“The shoe?”
“Security Housing Unit. Your dad’s in solitary, only comes out to go to the mess hall.”
“What did he do to get put in solitary confinement?”
“Don’t know. My friends tried to talk to him, but he wasn’t interested in being friendly.”
Wes wet his lips. “Did they tell him they were asking for me?”
A couple seconds’ of silence passed, then Mouse said, “Yeah. He said all the more reason for him not to talk.”
Hurt boomeranged through his chest.
“Sorry, Little Man. I know it’s not the news you wanted, but at least you know your old man is okay.”
“Right,” Wes managed, hating the emotion vibrating in his voice. “Thanks anyway, Mouse.”
He ended the call before he started crying like a little girl. Randolph had shut him down—apparently he had no intention of communicating with his son.
The waitress arrived and set plate after loaded plate on the table. Wes stared at the piles of fluffy white pancakes and the heaps of bacon, but he couldn’t bring himself to pick up his fork. He’d suddenly lost his appetite.
Chapter Seventeen
“I’M GOING TO KILL HIM,” Edward King said through clenched teeth.
Carlotta rolled her eyes as she booted up the computer kiosk in the Your Perfect Man booth. “You’re not going to kill Jarold Jett. What happened?”
“He was supposed to judge student designs last night at a televised competition, and he was a no-show. I thought his assistant was going to come unglued.”
“She made it in, huh?”
“I guess so...although last night the poor girl seemed ready to board a plane and hightail it back to New York.”
“Did the competition take place anyway?”
“I stepped in to cover for Jarold, but those poor kids were devastated, thought they were going to meet a celebrity.”
Carlotta gave his arm a pat. “I’m sure they were equally impressed by your expertise.”
“It’s true I know more about fashion than that lout,” Edward said, softening under her praise. “And between us, I’ve heard his name recognition is slipping. But still, a commitment is a commitment.”
“Jarold must’ve had a good reason for missing the event.”
Edward’s mouth flattened. “According to Twitter, he was hanging out at the Clermont Lounge.”
She cringed. The city’s oldest strip club on Ponce de Leon Avenue was known for its kitschy atmosphere and unorthodox dancers—it was more of a tourist attraction for both sexes than a place where men got into trouble, but it wasn’t exactly a classy alibi.
“Speak of the devil,” Edward said loudly.
Carlotta turned to see Jarold Jett moving their way, with a harried-looking young woman trotting next to him and an irritable-looking Jack Terry bringing up the rear.
Jarold glared at Edward. “I heard that.”
Edward glared back. “I meant for you to. I’m sure Nia told you I had to make your excuses last night to a very disappointed group of students.”
The slender dark-haired woman—the long-suffering Nia, Carlotta presumed—flushed deep red and glanced at Jarold with something akin to fear. “I didn’t—”
“You should be thanking me,” Jarold cut in, wagging a finger at Edward. “That competition was good exposure for a patternmaker.”
Edward shook his head. “You’re going to get your comeuppance someday, Jarold. And I hope I’m there to see it.” He stalked off in one direction, and Jarold stalked off in the opposite direction.
Jack stifled a yawn. “This is the longest assignment of my career.”
She laughed. “Just four more days. Did the ladies at the Clermont Lounge keep you up late?”
Jack frowned. “I would’ve rather been home in bed.”
“You’re losing your edge, Jack.”
“Maybe,” he conceded, pulling a hand down his weary face. “How’s your shoulder?”
“Better, thanks. Guess where I was last night?”
“Do I want to know?”
“Picking up a body, with Coop.”
He frowned harder. “Your shoulder must be a lot better.”
“Hannah was with me. But get this—the victim died under suspicious circumstances and was also a groom.”
He squinted. “So?”
“Like Jeremy Atwater, the young man who collapsed on the runway.”
He held up his hand. “Stop. I see where this is going.”
“But doesn’t that seem curious to you?”
“No. I’m leaving now.”
“But Jack—”
“Goodbye, Carlotta.”
“By the way, I know you put a guy next door to watch me.”
He stopped. “What?”
“The guy in the house next to me and Wes—law-enforcement build, has a camera in the window pointed toward the townhouse?”
He threw up his hands as if to deflect responsibility. “Sounds like your run-of-the-mill voyeur. Keep your clothes on.” Then he shrugged. “Or don’t.” He turned and walked after Jarold Jett’s entourage.
Carlotta glared after Jack, wishing she could put her finger on what was different about him, something that went beyond a lack of sleep and their pact to stay away from each other...oh, and his general dismissal of any crime theory she had.
He seemed almost...defeated. She’d been so consumed with how her father’s return had affected her and Wes, she hadn’t considered how frustrated Jack must be to have finally collared Randolph Wren—the “get” of a career—only to be banished from the case and sent to stand in the corner.
Or perhaps he was still suffering from the loss of Maria?
Something was eating at him.
Her mind bounced back to the man living next door...something smelled, and it wasn’t fragrant.
When an idea popped into her head, she turned to the computer kiosk and looked up a business listing. As she punched the number into her phone, she wondered what kind of reception she might get on the other end.
“Sanders Real Estate Agency,” a young woman’s voice chirped, “home of Sammy “Sold” Sanders. How can I help you?”
Carlotta rolled her eyes at the cheesy moniker. “Yes, is Sammy available?”
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“Carlotta Wren. Please tell her I’m a friend of Jolie Goodman Underwood.”
“One moment, please.”
Sammy might not be pleased to hear from one of the women who had crashed her upscale pajama party and subsequently been arrested when another unwanted guest—a dead body—had been uncovered during the festivities, but she might be intrigued enough to take Carlotta’s phone call.
“Hold on,” the woman said. “I’m transferring you to Sammy’s cell.”
Bingo.
The phone clicked. “Hello, Carlotta. What a surprise. I’ve been seeing your name in the papers a lot lately.” The woman’s voice was well modulated, a tad suspicious, but with enough diplomacy to insure she’d get any commissions Carlotta might toss her way.
“Hi, Sammy. How’s business?”
“Fabulous. I’ve been the number one agent in Buckhead for three years running. What can I do for you, Carlotta?”
“Actually, I have a favor to ask.”
“A favor?” the woman repeated, with a hint of indignation.
“In return for something I think will be of value to you.”
“Which is?”
“A sixty percent off coupon on any item at Neiman Marcus.”
“I’m listening. But if it has anything to do with dead bodies, I’m out.”
Carlotta smiled into the phone. “I need to know everything you can tell me about the owner of the house next to mine.”
“That’s simple enough,” Sammy said. “I need the street address.”
Carlotta gave it to her.
“Are you interested in buying the house?”
“Maybe,” Carlotta hedged, knowing Sammy wou
ld be motivated to get more information if she sniffed a potential sale.
“Okay. Weekends are my busiest time. Can I get back to you early in the week?”
“Sure. Thanks, Sammy.”
Carlotta ended the call and started to minimize the search engine screen, then pursed her mouth.
Just because Jack wouldn’t listen to her theory on the suspicious deaths didn’t mean she couldn’t ask a few questions on her own. While the booth was still quiet, she performed searches for Jeremy Atwater and Greg Pena, just to see if there was any obvious overlap in their lives.
Thank heaven for social media.
There were personal pages, memorial postings, and recycled and forwarded entries filled with shock and sadness for the men, who were separated in age by several years. There were condolences for the family and the respective fiancées—Jenna and Iris—each of whom had posted an endless array of pictures. Funds had been set up for charitable donations to various causes in lieu of flowers. Carlotta didn’t find a mention of the men’s names in connection with each other, and a cursory review didn’t reveal shared friends, hobbies, places of employment, or proximity of address.
Of course, even if they weren’t related, it didn’t mean that one or both of the men hadn’t been murdered.
Then she sighed and rubbed her temples. The awfulness of The Charmed Killer case had left her paranoid. Most likely, Jeremy Atwater had died from some drug and/or alcohol reaction. And Greg Pena had slipped and cracked his head on the tub.
End of stories.
“What did I miss?” Patricia asked, striding into the booth.
“Nothing,” Carlotta assured her, zapping the screens she’d been studying. She gave herself a mental shake to get back to the matter at hand—her job. The one that kept a roof over her head and clothes on her back. “Looks like it’s going to be a nice crowd today. We should get some good commissions.”
“Uh-huh,” Patricia said, but she seemed distracted.
“Everything okay?”
She gave Carlotta a watery smile. “Leo and his ex-wife Kaitlin decided to meet here today so she can hand off their daughter Casey to Leo, and Casey can meet me.”
“This will be the first time you’ve met the ex and the daughter?”
Patricia nodded. “Kaitlin thinks it would be best if Casey meets me in a neutral environment. And Leo thinks Casey will be more comfortable with me if she sees me and Kaitlin together.”
“That sounds very civil.”
Patricia worried her lower lip. “It does, but kids don’t usually like me very much.”
Carlotta flitted her gaze over the woman’s prim suit and hairstyle, and cast about for something to ease her mind. “You’re good with people. You’ll know the right thing to say.”
Patricia brightened. “You think so?”
Carlotta nodded and felt guilty again for all the times she’d had unkind thoughts about Patricia Alexander. Peter hadn’t yet gotten her the list of clients her father had allegedly bilked. She wondered how many other familiar names would be on it. “If it makes you feel better, kids don’t seem to like me very much, either.”
“It’s probably your voice,” Patricia offered.
Carlotta blinked. “My voice?”
“The pitch is annoying...like a dog whistle.” She shrugged. “Maybe it hurts little kids’ ears.” Patricia turned to straighten items in the display.
Carlotta fumed, then stuck out her tongue at Patricia’s back. So much for trying to be nice.
She turned and flinched when she realized a young woman had witnessed her childish behavior.
Minus ten points.
“You’re Carlotta, aren’t you?”
Great—and the woman knew her. She manufactured a smile as her mind raced to identify the redhead. “That’s right.”
“I’m Eldora Jones. I meet with Wesley every week.”
When recognition dawned, Carlotta wanted to disappear—Wes’s probation officer...who now probably believed the entire Wren family had issues.
Which was true, but still.
“Yes, I remember,” Carlotta rushed to say. “So good to see you again. What brings you to the Wedding Expo?”
Eldora hesitated, then held up her left hand. “I’m engaged.”
Carlotta smiled. “Congratulations.”
The woman smiled back, but the enthusiasm didn’t quite reach her green eyes. “Thank you.”
“I met your boyfriend that night at the Fox Theater...but I’m sorry, I don’t remember his name.”
“Leonard,” she supplied.
“Right. I remember you made an attractive couple.”
“Thank you,” the woman murmured, barely audible.
Eldora, it seemed, was somewhat less than thrilled to be wearing an engagement ring. Carlotta could relate to that sentiment. Just this morning Peter had texted to remind her she’d promised to take this time to consider wearing his ring. She had deflected his comment by asking if there were any developments re: Randolph at Mashburn & Tully. He’d replied no, but it had taken him a while. And she hated that the hesitation made her suspicious.
“Can I help you with something?” Carlotta asked Eldora.
“Maybe later. Today, I’m just...taking it all in. This is all new to me, and the show is a little...”
“Overwhelming?”
The woman nodded, looking as if she’d made a big mistake—although whether she was thinking about the engagement, or her decision to come to the show, Carlotta didn’t know.
“It was good to see you,” Eldora said, and began to turn away.
“Eldora,” Carlotta said before the woman could leave. “I’m worried about Wes, and he doesn’t talk much. I wouldn’t ask you to betray a confidence, but how do you think he’s doing?”
Eldora pressed her lips together, clearly torn between her duties and a sister’s concern. “Wesley has been through a lot lately, but I think he’s turned a corner.”
Carlotta released a pent-up sigh. “Are you aware our father has returned?”
“Yes, Wes told me. I’m sure this is a stressful time for you both, but he seems very optimistic.”
“Good. I appreciate all you’ve done for Wes.”
“Don’t thank me—Wesley is in control of his own destiny.”
The woman gave a little wave and continued on to the next booth. Carlotta recalled the Wesley in the “other place” she had visited in her dream—there he’d been a spoiled, petulant jackass. But by the time she’d left, he was on the right path.
A message from the universe that no matter what, Wes would eventually find his way?
It was a cheerful thought to nurse as the day wore on and the Saturday crowd reached a fever pitch. The Your Perfect Man display was a bona fide hit. Foot traffic was so heavy, she and Patricia barely had time for bathroom breaks. Carlotta had planned to have lunch with Hannah, but wound up texting her to cancel. Hannah responded she, too, was swamped and would stop by when the exhibits closed.
In the early afternoon Patricia’s fiancé Leo Tennyson and an attractive brunette arrived at the booth with a little strawberry-blond girl. Leo was handsome in a raw-boned kind of way, tall and lean and sporting the telltale “lump bump” of snuff that he and many baseball players were known for.
Carlotta covered for Patricia and gave her encouraging smiles when it appeared the little girl was not warming up to the encounter. Kaitlin Tennyson seemed to be doing her best to cajole the little girl forward, but when Patricia knelt to talk to the girl, she retreated to her mother, crying, and causing such a scene that Leo picked her up and carried her away, with a promise to call Patricia later.
The incident left Patricia shaken. “She acted as if she was scared of me.”
Carlotta felt compelled to cheer her up. “It’ll be okay. Casey is young, and this is a big, noisy crowd. She was probably just feeling bombarded. It’ll be better next time, you’ll see.”
“Thanks,” Patricia said. “You’re right. You’re always righ
t.”
The compliment caught her off-guard, but before she could reply, Patricia had retreated for a tissue, then resumed selling like a good little financially strapped sales clerk.
A tiny ripple of pride swelled in Carlotta’s chest. She wasn’t always right...but she was resilient. And after years of agonizing turmoil, things were finally looking up.
The feds couldn’t keep them from their father forever. It was just a matter of time now before they were reunited. And this was a good time for Randolph to reappear: She was relatively happy working for Neiman Marcus...she had good people in her life...she was learning new skills...she wasn’t being stalked by a serial killer...and Wes seemed to be on a good path, finally.
Things were looking up for the Wrens.
Hope bubbled in her chest and for the first time in days, she felt as if everything was going to be okay—and maybe sooner rather than later.
She was still smiling when she closed down the booth and Hannah arrived. Her friend’s minted designer exterior still triggered a double-take—the silky new Hannah was going to take some getting used to.
“Hiya,” Hannah offered. She looked pale...and this time Carlotta couldn’t blame the white Goth makeup. “I need to talk to you.”
Carlotta gave a little laugh. “Did you lose your black American Express card?”
Hannah scowled. “No. It’s about Wes.”
Carlotta’s pulse spiked. “Is he okay?”
“He’s fine,” Hannah assured her. “But there’s something I think you should know.”
“What?”
Hannah leaned in. “His girlfriend is pregnant.”
Carlotta’s stomach dropped. “How do you know?”
“He told Chance and swore him to secrecy, but Chance let it slip while we were having strap-on sex—”
“Hannah!”
“Anyway, Chance swore me to secrecy, but I thought you’d want to know.” Hannah winced. “Did I do the right thing by telling you?”
Carlotta nodded, her mind reeling with the potential problems ahead. Her chest welled with anguish. “Wes isn’t prepared for this, but at least the mother seems mature.”
Hannah gave a little laugh. “I’ll say—Liz is pushing forty, isn’t she?”
Carlotta squinted. “What does Liz have to do with Meg being pregnant?”
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