6 1/2 Body Parts

by Stephanie Bond

  6 ½ Body Parts

  (a BODY MOVERS novella)

  by

  Stephanie Bond

  Copyright 2012 by Stephanie Bond, Inc. All rights reserved.

  Cover and eBook design by Andy Brown at clicktwicedesign.com

  Without limiting the rights under copyright(s) reserved above and below, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  Chapter 1

  Carlotta Wren jarred awake, her muscles seized in terror. Disoriented, she gulped air, her chest pumping furiously as her gaze darted around the darkened room.

  Nothing… Her bedroom was still and quiet, as was the entire townhouse—peacefully silent at 4:34 AM… just as if everything in the world was fine.

  As if.

  She closed her eyes until the demons in her dreams retreated to the corners of her mind and her heart rate slowed. The pulse reverberating in her ears sounded bumpy and hesitant, evidence that her heart had taken more than a few hits lately.

  She shifted on the warm pillow a millimeter and pain lit up her shoulder, a grim reminder a madman had had her in his clutches only hours before. She and Peter Ashford had been planning to leave for Las Vegas for some much needed alone time to figure out the next step, if any, in their relationship. When she’d zipped up Peter’s suitcase, she’d found the Cartier engagement ring he’d originally given her when she was a senior in high school. She’d kept the ring even after the engagement had been called off after her father’s investment fraud scandal had erupted, an event that had upended her and her younger brother Wesley’s lives. Evicted from their palatial home in the most upscale section of Atlanta, they had moved into the small townhome in Lindbergh (a decidedly less upscale section of town) where she and Wesley still lived.

  Alone.

  Because her father Randolph hadn’t been man enough to face his day in court. Instead he and their mother Valerie had disappeared for over ten years, leaving her to raise her inconsolable little brother and fend for themselves. She’d been ill-prepared for the task, but somehow she and Wesley had muddled through, and their sibling bond was strong.

  Last year she’d hocked the engagement ring to pay overdue bills. But Peter, who was single again and inching back into her life, had recovered the ring and told her he would hold it for her. Apparently he’d been planning to propose again while they were in Las Vegas.

  Carlotta sighed. Poor Peter… he’d been so patient with her, and now his good intentions had been foiled again, this time by the appearance of a serial murderer intent on ending Carlotta’s life, and the stunning reappearance of her long-lost father who’d saved her. But before she could ask Randolph Wren the thousands of questions she’d accumulated over the years (How could you leave us? Where have you been? Where’s our mother?), Detective Jack Terry had placed the fugitive under arrest and hauled him away.

  Come and see me, Sweetheart. We have a lot to talk about.

  Instead she’d been whisked away to the hospital to have her sliced shoulder stitched and bandaged. And then there’d been the matter of locating Wesley and breaking the news their M.I.A. parent had found his way home. She’d expected Wesley to react explosively, but he’d been strangely quiet, almost catatonic, reminiscent of those awful days after her parents had first left. By then the hour had been late and she was woozy from painkiller and Jack had told her it would be better if she gave herself time to recover and to let the dust settle before she and Wesley visited Randolph in jail.

  You’ve waited this long… another day or two won’t change anything. Take your time and get your thoughts together, then you and Wesley can present a united front. Besides, don’t you think your father deserves to sit and stew for a while before his family rushes to his side?

  Jack was right, damn him. He was always right.

  She winced. Her shoulder was throbbing now. The painkiller had definitely worn off. She used her good arm to push up, then swung her legs over the side of the bed. She’d slept in black yoga pants and a white button-up shirt to accommodate her injury. A nightlight provided enough illumination for her to shake a tablet from a prescription bottle. She stood on wobbly legs and made her way to the bathroom for a glass of tepid water to chase it down.

  A glance in the mirror made her gasp—she looked like hell, hollow-eyed and sallow. A lump of emotion lodged in her throat. Yesterday she had been happy…ish. The terror reign of The Charmed Killer had been behind her, for once Wesley had seemed to be on the right track, and her personal life was moving in some definable direction. In hindsight, it should have been a red flag, the happiness—a sign something bad was about to happen. She had always envisioned her father’s return as a joyful day… so why did she feel so thoroughly miserable?

  She picked up a brush and pulled it through her long, dark hair, enjoying the slightly painful scrape of the boar bristles against her scalp. Her eyes welled until her reflection blurred, and a familiar knot tightened in her stomach—anger and resentment her life had turned out like this. It wasn’t the way it was supposed to be.

  If her father hadn’t been accused of investment fraud, if he and her mother hadn’t abandoned her and Wesley, she would’ve gone on to college as she’d planned and married Peter when their love was still young and their lives more simple. Instead, Peter had left her and she’d worked her way up the retail ranks at Neiman Marcus to make ends meet while trying to raise her little brother. If her parents hadn’t left, Wesley would’ve grown into a confident genius and now would be tucked away in an Ivy League college instead of being an uneducated, underemployed body mover with gambling debts, questionable friends, and a history of substance abuse.

  She set aside the brush and blinked away the tears. For years she’d spun fantasies about what her life might’ve been like if it hadn’t been derailed by her parents’ selfish actions. If she could forgive them for herself, she would never forgive them for what they’d done to Wesley. Their disappearance had left the nine-year-old heartbroken and bewildered. All the games and diversions she’d desperately invented couldn’t fill the void.

  Carlotta took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. It was a waste of time to think about what might have been.

  She padded back to her bed with the glass of water, then downed the pain pill lying on the nightstand next to the bottle. But now she felt too restless to lie down. She probably should’ve taken Peter up on his offer to stay at his place last night, but on the heels of her father’s return, she’d felt compelled to stay here with Wesley, and to ward off well-meaning interlopers. She and Wes deserved privacy to absorb the latest development, and she wanted to be there for him when and if his emotional dam burst.

  She hugged herself and glanced around the room, longing for a safe place to curl up and start to make peace with her past. The cra
mped townhome had never felt like a haven to her… it had always represented the place her family had been banished to, where their family had ultimately fallen apart. At this moment, she longed for something familiar, something to remind her of the last time her family had been happy and intact.

  Her head turned toward the garage, as if she’d heard her name called. She pushed her feet into flip flops and slipped out of her room. Across the hall, Wesley’s bedroom door was closed because of her perpetual fear his pet python Einstein would escape its tank and find her.

  She stopped and listened at the door, then silently turned the knob and peeked inside, as she’d done thousands of times since he was little. Seeing her gangly brother sprawled innocently on his back in his boyhood bed, limbs flung wide, it was hard to imagine all the adult trouble he’d gotten himself into—arrested for hacking into the city courthouse computer, in debt to some of the nastiest loan sharks in town, a brush with oxycontin addiction. Her mouth turned down. And she didn’t even want to think about his relationship to his much older attorney Liz Fischer, alleged friend of the family who, as it turned out, had been having an affair with her father before he left town and who had recently transferred her attention to Randolph’s son. Ugh.

  She only hoped Wesley’s crush on his coworker Meg would drive him from Liz’s clutches. And at least he had Coop back.

  Cooper Craft. Just the thought of the man who had taken Wesley under his wing made her smile. The fact that he’d given Wes a job as a body mover for the morgue hadn’t set well with her in the beginning. But that was before she’d gotten to know the gentle, cerebral man and his story. Formerly the Medical Examiner for Fulton County, Georgia, he’d lost his job due to excessive drinking and was relegated to a lowly contract position with the facility he had once overseen. But Coop was so appealing he’d even drawn Carlotta and her friend Hannah into the body moving business. And he’d made no secret he wanted to be more than friends with Carlotta.

  But their timing had always been off.

  Conversely, she and Jack had amazing chemistry, but the man was an island.

  And through it all, Peter had been there, waiting for her to come to her senses, for them to begin the life they should’ve had all along.

  From the bed, Wesley made a troubled noise. She started toward him, then stopped herself—he wasn’t a child anymore. He quieted, and his breathing deepened. Satisfied, she backed out of his room and headed toward the front door.

  Her gaze landed on the tarnished metallic fringed Christmas tree in the corner, with its sad, faded little packages underneath. It had stood there since her parents had left—Wesley wouldn’t let her open the gifts. He had imagined one day their parents would come home and they would just pick up where they’d left off.

  Her hand tightened on the doorknob—she had to get out of this place.

  She unlocked the door quietly and slipped outside by the glow of the dim light over the stoop. Dawn was still at least a couple of hours away, but the city was already beginning to wake. Next door, the light in Mrs. Winningham’s kitchen was on. Their nosy neighbor would no doubt be over fishing for details about their father’s return as soon as she could throw together a casserole. She was probably at this moment opening a can of condensed cream of chicken soup and cubing Velveeta.

  Carlotta descended the steps and made her way to the garage in the low lighting. After a bit of wrestling, she managed to raise the door with her good arm. Inside sat the silver two-door rental car Peter had secured for her since her blue Monte Carlo Super Sport had been blown to Kingdom Come. And next to the rental sat her beloved white Miata convertible.

  Just the sight of it made her heart unfurl. Her father had bought her the car when she was still in high school, and she’d felt like a princess. When their charmed life had disintegrated around them, her parents had allowed her to keep the car. When they had disappeared, the little convertible was one of the few souvenirs from the time when she and her family had been happy. Climbing behind the wheel had always made her feel safe and loved.

  She ran her hand over the sloping rear fender. A pang of sadness struck her when her hand came away with a thick coat of dust. The car hadn’t run for some time now—she hadn’t been able to afford repairs, but neither did she have the heart to sell it.

  She opened the door and slid into the cool seat, comforted by the familiar hug of the caramel-colored leather. She closed the door and glanced around the interior, still in great shape. The console compartment revealed a hodgepodge of CDs and lip balm and ink pens. She removed a folded piece of yellow paper—the quote from the repair shop, she remembered as she opened it. The rather ominous-sounding engine parts needed had been itemized, with the caveat that the cooling system was perhaps “half” salvageable since one of the two fans worked.

  She sighed. Six and a half body parts to get this baby running again… at a gut-clutching price she couldn’t afford any time in the near future.

  She dropped the quote back into the console and closed the lid. Impulsively, she placed her hands on the steering wheel for a squeeze. Like a time machine, the car took her back to a place when she was young and carefree, when her entire life extended before her, yet was pointed in a direction of happiness and success. She leaned her head back against the headrest and allowed the good memories to flood over her. Back then, her most pressing problems had been finding the right shade of nail polish, juggling social commitments, and making plans to join her fiancé Peter at Vanderbilt University when she graduated.

  She smiled and her eyes fluttered shut as the images of her life as it was supposed to be spooled through her head—an unbroken family… college educated… married to Peter Ashford… rich and happy… it was an intoxicating dream.

  When she started awake, daylight streamed into the garage through the open door. How long had she slept? She lifted her head and winced as stiff muscles protested. She had to get moving—today was an important day. She and Wesley needed to talk about Randolph and perhaps arrange to see him. She expected the press to descend at some point, and she’d rather not be found sitting in her crippled car, daydreaming.

  She opened the door and climbed out, then did a double-take to see the silver rental that had been parked next to her had been replaced with a silver four-door Mercedes. She frowned in confusion, then reasoned Peter might have arrived early to check on her, had probably arranged to return the rental car, and perhaps the Mercedes was his. Or maybe that piranha Liz Fischer was here. Of course she would’ve heard of Randolph’s return by now, and of course, she’d come running.

  Carlotta emerged from the garage and blinked at surroundings that were different… yet familiar. She stared at the Buckhead home she and Wesley had grown up in, then shook her head in confusion.

  Had she somehow driven in a painkiller-induced haze to her childhood home? She walked closer, up the curved flagstone walkway, noting the details of the lush landscaping, the elaborate covered entryway leading to regal double-doors flanked by shining stained glass insets. She’d forgotten how truly beautiful the house was. She wondered with a pang who lived there now.

  The thought still lingered in her mind when the front door opened and an elegantly-dressed woman emerged to scoop up the folded newspaper lying in front of the door.

  Carlotta panicked, a lie already forming on her lips for when the woman demanded to know why she was standing in her yard. Instead, when the woman glanced up, a smile spread across her face.

  “Carlotta? This is a nice surprise.”

  Carlotta’s heart stopped. Her lungs froze. Her brain refused to register what her eyes were seeing. At last, her tongue loosened. “Mother?”

  Chapter 2

  Carlotta stared at the woman she hadn’t seen in more than ten years. Valerie Randolph had aged gracefully, her jet hair still convincingly dark, but cropped to her chin, her cheekbones still high and perhaps more chisele
d, her brown eyes framed with enough lines to hint at experience. She remained tall and slender as ever. She wore a long black silky robe and matching mules, her taste as impeccable as Carlotta remembered.

  Her mother gave a little laugh. “Are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “Where… where have you been?” Carlotta asked carefully.

  A little wrinkle marred Valerie’s brow. “It’s been a busy week—I was at the club yesterday, and at the chiropractor the day before. Did I miss your call?”

  Carlotta’s mind raced. Valerie acted as if she had seen Carlotta mere days ago. At the time of her parents’ disappearance, her mother had been a high-functioning alcoholic… perhaps she was living in her own reality.

  “Yes,” Carlotta murmured. “I was worried.”

  Valerie looked contrite. “I’m sorry. Do you need to tell me something?”

  How about a million somethings? Maybe their old home was currently vacant. Maybe Valerie had returned to Atlanta with Randolph, and had taken up residence in the unoccupied home—hadn’t she seen a news segment about evicted residents returning to their empty homes? Her mother’s history with alcohol would explain such aberrant behavior.

  Although it didn’t explain how she herself had gotten here.

  Valerie walked toward her, her expression one of concern. Carlotta stood rooted to the spot, fear rising in her chest as Valerie reached out to her, half expecting her mother’s hand to pass through her. When her mother’s fingers touched her arm, she marveled over the contact.

  “Why don’t you come inside, sweetheart.” Valerie’s voice sounded gentle, as if Carlotta was the unstable one.

  Carlotta followed her into the house, steeled to see a vacant interior, fallen into disrepair. But when she walked over the threshold into the grand foyer that opened into rooms leading off in every direction, she was plunged headlong into her mother’s decadent decorating style—Old World European. Heavy antiques, plush rugs, and luxurious fabrics furnished the rooms of the home she remembered. It was the same as when she’d lived here, only different. More… modern?