7 Brides for 7 Bodies

by Stephanie Bond

  “This is a nice surprise,” Edward said, offering an air kiss to her cheek in deference to having his hands full of pins and tape. “I thought I was going to get stuck with that Patricia girl.”

  “Patricia’s not so bad,” Carlotta murmured guiltily.

  “Well, look at you, being all generous,” Edward said with a grin. “I guess I’ll have to get to know her better. Hey—what are you even doing here? Weren’t you stabbed or something?”

  “A flesh wound,” she said with a wave.

  He shook his head. “Lately, you’ve been on the news more than the mayor.”

  She squirmed. Edward was from New York, so hopefully he wasn’t privy to the entire sordid story of Randolph “The Bird” Wren flying the coop and his subsequent return. “Put me to work. What can I do?”

  Edward gestured at the dozen or so male models wearing exquisite tuxes and suits, horsing around, and rolled his eyes. “Help me corral these young bucks. They have to be fitted, their hair combed, and lined up with their brides in thirty minutes. It’s like taking a bunch of toddlers on a field trip.” Indeed, they were destroying a cart of fruit and pastries sitting nearby, oblivious to the crumbs and powdered sugar falling onto lapels

  Edward’s jaw hardened. “Who brought in that food cart? Get it out!” He looked back to her and shook his head as two men wheeled it outside even as they stuffed donuts in their mouths. “Who thought finger food around two-thousand-dollar tuxes was a good idea?”

  She grinned. “Do you have the order they’re supposed to line up?”

  He nodded toward a sheet of paper taped to the end of a rolling shelf. “That’s the most I have to go on. This isn’t the most organized event.”

  “It’ll be fine,” she soothed. “People just want to be entertained.”

  Edward frowned. “So that’s why that blowhard Jarold Jett is here?”

  She detected a note of testiness in his voice that hinted of familiarity. “Do you know him?”

  “I worked for him years ago in New York. The man is a tyrant.”

  “Really? He seemed a little uppity, but then so do most celebrities.”

  “Jarold Jett is not a celebrity.”

  “Sorry—designer.”

  “Please. Our tailor at Neiman’s has more talent.”

  Carlotta laughed. “I walked in with him, and his tent is practically next door, so you’re bound to run into him.”

  “I’m safe,” Edward said with a wave of his hand. “Mr. Jett-Setter won’t remember a lowly pattern cutter from twenty years ago.”

  Raucous laughter blasted from the young men carousing in the tent, and a playful shoving match broke out. Edward scowled. “Watch the clothing, please!”

  Carlotta clapped her hands. “Can I have your attention, gentlemen?”

  All eyes swung in her direction. “You can have anything of mine you want!” a handsome, cocky guy crowed.

  More laughter ensued as Carlotta gave them a wry smile. “What I want is for you to line up in the order I call for Edward to make last-minute adjustments.”

  “Where are our brides?” one of the models asked, rubbing his hands together.

  “Next tent over,” she said, then plucked the sheet of paper from the rack. “Now, I need Darren, Lewis, Jeremy, Ben, Luke, Jonathon, Thom, Danny, Sam, and Tony to line up here.” She pointed to an imaginary spot and the men started moving toward it in various degrees of leisureliness. They were all slender and chiseled in that effortless way of young men, handsome and full of themselves, with good skin and straight teeth.

  “Isn’t this bad luck?” one of the men—Jeremy, if they were in the correct order—asked.

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  He seemed nervous as he pulled at his stiff white collar, and he was working a big wad of chewing gum. He had a pretty-boy, sullen look about him. Carlotta pegged him as a former prep school athlete—entitled and obviously underemployed. “Wearing a tux before your actual wedding day.” He slurred his words a little. He was either hung over or high. “Is it bad luck?”

  “Yeah, it means you’ll have to get married someday,” the guy behind him—Ben?—said with a laugh.

  “I am getting married,” Jeremy said miserably. “Next month.”

  “For real?” Ben asked, horrified. “Why?”

  “Have to...my girlfriend’s pregnant.”

  “Whoa,” Ben said, taking a step back, as if fatherhood might be contagious. “Bummer, dude.”

  “Tell me about it.” Jeremy swung his head back to Carlotta. “So I guess this’ll be my dry run, huh?”

  She tried to smile, but nursed a barb of sympathy for the baby this man-child had fathered, and hoped Jeremy would rise to the occasion. Her mouth watered to tell him that fathers could make or break a child.

  “Next,” Edward said, waving impatiently for Jeremy to step up for his jacket to be pinned.

  Carlotta swallowed the words, chiding herself not to project her personal problems onto other people. Jeremy might turn out to be a world-class dad.

  Or at least a dad who sticks around.

  She spent the next several minutes tying bowties and smoothing creases and giving stiff shoes a quick shine with a tissue while good-naturedly deflecting the young men’s frisky comments. Their youthful enthusiasm was a distraction from her problems.

  She shepherded them outside the tent just as beautiful women emerged from Jarold Jett’s tent wearing stunning creations of white, ivory, and—the newest bridal trend—pale pink. All the brides wore red wigs. A nod, she assumed, to Jarold’s fiancée Sabrina Bauers, who was famously ginger. And some designers used identical styling to ensure the attention was on the clothing, not the individual models.

  With an eye on his watch, Edward tried to organize the group by height and style. He chastised Jeremy for the gum, and Jeremy grudgingly took it out. Only to pop it back in as soon as Edward turned his back.

  Carlotta sighed—the child was going to have a child.

  Minus ten points.

  “Look alive, people,” Edward called. “You’re on in five minutes.”

  Indeed, in the background they could hear the emcee over the P.A. system welcoming the crowd to the fashion show, and a smattering of applause.

  Jarold Jett materialized. “I’ll take it from here,” he announced to Edward, dismissing him without a second glance.

  Edward gave her a sour “told you so” look and came to stand next to her while the guest designer reshuffled the order of the couples until he was satisfied.

  “And I get to introduce the prima donna,” Edward muttered. “Thanks for your help. Are you sticking around to watch the show?”

  She nodded. “I’ll come back here afterward to give you a hand.”

  Edward moved toward the stage door. Carlotta headed in the opposite direction to watch from the audience just as music began to play. Clumps of tiny girls walked down a carpeted runway wearing bright dresses with big skirts, scattering flower petals behind them—and tasting a choice few. The audience ahhed and laughed at their adorableness. The seats were full, so Carlotta moved to the back of the room to stand against a wall.

  She smiled at the show’s delightful opening, but acknowledged the headache that was needling its way to the surface—a by-product, no doubt, of the little grenade in the back of her mind fighting for her attention, threatening to detonate any second and take her down. Next to what was happening in her life, the frivolity of the bridal show seemed surreal.

  She clapped with the audience at the miniature models, but when her hands idled, her mind began to run wide open. What was happening to Randolph right now? Did their mother know yet he’d been arrested? How was Wesley holding up?

  Restless, she pulled her phone from her small purse to check for messages. Peter and Hannah had each texted twice, and she had voice mail messages from numbers she didn’t recognize. Hoping one of them was from Randolph, she dialed in to listen, her hand over one ear.

  One message was Rainie Stephen
s again, asking if they could talk. And the other was from D.A. Kelvin Lucas himself, commanding her to call his office and arrange an interview regarding The Charmed Killer case “as soon as humanly possible.”

  “Wow, what a face,” Jack murmured, stopping to stand next to her.

  She stabbed a button to delete the voice message and stashed her phone. “Kelvin Lucas has summoned me to his office for an interview.”

  “About what?”

  “He said it was about The Charmed Killer case, but I have a feeling he wants to talk about Randolph.”

  “I’d say that’s a safe bet. Abrams signed a confession, so hopefully there won’t be a trial, but Lucas still needs a follow-up statement from you describing the attack. When are you going?”

  “I’ll call back to make an appointment.”

  He wet his lips, then said, “Liz should probably go with you.”

  Carlotta rolled her eyes up at him.

  “I know you don’t like her—”

  “I hate her.”

  “Liz isn’t all bad.”

  Carlotta gave a harsh laugh that caused some people sitting in the back row to turn and shoot daggers with their eyes. She mouthed an apology, then lowered her voice. “Please do not try to sell me a bill of goods about the woman who slept with my father and my brother.” She bit her tongue to keep from adding “and you.” No need for Jack to know she still smarted over the fact that at one time he’d enjoyed Liz’s bed, too.

  “I’m just saying she can be an ally against Lucas.”

  “I’ll think about it. So...anything exciting happen on your rounds? Any misbehaving brides about?”

  He gave her a bored look. “You know it’s bad when you hope Mr. La-tee-dah buzzes you with a faux emergency.”

  “Did you just use the word ‘faux’?”

  He grimaced. “This is going to be a long damn week.”

  She swallowed a smile, nursing a pang of sympathy for Jack that he’d been relegated to the little boys’ table of police work, in part for trying to do something nice for her and Wesley.

  On the runway, a pint-sized, dark-haired boy in black tuxedo tails was “escorting” a little blond girl in a yellow dress down the aisle, staring at her with worshipful eyes. But she was having nothing to do with him. Her mouth was screwed up in a tight little bow and every time he tried to take her arm, she yanked it away. The crowd loved it. Carlotta laughed, thinking that the push and pull between men and women started in the womb. “They’re adorable.”

  When Jack didn’t say anything, she turned her head to find him staring at her.

  “What?” she asked.

  “I didn’t know you liked kids.”

  She shrugged. “I don’t dislike kids. I raised Wes, remember. You don’t like kids, Jack?”

  He shifted from foot to foot. “I like kids...I guess.”

  Carlotta squinted, confused at the turn of the conversation, but decided Jack was in a foul mood and wanted to be elsewhere—at the precinct, no doubt.

  Edward appeared on the stage and despite his earlier description of Jarold Jett, he smiled and gave the man a rousing introduction. But Carlotta noticed the tense body language of the men when Edward passed the microphone to his former boss.

  “Every woman dreams of her wedding day,” Jarold said, “and I’ve made it my mission to create gorgeous gowns to make her dreams come true. I hope you enjoy my new collection.”

  The crowd offered an exuberant welcome to the celebrity designer, then the lights dimmed, and the first couple emerged.

  The bride’s gown was elaborate, with a voluminous train. The groom was the miserably betrothed Jeremy, and although his smile was strained, she was happy to note he did the Neiman’s formal black suit justice. And even though she knew he and the female model had probably met only moments beforehand, they were a convincingly beautiful couple.

  And Carlotta had to admit there was something about seeing the proverbial bride and groom in all their dressed-up glory that made her heart swell in...anticipation? Hope? Optimism?

  “Do you like it?” Jack murmured.

  She started, then took in his mocking smile. “The gown? It’s lovely, but my taste is a bit more simple.”

  “Oh? You’ve already picked out your wedding dress?”

  She angled her head. “That would be ridiculous, don’t you think, since I’m not even engaged?”

  He conceded with a nod, then his expression changed. “Carlotta—”

  A gasp from the crowd interrupted him. Carlotta turned to see that Jeremy had collapsed on the runway. His body jerked with seizures. His “bride” was screeching and running in place.

  Jack was already jogging toward the stage, talking into his phone. Carlotta ran after him. He shouted for a doctor or a nurse and leapt to the stage. The young man stopped seizing and lay limp and unmoving. Carlotta’s heart squeezed in panic. She stepped up onto the runway to quiet the bride and pull her back.

  “What happened?” she asked the crying woman.

  “He was fine, then he just suddenly f-fell.”

  “Before you came out, did he say he was feeling ill?”

  “No...he asked for my number.” The young woman dissolved into sobs.

  At the end of the runway, Jack put his fingers against the man’s neck, but Carlotta could tell from his expression that he felt no pulse. A woman in the audience identified herself as a nurse and Jack waved her over. The lights came up, and in the harsh illumination Jeremy looked deathly pale.

  Jarold Jett came rushing out and shrieked with impressive showmanship. Carlotta handed off the hysterical bride to him and Edward, and noticed as they led her away that Jarold recovered enough to gently remind her not to get runny mascara on his gown.

  Jack shouted for everyone to stay back, and some in the audience headed for the exit. The nurse began chest compressions and was still administering them when the paramedics arrived a few minutes later. But when Jack made eye contact with Carlotta, he gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head and she realized with horror that the groom was dead. A paramedic covered the body with a sheet.

  The next few minutes were a blur as Jack attempted to clear the area. “Everybody—out!” he ordered, waving toward the exit.

  An attractive blond woman wearing a pink pantsuit approached Jack, looking distraught. “I’m Melissa Friedman, director of the Wedding World Expo. I can’t believe this has happened. How long will it take to remove the body?”

  “Maybe hours. I suggest you shut down the show.”

  The woman looked horrified. “The entire Expo?”

  “For the rest of the day, yes.”

  She straightened. “And who are you, exactly?”

  He produced his badge, which seemed to give her pause. “You’re closing down my show?”

  “No. I’m strongly suggesting that you close it down, out of respect.”

  Melissa Friedman’s mouth tightened. “All right. Just know that you are single-handedly crushing the dreams of countless women.”

  He gave her a flat smile. “So I’ve been told before. Now, if you don’t mind, we really need to clear this area for the medical examiner.”

  The woman trotted away, grim-faced.

  Jack glanced her way. “You, too, Carlotta—out.”

  She hated to be banished from the action. “But I talked to the vic just a few minutes ago.”

  One eyebrow climbed. “The vic? You’ve been watching Law & Order reruns again?”

  Her chin went up. “I’m just trying to help.”

  “Okay. Do you know his name?”

  From her bag, she pulled the list of the models’ names and scanned it. “Jeremy Atwater. By the way, he was slurring his words when we talked.”

  “He was drunk?”

  “Or maybe high. I didn’t smell any alcohol. The woman he was walking with told me he seemed fine, then he just fell.”

  “Do you mind if I ask the questions around here?”

  “Not at all, Jack.”
/>   He frowned. “Thank you. Now—out.”

  “But—”

  “No but’s, Carlotta. This isn’t a crime scene, so there’s nothing to stick your pretty nose into, no molehill to make a mountain out of.”

  She pulled back at his harsh tone, then he looked contrite.

  “It’s a horrible tragedy, but unfortunately, these things happen.”

  “But how can you be sure a crime wasn’t committed?”

  The P.A. system squawked, then a voice she recognized as Melissa Friedman sounded over hidden speakers. “Ladies and gentleman, due to unforeseen circumstances, I regret to inform you the Expo is closing for the day. But we’ll be open tomorrow through Wednesday to help you plan every minute of your special day. We look forward to seeing you again!”

  Jack gave Carlotta a pointed look and jerked his thumb toward the door.

  “Spoil sport,” she muttered.

  “Don’t forget ‘dream crusher.’ Now beat it.” His expression eased a bit. “Go home and take a nap and let your shoulder heal.”

  She frowned and slowly moved toward the exit. At the sight of the familiar medical examiner’s jacket threading through the crowd, Carlotta’s pulse picked up at the hope of seeing Cooper Craft—he would let her snoop. Instead, Assistant M.E. Prettyman appeared, and Carlotta was shot through with disappointment that she was out of angles to investigate the incident.

  Then she sighed—how pathetic that she needed a distraction from her life so badly she was hoping something sinister was afoot with a young man’s sudden death?

  Carlotta remembered Jeremy’s nervous question to her about whether wearing the tuxedo before his own wedding was bad luck. She obviously needed to brush up on wedding superstitions.

  Chapter Nine

  “THANKS FOR MEETING ME,” Liz said.

  Wesley nodded, afraid to speak. In the recent past he’d been tied to a chair, sliced up by a psychopath, robbed at gunpoint, and shot at on more than one occasion...yet this was the most scared he’d ever been in his life.