“You didn’t need an invitation,” the man said mildly. “You probably could’ve just walked in and acted as if you belonged here.”
“Maybe,” Wes agreed.
Dr. Vincent withdrew his hand. “Excuse me, someone just walked in whom I need to talk to. I’ll see you later, dear.”
Wesley and Meg stayed to talk with her mom, who seemed genuinely nice.
“Are you a student at Tech like our Meg?” Ann Vincent asked, stroking her daughter’s hair.
“Um, no…ma’am.”
“Do you work full-time with the city?”
He wet his lips. Since he was sure Dr. Vincent had done a background check, considering he’d gone to the trouble of hiring a P.I., it was at least comforting that he hadn’t shared the info with Meg’s mother. “No, I’m part-time. I also work for the county morgue.”
“Really? Doing what?”
He glanced at Meg, who seemed to be enjoying the exchange. “Um…moving bodies…ma’am.”
“Oh.” The woman looked perplexed, then changed the subject by asking Meg about one of her classes.
Wesley eavesdropped on the easy banter between mother and daughter, envious of their obvious affection and familiarity. As Ann Vincent was being pulled away to meet another guest, she smiled at Wesley. “I hope to see you again, Wesley.”
“I’d like that, ma’am.”
Once Mrs. Vincent walked away, Meg smiled up at him. “See, that wasn’t too bad, was it?”
“I guess not.” But his head was killing him, and the sweating was getting worse. He’d brought an Oxy capsule with him, but he didn’t want to take it in front of Meg. She’d nail him for sure.
They got a couple of plates of finger food and found a corner to relax, although Wesley almost swallowed a mini quiche whole when Meg sat down and her dress pulled high on her thighs.
“My dad would kill you if he saw you looking at me like that.”
Wes glanced up to see she’d caught him staring. “You want me to look or you wouldn’t have worn that dress.”
“Maybe I wear this dress all the time,” she said haughtily.
“Okay, whatever.”
Meg leaned in and he got an eyeful of cleavage. “There’s only one thing I hate about this dress. It’s so tight that if I wore anything underneath, my panty line would show.”
He stopped midchew, then swallowed. “Oh, now, that’s just cruel.”
“Down, boy, I don’t put out on the first date anyway. But I do this.” She leaned forward and kissed him on the mouth—a good kiss, the kind where you could taste each other. Her lips were as smooth and juicy as he thought they would be. But just as his pants were getting happy, she pulled back and popped another meatball in her mouth.
There she went again, messing with his head. He pulled out the handkerchief and wiped his brow. He wanted to go to the bathroom and take the Oxy, but he didn’t want to leave Meg alone wearing that dress…and no underwear. Some guy like that lech Freddy Lowenstein might try to latch on.
Finally, though, he couldn’t stand it any longer. Between Meg and her father, his nerves were shot. He excused himself and went to the men’s room. He wanted to chew the pill, but resisted the powerful urge. Instead, he ran water into his cupped hand, then tossed back the Oxy pill and chased it with a drink. He closed his eyes when it went down. It would take a while for the painkiller to circulate, but with this one in the pipeline, relief was on the way.
“Got a headache, son?”
Wesley opened his eyes to see Harold Vincent strolling up to a urinal. Anger spiked in his stomach. “Don’t call me son. And as a matter of fact, I do have a headache.”
“Must be all that hard living,” the man said, then faced the wall and unzipped his pants.
“Look, I know about the P.I. you had tailing me. I confronted the guy and he ratted you out. That’s why I crashed your lecture. I wanted to see what kind of man would do that to his daughter.”
Harold Vincent kept looking at the wall. “I don’t care that you know. My daughter’s happiness is my only concern.”
“Yeah, well, Meg probably wouldn’t be too happy if she knew you had me followed like a criminal.”
The man zipped his pants, then turned and walked to the sink to slowly wash his hands. “You are a criminal. And I got news for you—Meg knows about the P.I. The only reason she invited you is because she knew I wouldn’t approve.” He pulled out a paper towel and dried his hands. “She doesn’t care about you, son, she just wanted to piss me off.” He tossed the paper towel in the trash, then stalked to the door.
“Don’t call me son,” Wesley managed to say before the door closed. He fisted his hands as humiliation crashed over him. He should’ve known that Meg had an ulterior motive for asking him out. Why would someone like her be interested in someone like him? He caught sight of himself in the mirror, and was disgusted. All that money spent on a suit to impress her, and for what? A few cups of punch and a hard-on. As far as her line about not putting out on the first date, well, she’d never intended for them to have a second date.
He undid the tie and yanked it off, then unbuttoned the collar of his shirt. This charade was over.
Wes walked out of the bathroom and threaded his way through the crowd. He couldn’t wait to get out of this place.
Someone touched his jacket sleeve. “Are you leaving?”
He looked up to see E. standing there.
“Uh, yeah…something came up.”
“Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow?”
He nodded. “Sure. See you tomorrow.”
Frederick Lowenstein, obviously eavesdropping, leaned in with an arrogant smile. “No offense, Wren, but I don’t think you’re Eldora’s type.”
Wesley set his jaw at the deliberate put-down. “Hey, Freddy, I got one word for you—dankeshein.” He stuck around long enough for outraged recognition to dawn on the man’s cheesy face, then he split.
He shoved the front door so hard, he practically fell outside. He was eager to escape the party…to escape Meg. She was probably laughing at him.
What an idiot he was.
Inside his jacket pocket his phone rang. He pulled it out and was almost relieved to see it was Kendall Abrams calling. He connected the call. “Yeah, Kendall, what’s going on?”
“We got a crispy critter near the Lenox Square Mall. Can you make it?”
“Whoa—slow down. What?”
“A burned body. My uncle wants me to take it. Apparently it’s another one of those charm deals.”
“Can you pick me up? I’m not too far from there.”
“Sure. Oh, I almost forgot. I’m supposed to tell you that your sister ran over the body.”
31
“You didn’t have to stay home with me, Peter. I’m sore, but I can take care of myself.”
Peter’s face darkened with the same intensity he’d shown when he’d arrived on the accident scene last night to take her home. “There’s no way I’m leaving you at home by yourself today.”
It had been a long evening. After the paramedics had checked her over and pronounced her well enough to go home, GBI agents Green and Wick had questioned her for over an hour. Their presence—and persistence—confirmed a charm had been placed in the victim’s mouth, but they didn’t share any information with her. And she didn’t have much information to share with them.
She couldn’t identify the vehicle that had dropped the body.
She couldn’t identify the driver of the vehicle.
And she didn’t know why she’d been the person who just happened to drive over the body. Barring extreme coincidence, she had probably been targeted. But by whom?
Michael Lane? Her father? Someone else?
“Are you comfortable enough?” Peter asked.
“Oh, yes.” She stroked the leather of the couch where she lay in the great room, thinking two days ago Angela had been lying on the couch. And on the table. And the lamp. Carlotta darted a look to the lidded urn just to make sure i
t was still intact. “I’m so sorry about the Vespa.”
He waved off her concern. “I’m just glad you’re in one piece. I hope they catch this monster soon. It has to be Michael Lane. Who else could be trying to involve you in the crimes?”
“I don’t know,” she murmured.
Peter was sitting in an adjacent chair, leaning close. She appreciated his thoughtfulness, but he’d been hovering since they’d arrived home last night. He hovered over her, and the Persian hovered over Peter. She was starting to feel claustrophobic.
“Are you sure you can afford to take the day off?” she asked Peter.
“Absolutely. In fact, I have a lot of vacation time accrued. And I was thinking…maybe we should go ahead and take that trip to Vegas that I bought at the charity auction.”
Carlotta swallowed. “Now?”
“As soon as you’re feeling better. In light of all that’s going on, I can’t think of a better time to get away. And maybe a change of venue would be good for both of us.”
With a jolt, Carlotta realized she hadn’t considered that Peter’s sexual glitch might have something to do with making love to another woman in the house he’d shared with Angela.
The doorbell rang, saving her from answering.
“Wonder who that could be,” Peter said. He pushed to his feet and walked to the front door. The cat trotted after him.
Carlotta watched from the couch. He glanced through the window, then opened the door. On the threshold stood a teenage girl, who said a few words to Peter, then looked down and threw her arms open to the cat. And the cat actually went to her!
Peter beckoned the girl inside and walked into the great room smiling. “Carlotta, this is Vicki O’Dell. Vicki lives in the neighborhood next to ours and her family owns the cat you found. Isn’t that great?”
There weren’t words. “Yes, I’m relieved. What’s her name?”
“Sheba.” At the sound of her name, Sheba meowed loudly.
“She’s so…humanlike, we knew she had a home somewhere.” Carlotta chastised herself for imagining that the cat was Angela reincarnated. The beast had gotten to her. “I guess you saw the flyers?”
Vicki nodded. “I babysit in this neighborhood occasionally, but this is the first time I’ve been around in a few days. Thank you for taking care of Sheba for us.”
“You’re welcome,” Carlotta said. And good riddance.
When the girl turned to go, her zebra-print clutch purse tripped a memory in Carlotta’s mind. “What a great purse.”
The girl looked at it and flushed. “Isn’t it? I could never afford Prada on my own, but the lady I babysit for gives me her hand-me-downs.”
Carlotta sat up. “Do you mind if I ask who you babysit for?”
“Not at all—Bebe Plank.”
“Bebe?” Carlotta’s mind raced. “Vicki, I don’t mean to pry, but this is very important. When did Bebe give you that particular purse?”
“Let me think. She gave it to me the last time I babysat, so that was…last Thursday.”
Carlotta’s heart skipped a beat. Thursday was the day after Bebe’s zebra-print Prada clutch had been “stolen” from the club. “How long have you been babysitting for Bebe?”
“For about a year now. I think she’d give me a good recommendation if you called her.”
“I’m sure she would,” Carlotta agreed idly. “In the year that you’ve been working for Bebe, how many purses has she given you?”
“Gee, I don’t know. A lot—maybe twenty or so? But don’t worry. It’s not something I expect. Bebe is really generous.”
With other people’s purses…and at least one of her own. To throw everyone off track, maybe? No one would ever suspect a woman whose own purse had been stolen.
“Vicki, you might want to call your parents. I’m afraid the police will want to ask you some questions about those purses Bebe gave you.”
Peter called the police and a few minutes later, the girl’s parents arrived with shopping bags full of purses. When another doorbell ring admitted Jack, Carlotta was surprised. And Peter looked irritated.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“Well, technically, for as many purses and the amount of money that’s been stolen, this is considered a case for the Major Crime Division.” He scowled. “And I’m the only Major Crime detective available at the moment. How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine. Just a few scrapes and bruises.”
His gaze swept over her, as if to ascertain for himself that she was okay. He started to say something, then he turned to Peter and asked if he could borrow a more private room to question the teenager with her parents. As Peter was showing the O’Dells into the office, Jack leaned over closer to Carlotta. “How are you really?”
“I’m okay. Shaken up a little, I guess, when I think about how lucky I was. Have they identified the burned body?”
“They wouldn’t tell me if they had, but I know from experience that it’ll take a while for the M.E. to make an identification.”
“It has to be Michael doing this, doesn’t it, Jack? Who else would’ve dropped a body in front of me? I mean, he did this on purpose, didn’t he, Jack?” Tears filled her eyes. “Why would Michael do this?”
Jack’s jaw hardened. “We’ll get whoever did this…I’ll get whoever did this.”
She sniffed, then nodded. Even if he wasn’t officially on the case, she had every confidence that Jack would track down The Charmed Killer. “What about the charm? That’s why the body had a piece of tape over the mouth, isn’t it?”
“Probably,” he admitted. “But I can’t tell you about the charm. Sorry, darlin’.”
“Jack!”
“Hey, I’m not even supposed to know. I’m not going to play fast and loose with the info I do manage to eke out.” He pulled his hand down his haggard face. “By the way, have you seen Coop?”
Carlotta frowned. “I saw him in the morgue lab yesterday. Why?”
“He’s…missing.”
“What do you mean, he’s missing?”
“I mean he didn’t show up for work today, he’s not at home, his van is gone and no one knows where he is.”
“Should I be worried about him?”
His mouth twitched downward. “I’m afraid so.”
32
Meg was waiting for Wesley the next morning in front of the government building by the bike rack. She was wearing tight white slacks, a buttoned-up blouse and a glare meant to laser holes through him. But he’d eaten an Oxy tablet when he’d rolled out of bed, so he was still feeling good.
Screw her and her rich parents and her plaid-wearing pals.
He braked, then jumped off the bike and locked it up, ignoring her.
“You’re not even going to talk to me?” she asked, arms crossed.
“Hi, Meg,” he offered.
“That’s it? Hi, Meg? Not I’m sorry for ditching you, Meg? I’m sorry for humiliating you in front of your parents, Meg?”
“Oh, cut the crap. I ran into your dad in the john and he set me straight.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the fact that you knew your father had me tailed by a private investigator, that the only reason you asked me to go to that party was that you knew it would drive Daddy crazy.”
He had to hand it to her—she looked surprised. “A private investigator? I think your drug habit is making you paranoid.”
“Whatever,” he said, swinging his backpack over his shoulder.
“I saw you talking to that woman.”
He turned back. “What woman?”
“That woman in the yellow dress, the one you said was your friend. But it was clear you weren’t friends.”
“You mean E.?”
“I saw you heading toward the door, but I thought you were just going out for a smoke. Did you make plans to hook up with her?”
Wes studied Meg’s face, her body language. Everything in her and about her spoke of mone
y and privilege and success. She could have any kind of life she wanted. But not with someone like him. Never with someone like him.
“Yeah, that’s what happened. She and I hooked up, seeing as how you don’t put out on the first date. So what?”
Meg’s mouth fell open, then her eyes got all hurt looking…like she cared. She turned and stalked away from him.
For a heartbeat, Wesley was sorry he’d lied. Then he decided it was for the best.
33
“Wow, The Great Purse Caper made page two of the AJC,” Peter said from the table where he was reading the paper and having breakfast.
“It would’ve been on page one if not for The Charmed Killer,” Carlotta murmured, staring at the cloisonné urn.
“It says here that according to the D.A.’s office, Bebe Plank will definitely do jail time.”
“She should,” Carlotta said. “Stealing from her own friends and neighbors, that’s pretty low.” But not as low as desecrating the ashes of a person’s loved one.
“I guess this means Hannah will get her job back.”
“Probably, if she wants it. Did the paper mention anything about evidence in The Charmed Killer case being processed at the state crime lab?”
“No. Are you saying that the killer left DNA at the scenes?”
“I’m not sure what was left, but I was told something was being processed, and it was due back any day.”
“Good. Let’s hope the GBI gets this guy before anyone else gets hurt. It’s unbelievable the things that people do to each other.”
“I knocked over Angela’s ashes,” she blurted, pointing to the urn.
He jerked his head up. “What?”
Her throat convulsed. “It was an accident, I swear. Actually, the cat knocked over the urn, but the ceiling fan sent the ashes everywhere.”
He steepled his hands. “Everywhere, huh?”
“Hannah and I gathered them back up as best we could, but I still feel so guilty about it, I had to tell you. Can you forgive me, Peter?”
He stared at her for so long, she was sure he was going to tell her to get her things and get the hell out. “There’s nothing to forgive,” he said finally. “Angela’s ashes aren’t here. They’re in the cemetery.”
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