Body Movers (20 page)

stil felt unprepared to deal with reality. Her mind

churned, consumed with the quandary she’d put herself in

by kissing Peter Ashford the night of the cocktail party.

After ten years, she had run into him and fallen into his

arms, and only a couple of days later, his wife was dead.

Life was nothing if not uncanny.

But as she dwel ed on the horrific coincidence, the terrible

thought that she had managed to keep at bay stubbornly

worked its way through the nooks and crannies of her

brain and presented itself: What if Peter had kil ed Angela?

As soon as the notion materialized, she dismissed it as

absurd. Why would Peter kil Angela?

Because of you.

Angela’s accusations rang in her head like a gong. My

husband is stil in love with you. You’re fooling around

with him behind my back, aren’t you?

Carlotta shook her head, refusing to believe any of her

own foolish conjectures. How conceited would she be if

she thought that Peter would murder his wife just so he

could be free? The idea was positively ludicrous.

The blaring ring of the phone on her nightstand startled

her so badly, she cried out. The clock radio displayed the

time as just after midnight. She set down the ring box and

answered, thinking it was Wesley because she hadn’t

heard him return yet. “Hel o?”

“Carly, hi. It’s me…Peter. Did I wake you?”

Her chest constricted painful y at the rasp of his voice. He

sounded as if he’d been drinking again. “No, I was awake.

How…how are you?”

“Not good,” he admitted. “I just finished calling everyone

in the family. Angela’s parents are on a cruise, so it took

me a while to track them down.”

“I’m so sorry, Peter.”

“I know,” he said. “I just called to thank you for…staying

this evening. You didn’t have to.”

“It’s okay,” she murmured, struck by an overwhelming

sense of déjà vu. How many times had she lain curled up in

bed talking to Peter on the phone? Hundreds? Thousands?

“I only wish that I could help you.”

“You did, simply by being there. I’m just sorry that you had

to hear all the hateful things that Neanderthal detective

said.”

She twisted a hank of hair that had fallen next to her ear, a

nervous habit she’d given up years ago after her hair-

dresser had chastised her. “I’m sure he was only doing his

job.”

“Stil , he tried to make it sound as if…as if I had something

to do with her death.”

Carlotta’s heart pounded and moisture gathered around

her hairline, but she remained silent.

Peter gave a little laugh. “I almost got the feeling that he

thought you and I were having an affair or something.”

She tried to mimic his laugh, but the noise that emerged

sounded high-pitched and strangled, a noise similar to

what she imagined Angela had made in the throes of

death. “Wel …we’re not.”

“I know,” he said, “but I don’t have to tel you that if the

police knew that we ran into each other earlier this week

and that we…kissed…they might be suspicious. I’d hate to

see you dragged into this mess over a misunderstanding.”

“Right,” she said, her mind spinning over his words and the

memory of his searing kiss.

“Did the detective question you?”

“Yes. I told him that we dated when we were kids, but…I

didn’t mention the kiss.” Or the fact that I’m still crazy in

love with you.

His sigh of relief whistled over the line. “Good. Of course,

the M.E. ruled the death accidental, so I guess there’s no

reason to worry—about the police somehow involving

you, I mean.”

His reaction raised warning flags in the back of her mind.

On the heels of such a tragedy, was it normal for Peter to

be concerned about such trivial things? Unless…unless he

had a reason to be concerned. And hadn’t she heard with

her own ears Detective Terry tell Coop to take the body to

the morgue to be autopsied? Should she mention it to

Peter?

“Peter, Angela came into the store today.”

“And?”

“And she wanted to return the man’s jacket that I told you

she’d purchased.”

“She did?”

“Yes. But it looked, um…worn. And when I told her that I

couldn’t give her a refund, she went berserk.”

“What do you mean?”

“She…attacked me.”

“What? Did she hurt you?”

“I’m fine,” she said. “She’d been drinking, and she accused

me of fooling around with you behind her back. Why

would she think that?”

He made distressed noises. “I don’t know. And I’m so sorry

that Angela made a scene. I hope it didn’t get you in

trouble at work.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m only sorry that the jacket must

have been a sore spot between the two of you.”

“When a marriage is going south, petty things tend to get

blown out of proportion.”

“I thought you’d love the color,” she said, fishing. “Brown

always looked good on you.”

“Thanks,” he said. “It was thoughtful of Angela.”

Her hand tightened on the phone. The jacket was gray.

Maybe Angela had bought it for someone else. But if so,

why would Peter pretend otherwise? Or maybe he was

just too overwhelmed with everything else to remember

details like the color.

“Peter,” she said careful y, “I’m not sure it’s a good idea

for you to call me, considering everything that’s

happened.”

“Oh,” he said, his voice colored with disappointment. “I

thought you were my friend, but you’re right—it was

wrong of me to cal .”

She closed her eyes, frustrated with her warring emotions.

She was suddenly afraid—afraid he would ask her to come

over, to comfort him in his grief, and that in a moment of

weakness, she would. “I am your friend, Peter. I’m trying

to advise you as to what’s best, that’s al .”

“I know, Carly. You’re the only person in my life who ever

truly cared about me, and I ruined everything.”

She bit down on her tongue. The pain helped to clear her

head. “Peter, I don’t think now is the time to discuss the

past. You have other things to worry about. You’re not

going to be alone tonight, are you?”

“Sort of. I couldn’t stay at the house, so I checked into the

Ritz-Carlton for a while. Room 539.”

“That’s good,” she murmured, shifting on the bed but

unable to find a comfortable position. Did he think she’d

offer to come to the hotel and keep him company? She

couldn’t do that, but somehow she wound up writing the

room number on a notepad next to the phone.

Peter heaved a sigh. “Angela and I were having problems,

but I never thought it would end like this.”

A chil went through her at the despair in his voice. Was he

on the verge of making a confession? “Peter, I really don’t

think I’m the person you should be sharing this with.”

“You’re right, of course. I won’t bother you anymore,

Carly.”

“You’re not bothering me,” she said quickly, her mind

racing. “But you need to take care of yourself. Try to sleep,

okay?”

“Okay,” he said, sounding disoriented and childlike.

She gripped the phone, not wanting to let him go. “Good

night, Peter.”

“Good night, Carly.”

She put down the receiver, her heart squeezing painful y,

her head spinning. Why did life have to be so hard?

Useless tears pressed on her eyelids as she fought the

push-pul emotions she felt for Peter. She wanted to

believe him, but could she? He had betrayed her trust

once, and now he seemed remorseful, but the timing

couldn’t be worse. Shouldn’t he be too consumed with

grief to be worried about anything else?

She huddled down in the covers, turned up the volume on

the television and immersed herself in the figures moving

across the screen. As always, watching the exotic lives of

the rich and the beautiful helped to remove her from the

turmoil raging in her life and in her heart.

Even after paid programming came on at 3:00 a.m., she

fought sleep. She didn’t want to go where she couldn’t

control her thoughts and fears. There were too many faces

to haunt her, too many questions pul ing at her—her

parents’ disappearance, the loan sharks’ lurking presence,

Peter’s betrayal and their il icit reunion, and now, Angela’s

death.

And the chief tormentor in her fitful dreams was Jack

Terry, who prodded and poked at her, demanding to know

the truth about her parents, about their lives, about her

feelings for Peter, about her suspicions regarding Angela’s

drowning. He pursued her, crowded her, menacing and

relentless, his eyes al -seeing, his big hands reaching for

her, as if he were going to wring the truth out of her—

“Carlotta.”

Her eyes popped open and she shrieked, scrambling away

from the voice.

“Sis, hey, it’s just me.”

She blinked through the morning light and Wesley’s

concerned face came into view. “Oh.” Her muscles relaxed

in abject relief.

“Hard night, huh?”

She nodded against her pil ow, then alarm seized her anew

and her gaze flew to the clock. “What time is it? Oh my

God, I overslept. Lindy’s going to fire me for sure!” She

flung back the covers and swung her legs over the edge of

the bed.

“I left you some breakfast on the table,” Wesley said. “I

have to take off—I’m working with Coop today.”

“Okay, thanks,” she said, her head heavy as she stood.

“What time did you get in last night?”

“Late.” He was headed toward the door, talking over his

shoulder. “We ran into some trouble at the morgue with

the Ashford woman’s body, and then—”

“Trouble?” she cut in, pushing her hair out of her face.

“What kind of trouble?”

“The chief M.E. almost refused the body, said his examiner

determined the death accidental and he wasn’t going to

do an autopsy. There’s some history between the guy and

Coop—they argued. I think they used to work together,

but Coop didn’t want to talk about it.”

Carlotta waved her hands to dismiss the details about

Coop—who cared? “Is there going to be an autopsy or

not?”

“Not, from what I could tel . We had to leave the body

there because we had another run, but we picked it back

up a couple of hours later.”

No autopsy. She went limp with relief.

“I’l be late again tonight,” he said. “Weekends seem to be

a popular time to die. Don’t wait on me for dinner.”

“Okay,” she said, but he was already gone. Another glance

at the clock had her jogging into the bathroom for a quick

dip in and out of the shower before the water even had

time to warm up. As she toweled off, her mind raced

ahead to the things she had to do today and suddenly, the

events of last night came rushing back ful force. Angela

Ashford was dead. And Peter Ashford was behaving

suspiciously.

Before her thoughts became paralyzing, she pushed them

away and forced herself through her morning routine at

lightning speed, pul ing a red jersey DKNY “emergency”

dress from her closet. A gray cashmere shrug would pass

for a jacket and trusty black Miu Miu slingbacks would get

her through the day sans Band-Aids. She turned on the

local-news radio station, and just as she was flossing her

teeth, there was mention of Angela’s death.

“A Buckhead woman, Angela Ashford, was found drowned

in her home pool yesterday. Alcohol is believed to have

been involved. In other news…”

Carlotta paused in her flossing. Two sentences? Angela’s

life and death had been acknowledged in two lousy

sentences. She was here, now she’s gone, with the

implication that her death had been her own darned fault.

The woman was no saint, but stil , it hardly seemed fair.

But life wasn’t fair. Hadn’t that lesson been her own

constant companion over the past ten years?

Traffic was surprisingly light, so she wasn’t as late as she

might have been when she crashed through the door and

tossed her belongings into a locker in the break room. Stil ,

Lindy Russel glared at her as she slid into place behind an

available counter and offered to assist a customer.

Carlotta moved like a zombie through the morning hours.

Her department was busy, even for a Saturday, but

everywhere she turned, she pictured Angela Ashford’s

body lying next to the pool, with water streaming from

clothes that she had bought here. She felt detached from

what she was doing, as if she were floating above her own

body. She kept tel ing herself that Angela’s death being

ruled an accident was a good thing, but her conscience

nagged at her.

Michael appeared midday, his eyes glittering and wide.

“Did you hear about Angela Ashford?”

“I heard,” she offered noncommittally.

“She drowned,” he barreled ahead, “in her own pool. Can

you believe it?”

“No,” she replied honestly.

“After that drunken scene that she caused yesterday, I’m

not surprised that she fel in. Sad, though.”

“Yes, it is.”

He leaned in close. “I have a friend who works in a Botox