Body Movers

by Stephanie Bond

  “What did she say?”

  “She had the idea that…Peter and I were having an affair.”

  He lifted his cup to his mouth. “Why would she think that?”

  Carlotta fidgeted. “Perhaps because he and I were engaged before they were.”

  “But you said that happened years ago.”

  “Yes. Peter ended our relationship about the same time my parents left.”

  He frowned. “He dumped you when the going got tough, huh?”

  “He was just a kid,” she said defensively. “I was hurt, but I eventually understood why he did what he did.”

  “So maybe Mr. Ashford has been pining for you all these years?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

  “But Mrs. Ashford seemed to.”

  She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Look, what I’m trying to tell you is that Angela might have been the one having the affair. I don’t know if it means anything, but I felt obligated to tell you, so there.” At this point, mentioning that the woman had also tried to strangle her seemed like overkill.

  He leaned back in his chair and shook his head slowly. “You want to know what I think? I think that you imagined this thin story of Angela Ashford having a lover to make yourself feel better over the fact that whatever was going on between you and her husband might have made her take a flying leap into that pool all on her own.”

  Carlotta’s mouth opened, then closed as denial washed over her.

  He lifted his cup to her. “This theory that you have—where I come from, we call that borrowing trouble. The truth is, Ms. Wren, you and Peter Ashford both should be thankful that the M.E. ruled the death an accident.” He smiled. “Now you can carry on with a clear conscience.”

  White-hot anger whipped through her. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He looked her up and down over the top of his cup, then he gave a little laugh. “Maybe not, but I know guilt when I see it, lady.”

  Carlotta glared at him, then wheeled and stalked away as fast as her high heels would allow. The man was insufferable!

  And dead on.

  18

  C arlotta pulled up in front of Hannah’s apartment building just as Hannah bounded outside, long black leather skirt flowing, thick buckles and silver chains clanging. She opened the passenger-side door of Carlotta’s car and slid inside. “Hiya.”

  Carlotta stared at the goth garb. “Hannah, for Christ’s sake, this is a funeral not a Halloween party!”

  “I’m wearing black,” Hannah said, unfazed as she buckled her seat belt.

  “When are you going to let me give you a makeover?”

  “Let me see…uh, never. Besides, what does it matter what a person wears to a funeral?” She snorted. “I can promise you the person in the casket doesn’t give a crispy crap.”

  Carlotta frowned. “Funerals are for the living, and I can promise you, everyone at this funeral will be dressed as if they were going to the Oscars.”

  “Do you think they’ll have food? I’m starving.”

  “No, they won’t have food, you idiot. It’s a funeral. Haven’t you ever been to a funeral?”

  “No,” Hannah said. “Have you?”

  “No,” Carlotta admitted. “But I’ve seen them on television, and there’s no buffet.”

  “I don’t know why you want to go to your ex-boyfriend’s wife’s funeral anyway. It’s like you’re rubbing it in that you’re still alive and she’s…not.”

  “That’s a terrible thing to say. I knew Angela—we went to school together, and I told you, she was a customer of mine.”

  Hannah gave her a sideways glance. “But what aren’t you telling me?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Huh?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Huh?”

  Carlotta sighed. “Okay…the other night when I ran into Peter at the party…”

  “Yeah?”

  “When I left, he followed me.”

  “And?”

  “And…we kissed.”

  Hannah whooped. “You kissed a married man? After all the shit you’ve given me over the years?”

  “It’s not something I’m proud of.”

  Hannah hooted. “This is great.” Then she stopped. “Oh, wait. You kissed the man and a couple of days later, his wife drowns in a pool. That’s not great, that’s…weirdly coincidental.”

  Carlotta wet her lips. “I know.”

  “Oh my God, do you think he killed her?”

  Her hands tightened on the steering wheel. “Of course not.”

  Hannah jumped up and down in her seat. “Maybe he killed her because he’s still in love with you! Oh my God, that’s so romantic!”

  Carlotta was starting to regret her decision to ask Hannah to attend the funeral with her, but she’d thought she’d stick out more if she went alone. Now with Hannah’s getup—and her oozing mouth—the only thing she needed to draw more attention to them was a flare.

  “Peter didn’t kill Angela,” Carlotta said carefully. “She was drunk and fell into the pool. The coroner’s office ruled her death an accidental drowning.”

  “Mighty convenient for you,” Hannah said slyly.

  “That’s not remotely funny.”

  “But it’s true. You must still have feelings for this guy, Carlotta. I saw how shaken up you were the night you ran into him. I’ve never seen you have anything more than disdain for men. In fact, I was beginning to think that you might prefer women.”

  “Also not funny. And my reaction to Peter, well, I was just so shocked seeing him after all these years, I was disoriented.”

  “So…you don’t have feelings for him.”

  Carlotta rolled her shoulders. “I didn’t say that. I’m confused. Besides, I don’t think it’s appropriate to lust after a man who’s grieving for his wife.”

  “Are you kidding? If he’s as rich as you say, there’ll be single women stacked up at this shindig to wipe his tears. If you want him, you’d better be prepared to claw your way to the top of the pussy pile.”

  Carlotta frowned. “I have no intention to claw my way anywhere. Here’s the place,” she said, slowing and signaling to turn into the Motherwell Funeral Home, a stately white plantation-style home in front with some less attractive additions jutting off the back.

  “Damn, look at the cars,” Hannah said.

  Indeed, Carlotta felt self-conscious parking her muscle car next to the Beemers and Mercedes and Bentleys, but it couldn’t be helped. She climbed out, aware that their arrival had garnered a few stares from other attendees who glanced at her car—and Hannah—with faint distaste as they strolled by. Seriously suited men and severely coiffed women made their way toward the entrance of the funeral home.

  Carlotta’s pulse pounded harder as they fell in with the crowd, still questioning her decision to attend but unable to deny the compulsion that had grown since her encounter with Jack Terry. Damn him, he was right about her guilt. Her conscience wouldn’t let her rest and no matter what she’d told the detective, or Hannah, for that matter, she wasn’t at peace with the M.E.’s ruling of the cause of death. She had convinced herself that attending the funeral might settle her mind, give her a sense of closure.

  She dearly hoped so.

  They were almost to the entrance when a man’s voice sounded. “Carlotta, hello.”

  She turned her head to see Walt Tully and next to him, his daughter Tracey. Recalling that her last encounter with her estranged godfather had been during her accidental reunion with Peter, Carlotta almost panicked, but pulled a smile out of thin air. “Hello, Walt, Tracey.”

  “Carlotta, it’s been just ages,” Tracey said, raising her left hand to her cheek in a way that sent the sun beaming off the knuckle-spanning cluster of diamonds. “Daddy said he ran into you the other night…with Peter, of all people.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I can’t believe Angela drowned in her own pool,” the woman said, her voice
melodramatic. “And I can’t imagine a more horrific way to die.”

  “Actually,” Hannah interjected, “I read on the Internet that the most painful way to die is in a garbage-truck compacter, but drowning ranks near the top.”

  Tracey glowered at her, then turned her attention back to Carlotta. “Didn’t Peter used to date you?”

  “We used to date each other,” Carlotta clarified quietly. “A long time ago.”

  “Oh…right,” Tracey said, then looked puzzled. “So…are you here for Peter?”

  To support him, or to nab him? The innocent question was loaded with catty suspicion. Carlotta pushed her tongue into her cheek. “Actually, I’m here because I know—knew Angela.”

  “Really? That’s strange because Angela was a very good friend of mine and never mentioned you…in that way.”

  Carlotta wondered in just what “way” Angela had mentioned her name—in tandem with the C word, no doubt.

  While Carlotta cast about for an ambiguous response, Tracey changed tack. “What is it that you do again, Carlotta? Seems like I remember that you worked for Neiman’s years ago.”

  “Still do,” Carlotta said cheerfully.

  “Oh.”

  Only her mother had been able to inject more disapproval into one word.

  Hannah dug her elbow into Carlotta’s side. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends?”

  “Uh, Hannah Kizer…Walt and Tracey Tully.”

  “Lowenstein now,” Tracey gushed, flashing her ring again. “Mrs. Dr. Lowenstein.”

  “Mrs. Dr.?” Hannah asked, feigning awe. “I’ll bet that looks great on your vanity license plate.”

  Tracey’s eyes narrowed, then she huffed and tugged on her father’s arm. Walt gave Carlotta a suspicious, lingering look that unnerved her before he hurried away.

  “Behave,” Carlotta hissed. “That’s my godfather.”

  “Damn, I’d hate to see how they treat complete strangers.”

  “Shh,” Carlotta said as they stepped into the crowded wood-paneled foyer of the funeral home. The sickeningly sweet smell of live flowers rode the air as they shuffled forward on industrial-grade beige carpet toward what appeared to be the main parlor. At the far end of the entryway, a tall man in a striking brown suit nodded to her over the heads of the crowd. Surprised, she smiled and nodded back.

  “Who’s the deep dish?” Hannah said into her ear.

  “It’s Wesley’s boss, Cooper Craft. I guess this is his family’s funeral home. I had no idea.”

  “Yowza, he’s hot.”

  “He’s a funeral director,” Carlotta reminded her friend, but she had to admit, the man knew how to wear a suit.

  “So? What’s the saying—cold hands, big schlong?”

  Carlotta shook her head in exasperation as they were swept up in the crowd and herded into the burgundy-and-hunter-green parlor where low organ music played. They seized two of the few remaining empty seats, and the walls were quickly lined with overflow guests.

  Standing room only, Carlotta thought morosely. Angela would be thrilled, if only she weren’t dead.

  But she was dead, lying, presumably, inside the gold-and-white casket on display at the top of three steps at the front of the long room, flanked on either side by countless baskets and wreaths of flowers, crammed into every square inch of space, each seemingly more huge than the next.

  “Christ,” Hannah groused, “how many acres of hot-house flowers were depleted for this send-off?”

  Carlotta ignored her and as discreetly as possible looked for Peter. She spotted him in the front row, head bent as he spoke to the tanned, older couple next to him—Angela’s parents, no doubt. On the other side of him sat his own parents, spines ramrod straight, the picture of propriety. The same propriety that had driven Peter to end their engagement ten years ago. How different things might have been if only…

  A few rows in front of them, Tracey Tully bent her head to whisper into the ear of the woman sitting next to her, and the woman turned around to send a laser stare Carlotta’s way. She watched as Tracey’s companion then whispered to the next woman, who turned to gawk. One by one, the entire row of women turned to look, all of their noses identically chiseled, their mouths tattooed with permanent lip liner.

  “Are the clones friends of yours?” Hannah asked dryly.

  “Hardly,” Carlotta murmured, “although I’m sure I went to school with some of them.”

  The rise of organ music signaled that the service was about to begin. A minister strode down the aisle and stopped to shake hands with Peter and with Angela’s parents before ascending to the podium. He read a short, dry eulogy in a detached monotone and as he droned on, Carlotta realized that the man had probably never met Angela Ashford or, if he had, that he didn’t know her. He divulged no personal details, nothing to conjure up images of Angela as a living, breathing human being.

  The same was true for the three women (all of them with names ending in “i”), who had apparently requested or had been asked by the family to talk about Angela.

  “She loved Peter more than anything,” Staci gushed into the microphone. “The day they were married was the happiest day of her life.”

  “She worked out and took care of herself,” Lori said. “Everyone on the tennis team is really going to miss her.”

  “Her house was her pride and joy,” Tami said, “down to the last flower arrangement.”

  “Egad,” Hannah whispered behind her hand. “If that was her life, she’s probably glad she’s dead.”

  Helplessness tightened Carlotta’s chest as she remembered the two sentences the radio announcer had used to sum up Angela’s life and death. The indifference was heartbreaking, but Carlotta had expected more out of the woman’s friends.

  “Would anyone else like to share their memories of Angela?” the minister asked, giving the audience a cursory glance.

  Stand up, Carlotta willed Peter. If you had any feelings for this woman, don’t let people leave here thinking that the sum of her existence was being your wife, going to the gym and living in a big house.

  “Very well,” the minister said.

  “Wait,” Carlotta said, lurching to her feet. She felt everyone’s heads turn toward her and the weight of their attention fall on her.

  “Yes?” the minister said. “You’d like to say something?”

  Now what? her racing mind screamed. Her gaze flitted over the expectant crowd and to the bewildered expression on Peter’s face.

  “Go ahead,” the minister urged.

  Carlotta wet her lips and clamped her hands on the back of the seat in front of her. “Angela and I were friends a long time ago,” she said, her voice high and shaking. She took a deep breath, then exhaled. “A lifetime ago really—we were just kids, trying to make sense of things.” She gave a little laugh. “Angela had a talent for drawing cartoons. She would make up characters and stories about them and put together her own little comic books. She was really good at it, and said that she’d like to draw comics for a living someday.”

  The room was deadly quiet now, and Carlotta’s throat tightened. Fervently wishing she’d never stood up, she pressed on. “Angela bit her fingernails to the quick, she always dreamed of owning a pinto-colored horse and she could hit the high note in ‘The Star-Spangled Banner.’ I remember her saying that one of her favorite movies was Awakenings—she was captivated by the fact that people could be frozen inside themselves, and how agonizing it must be to want to get out and not be able.”

  People were gaping at her now, and she realized that this crowd didn’t really want to hear anything deep or meaningful about the woman in the casket. They simply wanted to do their duty as neighbors and club members and put in ass-time at the funeral. Some of them were already glancing at their watches. Angela’s parents seemed confused and although Peter was smiling, based on the way people were looking back and forth between them, she wasn’t so sure that was a good thing.

  “She’ll be missed,”
Carlotta finished abruptly, then sat down.

  “That was memorable,” Hannah muttered.

  As the minister brooked the awkward pause with a thank-you and some throat-clearing, she could feel people’s sideways glances land on her and whisperings ensue.

  “Who is that?”

  “Is she drunk?”

  “What was she talking about?”

  In front of her, the Clone Club was practically buzzing. Her face flamed as she shifted in her seat. In trying to reveal a side of Angela that no one else seemed privy to (or would own up to), she’d simply made a spectacle of herself. And the kicker was, she couldn’t explain what had made her do what she’d done.

  At the side of the room, she caught the eye of Cooper Craft, who was staring at her with a little smile. He inclined his head as if to say “well done,” but she couldn’t be sure that he wasn’t making fun of her.

  She stared at her hands for the rest of the service, standing at the end to join in the processional past the casket and to shake hands with the family. Her feet felt like lead as she made her way up the aisle, but she shuffled along until she stood before Angela’s parents and Peter. Even as she shook hands with the stoic couple, she felt Peter’s gaze on her. When she finally looked at him, his blue, blue eyes bored into her, and she could sense that he was holding himself back from embracing her. He clasped her hand and squeezed her fingers, sending wholly inappropriate sensations tumbling through her body. Her heart expanded painfully.

  “Thank you for coming,” he said, just as if she were anybody…or nobody.

  “You’re welcome,” she said, then pulled her hand away and followed the crowd out into the parlor where people were pouring out the front door, moving toward their cars, already discussing where they might have lunch. On the other side of the foyer, Cooper Craft stood erect with his hands folded in front of him, a serene expression on his face, the picture of poise and comfort.

  “There won’t be a graveside service?” an older woman was demanding to know.

  “Um, no, ma’am.”