“I see you,” Lindy said as they passed. “You’re late.”
“I have a good excuse.”
“You always do,” her boss offered over her shoulder. “I expect you to sell your tail off today.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Carlotta murmured, then turned to face forward. Lindy had let her off the hook so many times, she’d lost count. She loved this job and had nearly gone crazy when she’d been off work while her broken arm healed. Retail was her life, and she was really good at it—her name had been at the top of the sales charts more than any other associate at this location.
Until lately.
Recently, events had converged to distract, digress and divert her from what she thought was her calling. Wesley’s involvement with body moving and with Coop had overlapped into her life, and Coop had on more than one occasion confronted her, challenging her to do more with her life, and with her mind.
She fingered the puzzle piece on her charm bracelet. Coop had told her she was good at solving puzzles, at helping people.
Then she frowned. And Maria Marquez had told her she was good at insinuating herself into investigations.
Carlotta tripped on the top step of the escalator, but caught herself. A good reminder that she needed to get her head back where it belonged.
When she reached her designated department, she noticed a stocky guy in an ill-fitting sport coat loitering between racks of women’s clothes. Christ, all he needed was a ball cap that read Undercover. He gave her a conspicuous nod, then proceeded to scan the faces of shoppers in the department with all the subtlety of an X-ray machine.
But his presence did make her feel safer. Carlotta immersed herself in her job, switching on and reading customers to better understand how she could help them find what they were looking for. Valerie Wren hadn’t been much of a mother, but she’d taken the time to tutor Carlotta from a young age on good tailoring and how to mix and match unusual color combinations and fabric textures. Both talents served her well when catering to the Neiman’s clientele who came to her wanting a fresh look. She had the added insight of knowing how her customers’ minds worked, the places they frequented and the social competition they faced, because the Wrens had once moved in those same circles.
Today the store was hopping. Customers congregated in the aisles, wide-eyed and talking in low tones. They seemed antsy and eager to buy, probably for much the same reason that she was so willing to keep the pink scooter—because it made her feel better. Apparently, serial killing was good for the economy.
Despite the macabre motivation, Carlotta was grateful for the commissions she racked up over the next few hours. She was finally getting her groove back, and the rush of adrenaline made her realize she’d been crazy to let herself get distracted with amateur sleuthing. This was her life, and it wasn’t half-bad.
Later in her shift she looked up to see fellow associate Patricia Alexander coming her way. Carlotta swallowed a groan. The blonde was a cross between a nemesis and a pesky younger sister. But at the moment she looked worried, so Carlotta tamped down her irritation.
Patricia thrust a folded section of newspaper toward Carlotta. “Did you see this in the AJC?”
Carlotta took the paper. “What does it say?”
“That The Charmed Killer is targeting women who wear charm bracelets.” Patricia’s hand covered the bracelet that she’d bought for herself, similar to the one Carlotta wore.
Surprise bled through Carlotta as she skimmed the article written by Rainie Stephens, a reporter who’d helped her recover Olympian Eva McCoy’s stolen charm bracelet. Rainie cited “sources inside the APD” as indicating that the presence of a charm bracelet might be a trigger for random attacks on women.
“That seems inflammatory,” Carlotta murmured. “None of the victims were wearing charm bracelets.”
Patricia squinted. “How do you know?”
Her coworkers didn’t know she moonlighted as a body mover. “I…must have read it somewhere.” Besides, wouldn’t Jack have told her if there was a connection?
“There must have been some reason to print it,” Patricia insisted.
Carlotta handed the newspaper back to her. “Not necessarily. But if it makes you feel better, don’t wear your bracelet.”
Patricia’s face fell. “But I really believe these charm bracelets can predict the future.”
“I thought the spirit of featuring different charms on each bracelet was to encourage the wearer to try new things, not to predict the future.” She was saying the words aloud to convince herself as much as Patricia. Just because her bracelet had a charm with champagne glasses didn’t necessarily mean that something…celebratory was around the corner. If she believed that, she’d have to believe in the corpse charm, too.
So why did she feel so compelled to wear it?
Patricia held up her wrist and pointed to a miniature lion. “Then explain how I met a guy named Leo—” she pointed to a baseball glove “—who is a baseball player.”
“How do you explain the broom?” Carlotta asked, pointing to a third charm on the woman’s bracelet.
Patricia smiled. “That’s easy. He swept me off my feet.”
Carlotta rolled her eyes and decided not to ask about the dog charm or the horny steer head. She might get more information than she cared to know. “I have a solution.”
“What?”
“Wear long sleeves,” Carlotta said, tapping Patricia’s bare arm with a wry smile. “I’m taking my lunch break.”
“Want some company?”
“Er…I’m actually running errands,” Carlotta improvised.
“Buying change-of-address cards?” Patricia asked lightly. “Word is that you’ve moved in with Peter Ashford.”
Carlotta couldn’t hide her surprise. “Where did you hear that?”
Patricia shrugged. “Neighbors talk.”
Carlotta set her jaw. The neighbor with the binoculars? “It’s only temporary. There was an issue of safety at my place.”
Patricia’s eyes widened. “Does this have something to do with Michael Lane being on the run again?”
“Is that in the paper, too?” Carlotta asked.
“Yeah, it said he’d broken into someone’s house—wait a minute! It was your house, wasn’t it?”
“I’m not supposed to talk about it,” Carlotta said, glad to have an excuse. She didn’t want to explain to yet someone else how it was possible that a psycho could be living in their guest room, undetected.
“So that’s why you moved in with Peter?”
“I didn’t move in. I’m only staying with him until this all blows over.”
Patricia’s eyes gleamed. “But I can guess what the sleeping arrangements are.”
“I’m taking my break,” Carlotta said pointedly.
Patricia looked over Carlotta’s shoulder and gasped. “Don’t look now, but there’s a mean-looking man in resort wear who keeps looking at you. What if he’s The Charmed Killer?”
“Relax—he’s a rent-a-cop.”
Patricia pulled back. “Carlotta, don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m starting to think that your being here makes it unsafe for the rest of us.” She sniffed and walked away, leaving Carlotta feeling nonplussed.
The woman wasn’t wrong.
From inside her pocket, her phone rang. She pulled it out to see Peter’s number, and, after glancing around to make sure no customers were within earshot, she connected the call. “Hi, Peter.”
“Hi, I’m just checking on you.”
She felt a rush of affection. “Thanks, I’m fine. The scooter is great, and Jack arranged for extra security here at the store.”
“That was good of him,” Peter said, although his voice was tinged with something other than whole hearted approval.
“I’m sorry, Peter, but I’m not supposed to be on the phone while I’m on the floor.”
“I won’t keep you. I just wondered if you’d like to go with me to the club tonight for a black-tie charity au
ction.”
Excitement barbed through her chest at the thought of attending an event at the country club where Peter belonged, where her parents had once belonged. “I’d love to.”
“Great. I’ll see you at home?”
Home. “Yes,” she murmured, then disconnected the call. Wonder filled her chest at how easily Peter could offer her access to places she’d been denied all of her adult life. Admittedly, part of the motivation for going would be to face down some of the people who had cast them out.
Then she gasped—she didn’t have anything to wear. All her cocktail dresses were at the town house, which was off-limits. She glanced with envy in the direction of formal wear, but made herself resist the urge to splurge. No matter how much she wanted a new dress, she couldn’t afford it. Her employee credit card hadn’t been reinstated, and the one card she had left after a shredding party incited by Wesley couldn’t bear the strain.
Jack had told her if she needed something at the town house, she’d have to have an escort. She dialed his number and he answered after half a ring.
“Carlotta? You okay?”
“I’m fine,” she said. “I just need to get back into the town house.”
“Why?”
She squirmed. “I need to get some clothes.”
“Yesterday you had a suitcase full of clothes.”
“Not the right kind,” she hedged.
He sighed. “You want to compromise a crime scene to get a specific outfit?”
“Peter is taking me to an event at the club, and I need something fancy.”
“By fancy, you mean something slinky and tight?”
“Probably,” she agreed.
“Well, in that case…I don’t think so.”
“Jack!”
“You should be careful about false advertising. You don’t want to lead the poor guy on.”
She rolled her eyes. “Will you meet me at the town house or not?”
“What time?”
“Six o’clock.”
“Okay. Be careful on that Hello Kitty tricycle.”
“And how does a big macho detective like you know about Hello Kitty?”
He disconnected the call and Carlotta laughed, shaking her head.
10
Carlotta spent her lunch break in the food court eating a salad, but it was hard to relax with the hulking undercover guy—Herb, she’d learned—hovering nearby. She wound up tossing half the salad and sipping a diet soda while searching the faces of passersby for Michael Lane.
Where was Michael, and what was he doing? Was he enjoying the panic he’d unleashed? Was he basking in the power?
On the walk back to Neiman’s, Carlotta spotted a jewelry kiosk that offered cases of gold and silver trinkets, most of it costume quality and trending young. At the sight of a tray of charms, though, she stopped and leaned in.
“May I help you?” the female attendant asked, then pointed to Carlotta’s charm bracelet. “Something to add to your bracelet?”
Carlotta glanced back at the undercover security guy, who looked bored to tears with his babysitting stint, and was paying zero attention to what she was doing. Chances were good Herb wouldn’t report any charm-buying activity to Jack.
Then she frowned. And what if he did? There was nothing wrong with being a concerned citizen doing a little ad hoc investigative work, especially if it led to finding the source of the charms left in the mouths of the victims. She was in a unique position to have seen some of the charms at the crime scenes, so why not take advantage of her insider information? Carlotta looked back to the attendant. “I’m looking for some specific charms. Do you have any chickens?”
“We have some birds, but no chickens right now. We tend to sell out of them.”
Carlotta arched an eyebrow. “Why?”
“A lot of people are into the Chinese zodiac, the year of the chicken.”
It was something to keep in mind, at least. “Do you have any cigars?”
“That I think I can help you with.” The woman bent over the tray and poked through the miniature replicas of everything from animals to foods to letters of the alphabet. A few seconds later, she removed a tiny charm and placed it on a black cloth for Carlotta’s inspection.
Carlotta’s pulse sped up. The miniature cigar with a tiny etched band looked identical to the one she’d personally witnessed falling out of the second victim’s mouth when she and Wesley had prepared to move the body from the crime scene.
“I’ll take it,” she said. “Do you have any cars?”
“Several,” the woman said, sweeping her hand over a section of the tray.
Carlotta bit her lip. She hadn’t seen the car charm that reportedly had been in the third victim’s mouth, nor the gun charm found in the mouth of the fourth victim. “I’ll take the cigar, all of the cars, and do you have any gun charms?”
The woman looked surprised, then nodded. “Three different ones.”
“I’ll take those, too, one of each,” Carlotta said, then slid her bloated credit card across the counter, hoping it would withstand the purchase. She exhaled when the woman bagged the charms and handed them over, along with a receipt to sign.
Carlotta walked back to Neiman’s and guiltily stored the charms in her locker. Maybe collecting the same charms the killer had left behind would help her to figure out if Michael Lane was behind the senseless killings.
As she walked back to her station, she mentally reviewed her interaction with Michael over the past few years, trying to recall any personality tics that she should’ve picked up on, any red flags that would’ve indicated he was the narcissistic serial killer that Detective Maria Marquez said he was. True, he’d murdered two women over the identity-theft ring he’d spearheaded, and tried to eliminate her when she’d uncovered his plot, but killing for self-preservation was wildly different than killing for the sake of killing. She found it difficult to wrap her mind around her former coworker being that damaged.
With Michael weighing heavy on her heart and her mind, she was skittish all afternoon and grateful for the presence of the security guard who was practically hanging on the fixtures by the time she ended her shift. He escorted her out to the parking lot, where she thanked him, then straddled her new scooter and turned it in the direction of the town house. The wind on her face as she headed south on Peachtree Street felt soothing, and her spirits lifted. She told herself it had nothing to do with the fact that she was meeting Jack.
But when she rolled into the driveway of the town house to find Detective Maria Marquez leaning against the sedan that Jack normally drove, Carlotta conceded a stab of disappointment. She parked the scooter and dismounted awkwardly, then removed her pink helmet, thinking that the carmelicious detective wouldn’t be caught dead with helmet hair.
“Nice ride,” Maria said, her voice curling with amusement.
“Thanks,” Carlotta murmured.
Maria moved toward the front door. “Jack said you needed to get an outfit?”
She made it sound so frivolous. “That’s right.”
“Give me your keys and tell me what you need, and I’ll get it.”
Carlotta handed over her keys and followed Maria as she climbed the stoop and unlocked the door. “It would be faster if I picked out the clothes.”
Maria gave her a disparaging look, but Carlotta refused to back down from the standoff. It was clear there was more going on here than just picking out a cocktail dress.
“Okay,” the female detective finally said. “But stay behind me and don’t touch anything.”
Carlotta made a face at the woman’s back.
“I saw that in the window,” Maria said.
Carlotta winced. “Sorry, it’s just that this is my house.”
“But right now it’s a crime scene,” the woman said, snapping on thin latex gloves before breaking through the yellow tape stretched across the entrance.
Carlotta followed her into the house, which was dark and still. “My bedroom is down the h
allway, first door on the right.”
The detective turned on lights along the way, revealing black residue around the light switches, on appliances and flat surfaces where they’d lifted fingerprints.
“Is there a reason why Jack didn’t come?” Carlotta asked casually, following Maria into the bedroom.
“He’s with the state guys.”
Carlotta nursed a pang of embarrassment as Maria perused her juvenile white furniture, lingering on the bed in which Carlotta and Jack had rolled around a few times. “Has there been a development in The Charmed Killer case?”
Maria turned and frowned. “As if I’d tell you.”
Carlotta crossed her arms. “Why not?”
“To begin with, you’re not a law enforcement officer.”
“But I’m involved in this case.”
“Yeah—as a possible suspect.”
Carlotta laughed. “You can’t be serious. I think you’re letting your personal feelings get in the way here.”
Maria scoffed. “I don’t know you well enough to have personal feelings for you, Carlotta.”
“I meant your personal feelings for Jack.”
The woman stopped, then dipped her chin. “I don’t have personal feelings for Jack. He’s my partner.”
But Carlotta knew that look. Still, there was no use flogging the detective. Instead, she turned toward her closet and gestured to the residue-covered doorknob. “Will you open it for me?”
The detective obliged, and Carlotta flipped through the clothes jammed on the racks inside.
“Nice Valentinos,” Maria murmured, stroking a gloved hand over a pair of silvery crisscross high-heeled sandals.
“Thanks.” Carlotta pulled out a red crepe spaghetti-strap short cocktail dress with a swing skirt, and a cream-colored sheath with silver-chain trim. “Which do you think I should choose for a charity auction at a country club?”
Maria angled her head. “The cream one if you want to fit in, the red one if you want to be remembered.”
Carlotta frowned. “Hmm…I can’t decide.”
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