Body Movers (13 page)

for a parent had affected him more than she’d ever

dreamed. Not only was he a delinquent, but he

was…morbid.

Coop wiped his mouth and groaned in satisfaction. “That

was great.”

“Thanks,” Wesley said, then gave Carlotta’s half-eaten

breakfast a pointed look.

“Yes, it’s great,” she concurred weakly. “But I’m just not as

hungry as I thought.” The world was missing out on the

eat-with-a-mortician diet.

“Ready to go?” Coop asked Wesley, then glanced at his

watch. “All the folks at the nursing home wil be lined up,

expecting us. It’s kind of a morning ritual. They have a

send-off for their friends who have passed.”

Carlotta winced.

“Yeah, let me grab my backpack.”

“You got a shirt with a col ar on it?” Coop asked.

Wesley frowned and looked at Carlotta, who smothered a

smile behind her glass.

“Yeah,” Wesley said, his spirits considerably dampened.

“How about a jacket?”

Wesley’s face fell further. “Yeah.”

“Good. The families expect us to look decent when we

arrive to load up their loved ones.”

Wesley nodded. “Give me a minute.” He headed toward

his bedroom, leaving her alone with creepy Coop.

“Al these years I’ve been trying to get him to dress

better,” she said dryly, “and you accomplish it in five

minutes.”

“Seems like a nice kid,” he said.

“He is…but he’s been in a little trouble.”

He nodded. “Wesley told me about the probation. I told

him that everybody makes mistakes—it’s how a person

handles their mistakes that sets them apart.”

Something in the tone of his voice made her wonder if he

was talking about Wesley…or himself.

He stood and carried his empty plate to the sink.

“Leave it, I’ll get it. That’s our deal—Wesley cooks, and I

clean up.”

“It’s okay,” he said, rinsing the plate, along with his coffee

cup. “I live alone. I’m used to cleaning up after myself.”

Hmm—a bachelor. She wasn’t completely surprised. An

undertaker wasn’t on the top of most girls’ list of desirable

dates. Unbidden, she wondered if the saying about

undertakers having cold hands was true.

“Thanks for the hospitality,” he said. “I hope you…feel

better.”

An embarrassed flush climbed her neck. The man must

think she was a simpering fool for some loser guy. Not that

she cared what he thought of her—he worked with dead

people, for Christ’s sake. “Thank you,” she mumbled.

“I’m ready,” Wesley said from the doorway.

Carlotta stared. “A tie, too?”

“Bye, sis. We’re going in Coop’s ride.”

She frowned. “What kind of ‘ride’ would that be?”

“A hearse,” Wesley said. “How cool is that?”

Her eyes went wide as she rushed to the window. Sure

enough, a black hearse sat at the curb. “Mrs. Winningham

will stroke out over this.”

“I usually drive a van,” Coop said, fol owing her. “But the

folks at the nursing home appreciate the classy extra

touch.”

Carlotta pushed her tongue into her cheek. “Classy—that’s

just what I was thinking.”

Wesley pushed open the front door and galloped out to

the curb to check out his “ride.”

Coop laughed, then looked at her. “Nice meeting you.” He

stuck out his hand.

She swal owed before taking it, expecting his fingers to be

frigid. Instead, they were warm and firm and…nice,

actually. “Same here,” she said, perplexed by the man’s

contradictions.

He nodded toward the dilapidated silver-colored tree in

the corner. “I like your tree—very retro. You must really

get into Christmas.”

Carlotta gave him a flat smile. “Oh, yeah, it’s Christmas

every day of the year around here.”

He grinned and walked to the door. “Guess I’l be seeing

you.”

She crossed her arms. “I have to be honest with you,

Coop—I’m not sold on this idea of Wesley being a…a body

mover.”

Coop gave a little laugh. “Don’t worry, you’l get used to

it.”

The door closed behind him and she frowned. Where had

she heard that before?

She showered and dressed for work quickly, pushing away

thoughts of Peter Ashford as soon as they entered her

head. It was how she’d gotten over him before—by

conditioning herself not to think about him and eventually

the banished thoughts had diminished.

Although they had never quite disappeared.

When she walked out on the stoop, Mrs. Winningham was

halfheartedly watering her yard, a ruse she promptly

abandoned when she spotted Carlotta. “Why was there a

hearse in front of your house this morning?”

Carlotta angled her head. “A hearse? I didn’t see a hearse,

Mrs. Winningham. Are you sure you didn’t imagine it?”

The woman scowled. “If I did, I also imagined your brother

getting in it.”

Carlotta lifted her arms in a shrug. “Have a nice day, Mrs.

Winningham.”

She trotted to the garage, squeezing the remote control.

The opener made a horrible grinding noise as it lifted the

door—a sure sign it was ready to go out. She sighed,

opened the car door and tossed her purse in the passenger

seat. Just before she swung inside, she noticed a tennis-

ball can on a shelf with old cans of spray paint and

miscel aneous junk—Wesley’s admitted hiding place for

the cash he was hoarding. She frowned. If he was stil

holding out on her…

She walked over and stretched high to reach the tennis-

ball canister. She assuaged her guilt for snooping with the

knowledge that her credit card company had already hit

her account with a twenty-two percent finance charge for

the cash advance she’d gotten to pay off that odious Tick

fel ow.

She popped off the lid, peered inside and frowned. Empty.

Then she squinted…no, there was something rol ed up and

nearly hidden because it was pressed against the lining of

the canister. She wiggled her hand down inside, grabbed

an edge with her fingernails and pul ed it out slowly.

Immediately, her stomach began to churn.

It was a postcard from her parents dated six weeks ago.

The photo was an Ansel Adams landscape, a nondescript

mountain scene mirrored by a lake. The note on the back

was short and cryptic, as always. “Thinking of you both.” It

was her mother’s handwriting. The postmark was Miami,

Florida. She inhaled sharply. They had been only one state

away when they’d mailed it?

She shook her head, wondering why Wesley would have

kept the postcard from her and felt the need to hide it.

Then she smirked. Hadn’t she said the last time they’d

gotten one—two years ago—that she hoped they didn’t

receive any more postcards, and that if they did, she

would turn them over to the police? Wesley must have

taken her at her word.

Detective Terry’s question as to her parents’ whereabouts

echoed in her head. Should she call him now while the

lead might stil be warm? Or would that result in

unnecessary surveil ance of their home, their mail, their

phones? She worked her mouth back and forth, debating.

One thing was certain—she couldn’t leave the postcard in

case Wesley decided to hide it somewhere else. If he

missed it and confronted her, she’d tel him the truth,

which was more than she’d gotten from him. She returned

the canister to the shelf, climbed inside her car, and, after

studying the postcard again, stuck it inside her purse.

She’d hang on to the “evidence” until she decided what to

do.

11

“This is too cool,” Wesley said, nodding his head as he

surveyed the inside of the moving hearse.

Coop looked amused. “Buckle up. It’d be embarrassing to

die in a hearse.”

Wesley clicked the seat belt home. “Where do you buy a

hearse?”

“At a dealership, same as a regular car, or used from other

funeral home operators. I only use it for funerals and

pickups at the nursing home. Otherwise, I use the van.”

Wesley studied the serious profile of the man next to him

and had a feeling that there was more to him than met the

eye. “How did you get into the business?”

Coop’s mouth tightened and he looked away briefly. “The

funeral home belongs to my uncle. I didn’t grow up

dreaming of working there, if that’s what you’re asking. It

just worked out that way.”

“And you like it?”

The man shrugged. “It’s okay.” He looked at Wesley. “It’s

better than jail.” Coop’s cel phone rang and he clicked on

the hands-free button. “Coop here.”

Wesley listened while the man talked to someone named

Jim and arranged to pick up a body at the hospital,

pondering Coop’s comment about jail. He’d been referring

to Wesley’s predicament…hadn’t he?

“I’ve got a trainee on board,” Coop said into the mike and

shot Wesley a smile. “This is his first cal .”

“Does he have a strong stomach?” asked the man on the

phone.

Coop laughed. “Cut it out, man, you’l make him nervous,

and you know how hard it is to find good help these days.”

Wesley smiled, but his insides were churning—maybe eggs

Benedict wasn’t a good idea before his first-ever body run.

He’d assumed the nursing-home cal would be picking up

some old geezer who’d died in his sleep with a smile on his

face, but what if it were some kind of freak accident? Or

what if they had died of some kind of flesh-eating disease?

He wrinkled his nose. Or what if it were some old lady—

naked? He wasn’t sure if he was ready to see that.

Coop disconnected the call, and Wesley shifted in his seat,

suddenly not feeling so wel . “Is this going to be gross?”

“You ever seen a dead body before?”

“No.”

“Lucky you.” Coop made a rueful noise. “Death is never

pretty, but some retrievals are more messy than others.

Our job is to be calm and professional, no matter what.

The relatives might be close by and it’s not good if they

see us react badly, no matter what the situation is.”

Wesley swallowed hard. “What’s the grossest case you

ever had?”

“Garbage-truck compacter,” Coop said without hesitation.

Then he looked over. “That, my friend, is a bad way to go.”

Wesley winced. “What happened to the guy who used to

help you?”

“Couldn’t hack it. I told you when you answered the ad,

Wesley, this job isn’t for everyone, but it’s necessary and

honorable work.”

Wesley nodded solemnly, hoping he didn’t let the man

down.

“So,” Coop said, turning the radio knobs, “your sister.”

Wesley looked at him suspiciously. “Yeah, what about

her?”

“She’s cute.”

“You like her or something?”

Coop shrugged. “Just making conversation.”

“You should ask her out.”

Coop was quiet for so long Wesley thought he might have

misread him. “Think she’d go?” he finally asked.

Wesley laughed. “No. She doesn’t date much and I don’t

think you’re her type.”

“Let me guess—she’s into guys who wear moisturizer.”

Wesley thought a minute. “I guess so. The guy she was

crying over all night is some preppie dude she dated, like,

ten years ago. He dumped her.”

Coop frowned. “And she’s stil crying over him?”

“No—I mean, she hasn’t seen him in years, but she ran

into him last night and I guess it upset her.” He chewed on

his lip, trying to decide how much of his life to divulge to

his new boss. He didn’t want to come across as some kind

of drama case. “My sister’s life hasn’t been easy.”

“How so?”

“She raised me since I was nine, and I’ve been kind of a

shithead.”

Coop smiled. “What happened to your parents?”

Wesley looked out the window. “Long story, man.”

“Some other time then,” Coop said easily. “We’re here.”

Wesley’s pulse kicked up as the nursing home came into

view. It looked more like a shabby brick apartment

building than a medical facility. Coop backed the hearse

into a parking place near the door reserved for

ambulances, climbed out and straightened his jacket as he

walked toward the entrance. “Stay close and do what I tel

you.”

Wesley nodded. “Aren’t we going to take in the gurney?”

“I like to go in first and assess the situation, greet the

family if there’s anyone around, maybe give them time to

say goodbye while I make a trip back to get the gurney.”

Wesley digested the info, nodding. His stomach was

pitching now.

When they walked into the facility, the first thing that

Wesley noticed was the smell—old building, old paint, old

people. Mothballs, mold and Metamucil. They stopped at

the front desk where a woman in a nurse’s uniform stood

at attention and smiled wide.

“Good mornin’, Dr. Craft.” She arched her back so that her

boobs stuck out.

“Good morning, Sarah. Meet Wesley, my new sidekick.”

Wesley exchanged greetings with the woman, but she

quickly turned back to Coop, her eyes alight with interest

that seemed to extend beyond gladness that they were

there to take a body off her hands. “That jacket looks nice

on you, Dr. Craft,” she gushed.