayed by the newscaster with a sinister

silhouette of a man’s head in the background overlaid with

a generic charm bracelet. She wondered how long the

graphics department had worked to come up with just the

right mix of ominous titil ation.

“Atlanta authorities are calling him The Charmed Kil er

because he leaves a charm in the mouths of his victims,”

the female anchor delivered in an apprehensive tone. “The

murders may be related to the charm culture that has

erupted around Olympian Eva McCoy, who famously

credited a charm bracelet for her comeback win in the

women’s marathon competition last summer.

Coincidental y, McCoy’s charm bracelet was stolen earlier

this week during a disturbance at a public appearance in

Atlanta.”

At least they didn’t show the store, Carlotta thought in

abject relief.

“Officials wil not confirm if the charms found in the

mouths of the victims are from the missing bracelet.

Meanwhile, in the aftermath of the incidents, Eva McCoy

has reportedly decided not to compete in the upcoming

World Championships Marathon competition in Helsinki,

Finland, a much-anticipated event that would have

secured her title as the reigning women’s long-distance

runner and earned McCoy a mil ion-dol ar bonus from one

of her sponsors, Body League. McCoy allegedly has

received anonymous death threats to dissuade her from

competing, proof that the sport has high stakes. We wil

keep you updated as this intriguing story develops.”

Aerial photos of Eva’s house on the affluent stretch of

West Paces Ferry showed photographers and fans lined up

along the security fence, holding signs of support, hoping

to get a glimpse of their hero. Carlotta suspected that all

the attention was suffocating Eva, who was already gunshy

around the public and understandably scared over the

death threats that Jack had as good as confirmed by his

silence on the subject.

The news camera panned over the crowd and at the sight

of a familiar figure, Carlotta lurched forward on her chair.

Mitchel Moody?

He glanced over his shoulder, then turned his face away

from the camera and walked out of the frame.

The sequence passed so quickly, she wondered if she’d

imagined it. Why would June’s son be holding vigil outside

Eva McCoy’s house?

The sound of her name being called interrupted her

thoughts. She shouldered her purse and fol owed the

doctor’s assistant into an exam room. From there she was

shuffled into X-ray, quizzed about her chance of being

pregnant, then had her arm thoroughly radiated.

Afterward she sat and waited for Dr. Eames, her

orthopaedist who, fifty minutes later, walked in with

assistant in tow, holding what was presumably her X-ray

film up to the light.

“Now that’s a beautiful bone if ever I’ve seen one,” he

quipped, turning to her with a smile. “How are you, Ms.

Wren?”

“I’m fine, thank you.”

“Good. Any pain?” he asked, palpating her arm where the

break had occurred.

“Only when I overdo it.”

“Are you taking the pain meds I prescribed?”

“No, ibuprofen does the job.” The unidentified pil she’d

found in Wesley’s bathroom was in her purse. She’d

brought it to show the doctor, even though her mind stil

whirled for a plausible explanation of where she’d found it

and why she’d care what it was. If only his assistant would

leave…

“It looks as if this wil be the last time we’l see each

other,” the doctor said.

She smiled in relief. “No offense, but that’s very good

news.”

“None taken.”

“So I can ditch the cast?”

“We’l dispose of it for you.” He picked it up from a table,

holding the soiled soft cast by a corner. Weeks of

adventures and incidents stained the neoprene surface,

including cake and icing. The doctor gave her a wan smile,

then handed off the cast to the assistant, who left the

room carrying it as if it were roadkil .

But at least they were alone. Carlotta reached for her

purse, eager to find out how much she should be worried

about Wesley’s new habit.

“Ms. Wren, I know this isn’t any of my business, but are

you Randolph Wren’s daughter?”

Surprised, she nodded. “Yes, I am.”

“It occurred to me after your last visit that you might be.”

“Did you know my father?”

“We were doubles partners at the tennis club.” He smiled.

“Your dad was a great guy.”

Carlotta blinked. No one had ever told her that before.

“I never believed what they said about him. In fact—” Dr.

Eames scratched his head “—the last time I saw Randolph,

he was worried. He said that someone in his firm was

trying to frame him. He wanted to bring me something to

hold for him in case he ever needed it.”

Carlotta’s heart thudded in her chest. “What was it?”

Dr. Eames shrugged. “Randolph was arrested before our

next game, so he never got the chance to hand off

whatever it was. Papers of some kind, I think. After he was

released on bail, I wondered if he might show up and ask

for my help. But then…he simply left town.” The doctor

lifted his hands. “Like I said, it’s really none of my

business…”

“That’s okay,” she murmured. “Did he mention the name

of the person he thought was trying to frame him?”

“No. I understand that no one has seen him since he

disappeared?”

She nodded.

“What’s it been now, about ten years?”

“That’s right.”

“Wel , if you ever speak to him, tel him that Marty Eames

says hel o.”

“I wil ,” she promised, squashing her question about the

pil in her purse. On the heels of their conversation, it now

seemed inappropriate.

She left the doctor’s office with Eames’s words about her

father dancing in her brain. The story gel ed with what her

father had told Peter about papers that could exonerate

him.

On the other hand, maybe Randolph had simply stuck with

the same lie from the beginning.

On the way to the mall, Carlotta had an inspiration

concerning the pil and pul ed over at her new favorite

place, the public library. Lorraine was working and quickly

got her settled at a computer for more “research.” When

the woman turned her back, Carlotta pul ed out the pil

and typed the letters and numbers imprinted on the

surface into the search box. Within five seconds, she had

her answer.

Generic OxyContin. She knew a little about the drug. She’d

heard that it was cal ed “Hil bil y Heroin” because of its

popularity in rural areas, and that it had become a

fashionable prescription drug for recreational use. But the

more she read, the more the information terrified her—

how readily available it was, and how addictive, especially

if rid of its time-release coating, effectively turning it into

oxycodone. OxyContin was an effective pain reliever—

oxycodone produced uncontained euphoria, ergo the

rampant addiction.

It wasn’t a stretch to figure out Wesley’s source. She knew

that Chance Hol ander was into al kinds of vile businesses.

But was Wesley using, or dealing? Or both?

As she scrol ed through a list of symptoms of OxyContin

abuse, she began ticking off behaviors she’d first noticed

in Wes when they’d gone on the road trip with Coop:

irritability, mood swings. And more recently, sweats and

tremors.

Panic bled through her chest, leaving her cold and laboring

to breathe. The two prescriptions of Percocet that he’d

stolen from her—had they been to prop up a habit he was

trying to conceal?

She left the library with a heavy heart. If she had felt

incompetent before about mothering Wesley, she now felt

completely out of her league. She picked up her cel phone

to call him, then put it away. She needed to think through

things, then talk to him face-to-face. If she reacted in

anger, it would be too easy for him to shut her out.

She drove to the mall teary and tense, but pulled herself

together enough to clock in for her afternoon shift. Friday

afternoon was always busy, and she was glad to have

something to keep her mind off her problems. And when

she did remember, she reminded herself that those

problems were stil relatively small compared to the two

women across town who were dead at the hands of a

madman.

In the scheme of things, it wasn’t such a bad day.

Whatever was wrong, she and Wesley would get through

it somehow. What didn’t kil her would only make her

stronger…provided it didn’t kil her.

She’d seen on Oprah that it was possible to worry oneself

to death.

Near the end of her shift, she spotted a woman wearing a

scarf and big sunglasses loitering in her department. The

disguise wasn’t so unusual—lots of women in Buckhead

stopped for a healing bout of shopping therapy after a visit

to their dermatologist or plastic surgeon. But there was

something familiar about this woman.

When she looked up and saw Carlotta watching her, the

woman started to leave, then apparently changed her

mind and walked up to the counter. “Carlotta, right?”

Carlotta’s mind raced to place the voice. “That’s right.”

“It’s Eva. Eva McCoy.”

She tried to hide her surprise. “Hel o. Can I help you with

something?”

“I think I’m being fol owed,” Eva said, her voice low.

Sensing the woman was nearing some kind of breaking

point, Carlotta tempered her response. “What makes you

think so?”

“I can feel it.”

“Okay.” Carlotta glanced around surreptitiously. “Are you

alone?”

“Yes.”

“What about your bodyguard?”

“I can’t trust anyone,” Eva whispered.

“Why? What do you mean?”

“They’re trying to get rid of me.”

“Do you mean the death threats?”

Eva nodded.

“Has something else happened since your charm bracelet

was stolen?”

“No…not really. But it’s made me see things in a different

light. Things I dismissed before.”

“Like what?”

The woman hesitated. “Like the food poisoning incident at

the Olympics. I’d suffered from food poisoning before, but

that time seemed different, somehow. More…toxic.”

“Are you saying that someone might have spiked your

food?”

“Maybe,” Eva said, her voice breaking.

Carlotta had encountered more than her fair share of

certifiably crazy people in her life, and recognized the signs

of paranoia. “Ms. McCoy, would you like for me to call

someone?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“What about Mr. Newsome?”

“No. Ben’s in Chicago, standing in for an appearance I had

to cancel. I don’t want to worry him.”

“If you’re scared, let me cal the police.”

“No! That’s worse. They’re watching my house, you

know.”

“I understood that was to make sure that none of your

fans bothered you,” she said gently. The image of Mitchel

Moody outside the woman’s gate flashed into her head.

“Did you drive yourself here?”

Eva shook her head. “I sneaked out of the house and called

a taxi to pick me up a few blocks away. I didn’t plan to

come here, but I didn’t know where else to go. I felt like a

sitting duck in that house.”

“It’s okay,” Carlotta soothed. “What about your uncle?

Surely he can help you?”

Eva chewed on her nails, as if she was considering the

idea.

“Why don’t you call him?” Carlotta encouraged. “You

shouldn’t be alone. I’m getting ready to leave, so maybe I

can take you to his office?”

The woman nodded nervously and pul ed out her phone.

“I’l do that.” She punched in a number, then asked for

Senator Porter McCoy. From what Carlotta could hear of

the one-sided conversation, he managed to persuade Eva

to come to his office.

Eva closed her cel . “I would very much appreciate that

ride you offered. Uncle Porter’s office is in the Washington

Street state building downtown.” Her hand was shaking.

“Is there a water fountain close by?”