7 Brides for 7 Bodies

by Stephanie Bond

  Carlotta was tempted to call her back—to grant her an exposé into the life of the children of fugitives, to make public the way she and Wesley had been ostracized and had scraped by. They had been victims as much as the people who’d lost money they’d invested with Randolph. It would serve him and Valerie right for what they’d done, and for what Randolph was still doing to them.

  “Rainie—wait.”

  The woman turned back. “Yes?”

  Except Wesley would never forgive her. And at the moment, the ground he stood on was shaky enough.

  “Enjoy celebrating Coop’s birthday.”

  The woman smiled wide. “We will. Thanks.”

  The rest of the day dragged, marked by hourly announcements on the P.A. system for whatever activity was taking place in the presentation area—a tasting, a class, a demonstration. Jack walked by once and waved, but didn’t stop, seemingly resolute to keep their pact. As the clock crept toward closing time, Carlotta became more and more antsy to get home to check the mailbox, although she knew the chance it would contain some sort of correspondence from her father was slim. And unless Wesley decided to put in an appearance to make dinner, she was looking at a bagged salad to keep her company.

  Stifling a yawn, she was on her way to the vending area for a shot of caffeine when she spotted someone who looked familiar. She did a double-take. The tall, polished woman wearing a tailored dress working the counter for HAL Properties, an exclusive hotelier in the Southeast, looked a little like...in this light, she sort of resembled...

  She could almost be mistaken for...

  The woman looked up and made eye contact. Then she froze.

  Carlotta’s eyes bugged. Hannah?

  Chapter Eleven

  INSTEAD OF WAVING, Hannah did a one-hundred-eighty-degree turn and strode out of the booth in the opposite direction.

  Carlotta frowned and walked after her. “Hannah, it’s me!”

  Ahead of her, Hannah picked up her pace and trotted through the crowd.

  Carlotta zigzagged between people to keep up. “Hannah, stop!”

  But Hannah was practically running now. Carlotta was ready to give up when she saw her friend trip and go down hard. She hurried to where Hannah had parted the crowd. She was lying on her back, slapping away hands that tried to help her up. Nearby lay a black high-heeled pump, minus the high heel. Carlotta rescued the amputated shoe.

  When Hannah saw Carlotta, she squeezed her eyes shut and played dead.

  Gone was the Goth makeup and in its place—if Carlotta had to guess from the air-brushed perfection—was Dinair foundation in Golden Tan. Gone were the miscellaneous rings in various face piercings and in their place, diamond stud earrings and a Mikimoto three-strand pearl choker. The fitted colorblock dress covering every inch of tattooed skin was Yves Saint Laurent. And her black and white striped hair had been tamed into a tight bun on the top of her head befitting of a ballerina.

  All dolled up, Hannah Kizer was gorgeous. And almost unrecognizable.

  Carlotta stood over her, hands on hips, taking it all in. “Hannah?”

  No response.

  “Should I call 9-1-1?” a woman standing next to Carlotta asked.

  “No, but thank you,” Carlotta said. “I’ve got this.” She smiled and waved off the lookey-loos, then crouched down. “Hannah?”

  Hannah cracked open one eye. “Yes?”

  “What’s going on?”

  The other eye opened. “It’s a wedding expo.”

  Carlotta pursed her mouth. “I mean, why were you running from me?”

  “I wasn’t running from you. I...had to go to the bathroom.”

  Carlotta arched an eyebrow. “Then you’d better get up.” She extended her hand.

  Hannah, looking miserable, let Carlotta help her stand. “Damn shoes.”

  Carlotta held up the leather pump. “You must have put a lot of miles on these. Burberry usually can withstand anything.”

  Hannah snatched it from her hand. “Good thing I brought flats as a backup. They’re back in the booth.”

  “That would be the HAL Properties booth?”

  Hannah squirmed. “That’s right.”

  “Are you moonlighting?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Do you work for HAL Properties, or don’t you?”

  Hannah’s berry-glossed mouth twitched downward. “My family kind of owns it.”

  Carlotta’s jaw loosened. “Your family owns HAL Properties?”

  Her friend nodded morosely. “It’s named for me and my sisters—Hannah, Anna, Linda.”

  “And the brother you once mentioned?”

  “Sterling. My folks put his name on their flagship hotel.”

  “The Sterling House?”

  Hannah sighed, then nodded.

  An exclusive five-star hotel in Midtown that boasted a mere twenty-five rooms of alleged unparalleled luxury—Carlotta had never been through the hallowed doors. But its reputation was the stuff of urban legend.

  Disparate pieces of information Hannah had let slip over the years began to fall into place—the disparaging remarks about her family, the implied estrangement. Carlotta had assumed her friend was ashamed of her family, and since she could relate, she hadn’t forced the issue. It hadn’t occurred to her that Hannah was embarrassed because they were wealthy.

  A memory bounced into her head—once when the police had questioned Hannah about a theft at the country club where she was waiting tables, an officer had recited the address from her driver’s license as West Paces Ferry. At the time, Carlotta had thought it strange that Hannah lived on the same street as the governor’s mansion, but the detail had gotten lost in the flurry of the moment. Now it made sense.

  “Wow...just...wow. Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

  Hannah bristled. “What difference does it make?”

  “I don’t believe it does.”

  “So why bother?”

  “Maybe because you know practically everything about my life?”

  Hannah shrugged. “I’m a private person.”

  Carlotta swept her arm up and down, indicating her friend’s drastic change in appearance. “I’m starting to think I don’t know you at all.”

  From the depths of her memory came the voice of Maria Marquez when the profiler had once offered up some unflattering observations about Carlotta’s relationship with Hannah. Is that why she’s friends with you—because you don’t care enough to ask questions?

  Hannah grimaced. “This isn’t me—this is who my parents want me to be.”

  “And this is so bad?”

  “It comes with too many expectations.”

  Unbidden, resentment rose in her chest. Had she and Wesley been a source of entertainment to Hannah...to see how the other half lived? “So you decided to slum it with the Wrens?”

  Hannah’s face clouded. “It wasn’t like that.”

  “Then how was it?”

  “Don’t be mad. Can we go somewhere to talk?”

  Carlotta hesitated. The sense of betrayal was keen...but her sense of curiosity won out. “We could go to Moody’s. But I rode MARTA, so you’ll have to drive.”

  “Okay,” Hannah said eagerly. “I’ll change my shoes and meet you by the entrance in ten minutes.”

  “I can walk with you.” She was dying to meet Hannah’s family.

  “No,” Hannah snapped, then looked contrite. “One step at a time, okay?”

  Carlotta stared after her, reeling inside. How was it possible to spend so much time with someone and know so little about them?

  Could she trust anyone except herself?

  Feeling numb, she made her way back to the booth to help Patricia tidy up and secure the cash registers. She glanced around, missing Jack and hating herself for it.

  “He hasn’t been by,” Patricia murmured.

  “Who?”

  The blonde gave her a pointed look. “That cop who doesn’t have anything to do with you and Peter breaking up.”

  Sh
e didn’t even have the energy to argue...life was sucking the life out of her.

  “See you tomorrow,” Carlotta said with as much of a smile as she could muster.

  When she reached the entrance, Hannah was waiting for her, her startling appearance further enhanced by the addition of a Valentino shoulder bag.

  “Nice purse,” Carlotta offered.

  “Shut up, or I’ll choke you with the strap.”

  “Ah, there’s the Hannah I know.” She smothered a smile and followed her friend to the parking garage, still marveling over the transformation.

  “God, this was the longest day of my life,” Hannah said. “What kind of sadist dreamt up the idea of a wedding expo?”

  “Oh, come on—no one forced throngs of women to be there.”

  “Please don’t tell me you are in the market for a wedding?”

  “No, I’m working the show for Neiman’s.”

  “How is Richie Rich?”

  “Actually, Peter and I are taking a little break.”

  Hannah lifted an eyebrow. “Do tell.”

  “Nothing to tell, I just have too much going on right now.”

  “Have you talked to your father?”

  “No. And at this point I don’t know when I will. I have an appointment with the D.A. Monday—I hope I can find out more then.”

  “How are you holding up?”

  Carlotta blinked back sudden tears, and her step faltered. “By a thread,” she admitted.

  “Hey, hey,” Hannah said, her voice surprisingly gentle. “You’ve made it this long...you can’t cave now. I’m sure the paperwork and the jurisdiction bullshit will be sorted out soon.”

  Carlotta sniffed, then nodded.

  “How’s your injury?”

  “Healing.”

  “At least that nightmare is over.”

  So true...but was another one beginning?

  Hannah stopped, and Carlotta scanned the rows of parked cars.

  “Where’s the van?”

  The car next to them chirped, then the doors unlocked. “Um, this is my ride.”

  Carlotta stared at the silver Audi two-seater. “Seriously?”

  “Just get in, goddammit.”

  They didn’t talk much on the drive to Moody’s—zippy convertibles were convenient that way. The breezy ride allowed Carlotta to study her friend who was, if not wholly comfortable with the designer togs and transportation, at least in command of them.

  “Please stop looking at me like that,” Hannah said after they’d parked and climbed out.

  “Sorry. It’s just so—”

  “Obnoxious? I know.”

  “I was going to say disconcerting. It’s going to take a while for me to adjust, that’s all.”

  “Oh, no—don’t get used to this.”

  “I can’t unsee it.”

  “Try.”

  “Hannah, you look terrific!”

  “Please—you sound like my sisters.” She held open the door to Moody’s. “Hurry, let’s get a drink.”

  The inside of Moody’s cigar bar was hopping with commuters waiting out rush hour. The bottom floor of the establishment was packed with suited men and women perusing the glass cabinets and counters that held every kind of cigar, loose tobacco, and smoking accessory. The girls headed upstairs to the martini bar, where patrons could lounge in velvet club chairs and deep leather couches around coffee tables studded with interesting ashtrays, lighters, and boxes of wooden matches. Carlotta spotted the proprietor, June Moody, leaning against the bar, chatting with Nathan the bartender.

  June greeted her with a concerned smile. “Hello, dear. You made the newspapers again. How are you?”

  “Hanging in there,” Carlotta said, her heart brimming with fondness for the woman who’d always given her sage advice.

  “And who’s your friend?”

  Carlotta grinned, but Hannah scoffed. “It’s me, June—Hannah.”

  June gaped, then recovered. “I didn’t recognize you. You look—”

  “Great!” Nathan finished, his eyes bugged.

  Hannah made a face. “Can I get a martini—very dirty?”

  “Make that two,” Carlotta said.

  “I’m going to the john,” Hannah said, then disappeared into the crowd.

  June gave Carlotta a quizzical look, but Carlotta just shrugged.

  The older woman laid her hand on Carlotta’s arm. “I’m so relieved that awful Dr. Abrams is in jail. He almost got away with driving Coop to total ruin, and hurting you.”

  “Coop is resilient. And I’m stronger than I look.”

  “I understand your father is back in town?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And you’re happy about that?”

  “Mostly. I’ll feel better when I get to talk to him, and find out where my mother is.”

  “Of course.” June’s eyes were moist, probably because she couldn’t imagine abandoning her son the way Valerie Wren had abandoned her children. Then she signaled Nathan. “Drinks for Carlotta and Hannah are on the house.”

  “That’s not necessary—”

  “Sure it is,” June insisted. “You have a lot to celebrate.” Then she spotted Hannah returning and lowered her voice. “And I want to encourage Hannah to look normal more often.”

  Carlotta laughed.

  When Hannah was settled on the stool next to her, June left to check on customers.

  “People are looking at me,” Hannah said.

  “It’s because you’re beautiful,” Carlotta said.

  “I’m the same person I am in my Goth getup.”

  “Yes, but you look more approachable. What does Chance think?”

  Hannah narrowed her eyes. “He doesn’t know...and you’re not going to say anything.”

  “He might like it.”

  “But I don’t. I can’t imagine a world where I dress like this all the time.”

  Carlotta drank deeply of the chilled martini and thought of the Hannah she’d met in the other place she’d visited. “You don’t think it’s possible that we’re all living different lives in other dimensions of the universe?”

  Hannah frowned. “Did that Abrams lunatic hit you on the head?”

  “That would actually explain a lot,” Carlotta admitted.

  Between sips of their drinks, they swapped customer stories from the Wedding Expo. “I heard a male model died during a fashion show?” Hannah asked.

  “Yeah, I was there. It was sad.”

  “Figures—the only interesting thing to happen and it’s on the day I’m not working the show.”

  Carlotta gave her a chiding look. “I assume the Expo is the ‘catering gig’ you texted me you were working?”

  “Yep. My sisters want to grow the banquets part of the business, so they set this up, and I couldn’t get out of it.”

  “If your family owns high-end properties, why do you work catering gigs?”

  “I want something of my own. I want to be a chef someday.”

  “At one of your family’s hotels?”

  “Maybe. But I don’t want the job handed to me.”

  Carlotta nodded. “I admire you for that. If I were in your shoes, I don’t know if I could be so independent.”

  “Sure you could—you’re the most independent person I know.”

  She shook her head. “It’s different—I had no choice. You, on the other hand, are choosing the harder way.” She lifted her martini glass to Hannah’s. “Cheers, my friend.”

  Hannah smiled and clinked her glass. “Cheers.”

  They drank the last of their martinis, then Carlotta sighed. “But can I be a little jealous?”

  Hannah laughed. “So catch me up. If you and Peter are on the outs, is Jack moving in?”

  Carlotta blinked. “Uh—that would be no. Jack and I are taking a break, too. Since he arrested Randolph and all.”

  “Right.” Hannah fingered the stem of her empty glass. “So...you and Coop?”

  “Also on a break.”
<
br />   “Because of the Abrams thing?”

  “Right.”

  “Cool,” Hannah said, looking much relieved.

  Carlotta decided not to mention that Rainie Stephens seemed to have set her cap for Coop.

  Hannah pulled her ringing phone from her bag, then grinned. “Speak of the devil!” She connected the call. “Hi, Coop!”

  Carlotta sat up in surprise. Coop?

  Hannah’s eyes rounded. “Sure!” Then she glanced at Carlotta. “Actually, Carlotta’s with me. Okay...we’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” She tapped the screen to end the call and squealed. “Coop needs a second on a body-moving job. Let’s go!”

  Carlotta pushed off the stool and fished in her wallet for a tip. “I wonder why he didn’t call Wesley?” Or her, dammit.

  “He said he couldn’t reach Wes, and he knew you had a bum shoulder.”

  That hadn’t stopped him from calling the time her arm had been broken. Coop was definitely avoiding her...or was trying to. “I’m right behind you.”

  Chapter Twelve

  A SNAPPING NOISE sounded in Wesley’s ear. “Wren!”

  He jerked his head toward the player on his left.

  “Shit or get off the pot, man.”

  He shifted on the metal folding chair that was killing his bony behind, feigning worry to drag out the hand of Texas hold ’em poker. The community cards had been dealt and he had the nut hand of a straight flush, so he was going home with the pot of about five hundred piled on the table in front of him. But if he slow-bid, he could squeeze another fifty or so out of his three new friends. Chance had told him about the game taking place in the kitchen of a pub in Little Five Points. The kitty hadn’t been enough for his buddy to sponsor for a cut, but with a baby on the way, Wes needed every dollar he could get.

  Which was why he hadn’t taken Coop’s phone call. Body-moving money was okay, but the job would have to be a chartered bus wreck on I-285 to match poker money.

  Still...he’d missed working with Coop while his boss had taken a self-imposed sabbatical. Now that Coop was back, he was bound to have some good stories to tell.

  Wes peeked at his hand again, as if he hadn’t memorized it and what everyone else was holding, too. Snappy had a middling pair, probably eights. The greasy aproned guy across from him—the pub’s cook—was nursing three of a kind, probably fours or fives. The next guy over wearing a loud plaid shirt had been his only competition all night; Plaid was guarding a full house.