Body Movers

by Stephanie Bond

  The guy had it made, Wesley thought, shaking his head. As his friend guided the little sports car down the street toward the town house, he said, “Thanks for the ride home, man. And the piece.”

  “Call it a bonus for taking care of the speeding tickets.” Chance laughed. “I pretended to be an employer doing a background check and called to see if the tickets were gone. My record is clean as Clorox.”

  “Great.” Wesley jerked his thumb toward the town house. “Want to come in?”

  “Nah, I’ll pass,” Chance said. “All that talk about women got me horny. I think I’ll go get a massage, if you know what I mean.”

  He did. Chance liked paying for sex, even though he didn’t have to. But his trust fund had to be spent somehow.

  “Catch you later,” Wesley said.

  “I keep hearing rumors of a high-stakes poker game being put together. When it happens, I’ll give you a call.”

  “Okay,” Wesley said, and stepped away from the car. He approached the house with trepidation, looking up and down the street for suspicious cars. Seeing none, he breathed a little easier and went inside.

  After he reached his room, he closed the door and inspected the gun again, taking a couple of test aims in his mirror. Then he glanced around for a hiding place, trying to think of somewhere that Carlotta—and the police—would never look. He considered and discarded the top of his closet, the clothes hamper and a boot. Then he glanced at Einstein’s enclosure and smiled. No one would look there.

  He unlocked the pin, slid the screen top aside and reached in to place the small revolver and box of shells in the base of a driftwood decoration that he seemed to like more than Einstein did. As he expected, Einstein barely moved.

  “Hungry yet?” He retrieved the squeaking mouse from its temporary home and dangled it in front of the python, without consequence. “A few more days and I’ll have to force-feed you,” Wesley warned, returning the mouse to its container. “Just don’t swallow my gun. I’d have a hell of a time explaining that one to the veterinarian.”

  And to Carlotta. She’d never understand that having the gun within reach made him feel better able to protect her. He smirked, thinking of his green-eyed, flame-haired probation officer. If she knew he had a gun, she, too, would have his hide.

  He lay down on his bed and crossed his hands behind his head. Of course, that might be fun.

  Yes, things were definitely looking up.

  20

  “I s everything okay, Carlotta?”

  Carlotta started from her reverie as she nodded to her boss. “Fine, thanks.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Lindy said. “You’ve seemed preoccupied of late. Last week’s sales reports just crossed my desk and for the first time that I can remember, your name wasn’t at the top.”

  A flush burned its way up Carlotta’s face. “Um, I guess I’m going through a little slump.”

  “It happens,” Lindy said. “I just hope it doesn’t last too long. There are lots of sales associates who’d love to have a crack at your department.”

  Carlotta’s stomach did a little flip and she dipped her chin. The fact that Neiman’s prided itself on having the best, sharpest employees was what had attracted her to the company in the first place—next to the employee discount, of course. “I understand, Lindy. Don’t worry, things are…back to normal.”

  “Good,” Lindy said. “Carry on.”

  Watching her boss stride away, Carlotta gave herself a mental shake. She had to get her mind back on her job and off the preoccupations that threatened to drive her insane, namely, Angela’s death, and Peter’s possible involvement.

  Oh, and then there was everything else that was wrong in her life.

  It had been three days since Angela’s funeral, three days since she’d spoken with Coop about the men’s jacket and her suspicions concerning Angela’s death, and the more time that passed, the more she wished she’d kept her big mouth shut.

  Detective Terry was right—her deep-seated guilt over her feelings for Peter were driving her to make preposterous assumptions about the jacket issue, which could’ve been innocent and completely unrelated to Angela’s marriage and drowning.

  Scowling at her own stupidity and determined to be rid of the jacket, she went to the dressing-room area and searched through a long rack of items tagged to be returned to the floor or to the manufacturer. She located the jacket and decided the best place for it was the trash—it was paid for, and no one was going to claim it. And with the heavy scent of smoke clinging to it, clearly it couldn’t be returned to the floor.

  She took the jacket from the hanger and wadded it up, cursing herself for even getting involved, and felt something unyielding in the inside breast pocket. Curious, she reached inside and pulled out a cigar encased in a small plastic bag with a zip top. Peter had an aversion to smoke—surely the cigar wasn’t his. She held up the jacket and checked the size. When Angela had purchased the jacket, Carlotta had assumed that Peter had filled out in the past ten years, but now that she’d seen him, this jacket was way too big for Peter. She squinted, recalling the thin frame of Angela’s father. This jacket was way too big for him as well.

  The hair on the back of her neck tingled as she considered the jacket and the cigar. She carefully rehung the jacket and covered it with a garment bag. There was no way she could smuggle it out and take it home—employees’ bags were checked when they left the store.

  But the cigar…

  She studied the eight-inch brown cylinder, wondering if it could help her locate the person who had purchased it. On the back of the plastic zip bag was a gold seal. She squinted to make out the letters: Moody’s Cigar Bar, Atlanta, Georgia.

  She considered calling Detective Terry and telling him about this new development, but the thought of his sarcastic reaction stopped her short. She had enough trouble with the man as it was. Besides, the cigar might lead to nothing at all, and it would be easy enough for her to locate Moody’s and ask a few discreet questions herself. A quick check of the phone book at the checkout counter gave her a street address—on the fringes of downtown Atlanta in an unpredictable part of town.

  Despite her promise to Lindy and to herself to get her mind back on her job, she was distracted and jumpy until her shift ended, then blew off Michael in the employee locker room in her rush to get to her car. Traffic was horrible, as usual, the roads choked with commuters vying to get home and tourists flocking to the aquarium. She craved a cigarette in the worst way—God, it didn’t take long to fall back into a bad habit.

  Like Peter, for instance.

  Toying with the radio buttons and tapping on the steering wheel helped to keep her hands busy, but her mind continued to rehash the events of the past couple of weeks. She had hoped that selling his engagement ring would help her to sever the bond she had foolishly maintained with Peter’s life. Yet with this little field trip, would she open yet another can of worms? Insinuate herself further into his affairs? She kept telling herself that she should just let it go, but something compelled her to keep moving.

  She got lost twice trying to find the address, but finally spotted the small neon sign—Moody’s—in a dark window, and darted in front of another car to nab a lone parking space. The area was on the verge of gentrification, but Moody’s, sandwiched between a new trendy-looking coffee shop and an adult video store, appeared to be part of the old neighborhood.

  She climbed out, dropped a few coins in the parking meter and made her way inside. A brass bell tinkled when she opened the big, solid door with a leaded glass insert. The shop was what the name implied—a dark, atmospheric space housed in a deep, narrow storefront with tall ceilings, art deco light fixtures and original black-and-red checkerboard linoleum tile floors. The lazy swirl of low-hanging ceiling fans did little to dispel the acrid odor of tobacco that permeated the air, tickling her nose and throat, making her want a cigarette even more.

  A horseshoe-shaped black lacquered counter dominated the center of the store.
The walls were lined with glass cabinets housing boxes of cigars and clear canisters filled with fragrant blends of loose tobacco. A scratchy recording of big band music sounded from an unseen source. The crammed, quaint space gave her the feeling that she’d stepped back in time, back to when pompadours and polka-dot dresses were in style, when men wore sock suspenders and hats with their suits.

  She liked it instantly.

  The sound of footsteps drew her attention to a stairway near the back of the room that she hadn’t noticed. A pair of shapely legs preceded a gray pencil skirt hugging slim hips, a prim white blouse straining over generous breasts and a nice double strand of pearls. The woman’s face appeared, and the words steel magnolia sprang to Carlotta’s mind. The pink-lipstick smile was welcoming, but beneath the teased pouf of bleach-blond hair, the kohl-lined eyes were piercing.

  “Hello,” the woman said as she made her way down the stairs, her drawl low and smooth. She was well into her fifties, and looked as if she’d kicked some ass in her day—and could still cause some serious harm if the situation called for it. In her elegantly manicured hand she held a half-smoked cigar, its smoke plume wafting behind her. At the bottom of the stairs a sign with an arrow pointed to a martini and wine bar on the upper level and Carlotta realized suddenly why the parking places were full and the store empty.

  “Hello.”

  “Can I help you, darlin’?”

  “Maybe,” Carlotta said, suddenly nervous as she reached into her purse and withdrew the cigar. She walked deeper into the store and could hear the buzz of a crowd overhead. “I’m looking for the person who purchased this cigar from your store.”

  The woman stepped forward with a little frown between her eyebrows. She set her cigar in one of the dozen colored glass ashtrays lining the massive black bar, then reached for the plastic bag. A young man wearing a waiter’s waist apron came clopping down the stairs and, referring to a notepad, moved from case to case, selecting cigars, obviously filling orders.

  A knot of customers came down, businessmen all of them, ties loosened and voices raised. “See you next time, June,” they said to the woman, and she called them each by name when she said goodbye.

  When the door closed behind them, the woman handed the plastic bag back to Carlotta, then picked up the cigar she’d been smoking and took a hearty puff. “That is a very expensive cigar, Miss—?”

  “Um, Carlotta. Carlotta Wren.”

  “I’m June Moody,” the woman said with a slow nod. “May I ask how it came into your possession?”

  “I…found it,” Carlotta said, hedging.

  The woman’s mouth twitched. “Do you smoke, Carlotta?”

  “Not cigars.”

  June Moody smiled. “You ever tried?”

  “No.”

  “Would you like to?”

  Carlotta hesitated. “Well…sure.”

  The woman’s smile lit her eyes and Carlotta had the feeling that she’d just passed some sort of test. “Why don’t you join me upstairs, and we can talk about how you happened to find such a fine cigar.”

  Intrigued and edgy, Carlotta followed the woman upstairs.

  “Carlos,” June said as they ascended, “would you please bring me an Amelia when you come up?”

  “Sure thing, Miss Moody.”

  They walked upstairs, where the furnishings were plush and the air was rich with smoke. The martini and wine bar resembled an old-fashioned parlor, with deep velvet chairs and thick rugs. The bar lined one side of the landing, surrounded by groupings of chairs and couches around low tables. Most of the seats were occupied by businessmen, with a stray woman here and there.

  Behind the bar was an older gentleman with a ponytail. He nodded to the women, his gaze raking Carlotta with appreciation.

  “May I offer you a drink, Carlotta?” June asked. “On the house.”

  “A martini, thank you,” Carlotta said to the man, taking in the art deco barware, decanters and glasses. “Nice place.”

  “I’m glad you like it,” June said, nodding her approval when the man dropped two olives in each crystal-clear martini. “Thank you, Nathan. Will you ask Tonia to keep an eye on the shop? Carlotta, let’s take our drinks in here.”

  Carlotta picked up her martini and followed the woman into a room where more tables and chairs were situated around a fireplace that, even unlit, was a welcoming feature. It was easy to see why Moody’s was a busy little place and Carlotta wondered with consternation why she hadn’t heard of it before now.

  “How long have you been in business?” she asked June as they sat in sumptuous gold-colored club chairs.

  “It was my father’s business,” the woman said, taking a sip of her drink. “He passed away four years ago. It’s been my place since then.”

  Carlotta surveyed all the men sitting back, cradling drinks and puffing on cigars. “I wondered where all the straight men in Atlanta were hiding.”

  June laughed. “They’re right here, darlin’. Bring in your girlfriends sometime.”

  Carlotta smiled at the thought of bringing Hannah and Michael to this place. They wouldn’t exactly “blend.”

  Carlos appeared and handed June a small, slender cigar about five inches long. June thanked him, then handed the cigar to Carlotta. “I hope you don’t mind. I took the liberty of choosing a cigar I thought you’d like.”

  “Not at all,” Carlotta said. “But I don’t know what to do first.”

  “Some people take off the band, but I like to leave it on so that the tobacco doesn’t stain my fingers, at least until it burns down.”

  She read the colorful band: Key West Havana Cigar Company. “Okay.”

  “Here’s a cutter,” June said, handing her one of the small guillotine-looking devices that littered the tables next to enormous art-glass ashtrays. “The tapered end is the cap end. That’s the end that you cut and light. See the cut line?”

  Carlotta scrutinized the cigar, and saw the faint impression. “Yes.”

  “Don’t cut beyond the line or you’ll risk cutting the wrapper leaf.”

  Carlotta situated the cutter and severed the cap with surprising little effort.

  “Good. Do you have a lighter?”

  She withdrew from her purse the trusty mother-of-pearl lighter that she’d unearthed from a bureau drawer yesterday—just in case a cigarette fell into her lap.

  “Hold the cigar in your hand and rotate the cigar tip near the flame. It’s best if you don’t actually touch the tip to the flame. Just let it char from the fumes.”

  Carlotta did as she was told, fascinated. When embers began to appear, June said, “Okay, now put the cigar to your mouth and draw by pulling in your cheeks, like this.”

  She imitated the woman, noting the unfamiliar, but not unpleasant, taste of the leaf upon her lips. She was gratified when the tip of the cigar began to glow.

  “Good.” June sat back in her chair and raised her martini to her mouth. “It’s like giving a blow job, only more enjoyable.”

  Carlotta inhaled sharply at the unexpected comment and her lungs rebelled, sending her into a coughing spasm.

  “Don’t inhale,” June said, laughing. “Take it slow, puffing occasionally to keep it lit.” She smiled. “Also like a blow job.”

  Carlotta recovered, thinking it was a good thing that her memory was long, or the comparison would be lost on her. But she acknowledged that she liked the feel of the cigar in her hand, and that she was very tempted to like the woman across from her, although admittedly, June Moody was difficult to read.

  “So,” June said, turning her head to exhale, “tell me about the Dominican Cohiba.”

  Carlotta recognized the name as the brand of the cigar she’d brought in. Her mind whirled for an explanation more reasonable than the real one. “I work in a department store, and someone left it. I’m just trying to find the owner.”

  “I see,” June said mildly. “That’s mighty generous of you.”

  Carlotta smiled guiltily.

&n
bsp; “Did you actually see the person who left it?”

  “N-no.”

  “You just found it?”

  “In the pocket of a men’s jacket that had been returned.”

  “Ah. So why couldn’t you just check the sales receipt?” June puffed on her cigar casually, but her eyes were wary.

  Carlotta averted her gaze and pretended to concentrate on her cigar.

  “If you expect me to give you the name of my best customers,” June said, “you’re going to have to come up with a better story than that.”

  With a sigh, Carlotta decided to come clean with the woman. What choice did she have? “The jacket that I found the cigar in was purchased by a woman named Angela Ashford, who’s…dead.”

  She had June’s full attention now. “Go on.”

  “Angela drowned, but the circumstances around her death are suspicious and I thought…that is, I wondered…if she could have been involved with a man who had…hurt her.”

  June exhaled, then gave Carlotta a pointed look. “You mean, killed her?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “If her death is suspicious, then why aren’t the police involved?”

  “Let’s just say they’re not interested.”

  “So you thought you’d do a little investigative work on your own?”

  Carlotta nodded.

  “Were you friends with this Ashford woman?”

  “Sort of,” Carlotta hedged.

  “Was she married?”

  “Yes.”

  “So this jacket, the cigar—they don’t belong to her husband?”

  “No.”

  June’s eyebrows shot up. “I see. So the person who bought the cigar could have been a lover?”

  “Maybe. Again, I don’t know.”

  June sat forward and tapped ash into the beautiful ashtray. “So you’re asking me to divulge the names of the customers who bought this particular kind of Cohiba, knowing that it could lead to an investigation?”

  Carlotta nodded again. “If it’s an expensive cigar, it couldn’t be that many customers.”

  “Only a handful,” June confirmed.