She saw Edward standing nearby and worked her way over to him. “What’s this?”
He rolled his eyes. “Diva time.”
Indeed, from the body language of the crew, things weren’t going well.
“Quiet please!” a guy yelled in a bored voice. “Commercial for Peachy Mattresses, take seventeen.” He turned back to the set and held up cue cards.
Jarold looked into the camera and gave a watery smile as he walked toward the bed. “When it comes to the mattress I sleep on, I won’t settle for anything less than a ten.”
It was a takeoff of the way he scored aspiring designers on his popular television show—on a scale of one to ten. And the notoriously cranky designer was famous for never awarding a ten.
“He looks tense,” Hannah whispered, and Carlotta agreed. The man’s forehead was shiny with sweat, his movements were stiff, and his voice sounded unnatural.
He sat on the bed awkwardly, then reclined on the pillow and pulled a large placard from his jacket with the number ten written on it. “Peachtree Mattresses gets a perfect score.”
“Cut!” the man in the crew yelled, obviously the director. He looked heavenward as if he were summoning patience from a higher source. “Mr. Jett, it’s Peachy Mattresses. Peachy as in peachy keen, got it?”
Jarold set up, glowering. “How am I supposed to work with all these people around?”
“I can’t watch this,” Edward said. “See you later.”
Jarold spotted Carlotta and waved frantically. “Carlotta, come here, please.”
“Take five, everyone,” the director yelled.
Nia, Jarold’s personal assistant, her brown ponytail sagging, was standing guard at the booth entrance. She pivoted to allow Carlotta inside.
Jarold pushed himself up from the bed, and strode over to meet her. “Where is that detective?”
“You mean Jack Terry?”
“I suppose,” the man said with a dismissive wave. “I’ve called him numerous times.”
“It’s not like Jack to be late.”
He mopped a handkerchief across his brow. “My idiot assistant forgot to put this commercial shoot on my schedule.” He shot lasers at Nia, who shrunk from his gaze. “I didn’t know about it myself until an hour ago.”
“Oh. Well, Jack must’ve had another commitment. Can I help with something?”
“Can you get rid of some of these people? I’m feeling quite anxious today.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“You can leave, too,” he barked in Nia’s direction.
Carlotta gave the girl a sympathetic look when she reached her. “He must be a handful.”
She gave a curt nod. “I’ll help you try to disperse the crowd.”
“Maybe if we just ask everyone to move back a few feet, he won’t feel so claustrophobic.” She recruited Hannah’s help and soon they established a wider boundary around the booth.
The director resumed his place by the camera. “Quiet, please! Commercial for Peachy Mattresses, take eighteen.”
Jarold smiled into the camera and walked toward the bed. “When it comes to the mattress I sleep on, I won’t settle for anything less than a ten.”
He sat on the bed, then reclined on the pillow and pulled the card from his jacket. “Peachy Keen Mattresses gets a perfect score.”
“Cut!” the director yelled. “It’s not Peachy Keen Mattresses—it’s Peachy, by itself. Peachy Mattresses!”
Jarold sprang up from the bed. “This is absurd!”
A whooshing noise sounded, then a terrific crash of glass. The crowd gasped, including Carlotta, who wasn’t sure what had happened.
Jarold Jett had scrambled from the set, away from the noise. Carlotta rushed forward to see the chandelier hanging over the bed had plummeted straight down. And from the splintered glass and how deeply it had imbedded in the mattress where Jarold had been lying only seconds earlier, it was clear he had escaped serious physical harm.
“Jesus,” Hannah muttered to Carlotta. “He was almost human hamburger.”
The director took control of the situation, clearing the set area. “Watch the glass, everyone, watch the glass.”
Jarold Jett was reduced to wide-eyed silence as he stared at the impaled mattress. Carlotta touched his arm and guided him away from the scene. “Are you okay, sir?”
He nodded, shaking shards from his clothing. He searched the crowd. “Nia?”
“I’m here,” the woman said, emerging to take over. “Let’s get you to a chair.”
Carlotta and Hannah helped to wave back the growing swarm of people trying to get a look. When security officers and Melissa Friedman arrived, they slipped away, but instead of heading back to their booths, Carlotta jerked her thumb toward the back of the booth. “Let’s go this way.”
“Why?”
“Humor me.”
They walked around the outside perimeter of the booth built from sturdy walls that were ten feet tall. Because it was so large, the structure was free-standing, with no other booths adjacent to it. Situated in the area behind the booth was a series of wedge-shaped supports to shore up the walls, and multiple outlet boxes to supply electricity to lights and displays. Carlotta picked her way over the hardware until she estimated they were standing behind the commercial set. A large square weight sat on the floor, and from the closed metal loop on top dangled the end of a thick rope that had been secured with a complicated series of knots.
“This must be where the chandelier was attached,” Carlotta said, then pointed up. “The rope was looped over those two bars to allow it to hang down into the set.”
Hannah picked up the end of the rope. “A lot of good these knots did. Looks like the rope frayed here, past the knots.”
Carlotta brought the rope closer for a better look.
“And what do you think you’re doing?”
At the sound of a man’s voice, Carlotta turned, half-pleased, half-irritated to see Jack making his way toward them. Their last conversation was still stuck in her mind, like a thorn.
“Exploring,” she said innocently. “When did you get here?”
“Just now. Jett told me what happened. Were you there?”
“Yes. He was almost killed.”
“I kind of got that from seeing the mutilated bed.” He stopped next to them, then looked at Hannah. “Sorry—do I know you?”
Carlotta bit back a smile.
“It’s me, Detective Dickhead.”
His eyebrows spiked. “Hannah?”
“You seriously need to brush up on your observation skills.”
He frowned, then indicated the bulky weight at their feet. “I observe this is where the chandelier was tied off.”
“Looks like it,” Carlotta said, handing the end of the rope to Jack. “But that’s a pretty clean break for wear and tear, don’t you think?”
He studied the broken strands. “Did you see anyone back here?”
“No. But we weren’t exactly paying attention.”
“That girl,” Hannah said. “The one who works for Mr. Fancy Pants—she disappeared for a while.”
“Nia,” Carlotta confirmed to Jack. “Jarold yelled at her to leave.”
“She was with Jett when I got here,” Jack said.
“She came back after the incident.” Carlotta snapped her fingers. “And Jarold said she forgot to put the commercial shoot on his schedule. Is that why you weren’t here?”
He nodded.
“Maybe she left it off the schedule on purpose so you wouldn’t be here.”
“So she could drop a chandelier on Jett?” Jack scoffed. “I can see why she’d want to, but that’s reaching, even for you.”
“There’s another possibility.”
Jack sighed the sigh of a long-suffering man. “I’m going to hate myself for asking, but what is it?”
“Jarold Jett is engaged...maybe he’s being targeted by the Groom Slayer.”
“Did you just make that up?” Hannah asked.
“Not bad. Kind of catchy.”
Jack pinched the bridge of his nose. “I was right...I hate myself.”
“Jack—”
“Carlotta, stop this nonsense! This was just what it looks like—a freak accident.” He put his hands on his hips. “Now, don’t you ladies have somewhere to be?”
Carlotta frowned. “Come on, Hannah.”
Hannah grumbled as they stepped over and around obstacles to get out. “I think you were brilliant. He’s such an asshole, I don’t know what you see in him. He must be hung like an elephant.”
Carlotta let her friend rant, nursing her own bruises over Jack’s dismissive behavior. After all they’d been through, he continued to regard her as a nuisance.
But when she reached the end of the wall and looked back, the vexing man was using his phone to take a picture of the end of the rope. Carlotta smiled to herself.
Plus ten points, Jack.
Chapter Twenty-six
TRAFFIC WAS MORE BRISK at the Wedding World Expo on Tuesday thanks to charter busloads of brides streaming in from Birmingham, Charlotte, and Nashville. Savvy trip guides had packaged a two-day experience called Wedding & Whales. For one price, women received admission to the Expo and the Georgia Aquarium.
It appeared most of the bride tourists were saving the belugas for tomorrow.
Carlotta was glad for the increased business because it kept her and Patricia from stepping on each other’s toes. She didn’t see Jack all day, and resisted the urge to call him and ask about yesterday’s chandelier incident. Likewise, he obviously didn’t feel the need to call and give her an update.
Peter had called a couple of times with news about Walt Tully, whose condition continued to slowly improve. And to suggest they sneak away Friday night to have dinner outside of town where they would be less likely to run into anyone who knew them. She had agreed, and conceded to herself that she was looking forward to seeing him.
She was lonely.
Wes didn’t seem to be angry with her anymore, but he had become so withdrawn, she was seriously worried about him. When she’d asked if he’d talked to Meg since her return, he had looked as if he were going to cry and retreated to his room. Her heart ached for him—in love with one woman, and having a baby with another. But she also wanted to shake him for being so careless. One dumb decision would affect a lot of people’s lives.
At the end of the day she walked out with Hannah, who was also growing wedding-weary. “One more day of this crapfest and I get my life back.”
“If that’s what you want.”
Hannah stopped. “Don’t tell me you like me better like this.”
“Of course not. I like you whichever way you want to be. I just don’t understand the extremes...and the secrecy.”
“It’s hard to explain,” Hannah said, suddenly flustered. “Do you want to grab a drink?”
“I’m sorry—I have to be somewhere.”
“Oh, okay. Need a ride?”
“No, I drove the rental. But thanks.”
“See you tomorrow.”
Carlotta nursed a pang of remorse as she watched her friend stride away. It seemed as if Hannah had been on the verge of confiding something...or maybe not. Maybe there was no explanation for her behavior beyond the fact that Hannah felt different from the rest of her family and dressing Goth-style gave her an outlet for her quirky personality.
Still, Carlotta felt guilty as she climbed into her car because if Hannah knew where she was going, no way could she shake her.
The Fulton County morgue looked more like an elementary school than a repository for dead bodies. Most people who drove by it didn’t even know how close they’d come to death.
She parked in the visitor’s lot and entered through the front door, remembering the first time she’d come to this place, under duress. She’d accompanied her friend Jolie Goodman to identify the body of her boyfriend, Gary Hagan. It had been as horrific as Carlotta had imagined it would be, offending every girly sensibility she had. Which made it all the more incredulous that she’d become a body mover.
The desk clerk greeted her by name. “Don’t see you coming in the front door much.”
“True enough. Is Coop around?”
The woman smiled. “For you? I’m sure he is. Let me see what floor he’s on.” She picked up the phone and pressed a couple of buttons, talked briefly into the mouthpiece, then set it down. “Second floor lab. He’s expecting you.”
Carlotta thanked her and took the stairs, chiding herself for being nervous about seeing Coop. Sure they hadn’t spent much time together lately—Coop had been away from the morgue and from body-moving for a while during The Charmed Killer murders—but he’d been a good friend to her and to Wes, and she missed seeing him. More than that, though, she didn’t like the wall he’d put up between them.
She pushed open the door to the laboratory and saw Coop standing next to a sink, washing his hands. He looked just as much at ease in a white lab coat as he had in the elegant jacket at the art gallery—tall and lean and handsome.
He smiled. “This is a nice surprise.” He shrugged out of the lab coat and hung it on a peg.
“Are you on your way out?”
“I have a few minutes. To what do I owe the honor?”
She handed him a gift bag. “Happy birthday.”
He seemed genuinely pleased. “You shouldn’t have. Can I open it?”
“Sure.”
He reached inside and pulled out a blue folded item about the size of an umbrella.
“It’s a kite,” she supplied.
“And a nice one, I see. Five foot wing span, counterweighted.” He grinned. “I can’t wait to take it to Piedmont Park. Thank you.”
He stepped forward to hug her, and his embrace was like a moor in a storm. Coop was warm and solid and comforting because he didn’t expect anything from her. The contact lingered longer than it should have, but it seemed as if both of them had left things unsaid, and wanted to make the most of this opportunity. Coop broke their contact first.
He stepped back. “Sorry—I shouldn’t have done that. Did I hurt your shoulder?”
“No.” She smoothed her hand over the area. “It’s healing well.”
“Good,” he said, but his expression was still guilt-ridden. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am about what Abrams put you through.”
“It wasn’t your fault, Coop. Besides, he put you through a lot, too. He’s an evil man, and he’ll be locked up for the rest of his life. I sat down with the D.A. yesterday to give my statement.”
“Since Abrams signed a confession, hopefully everyone will be spared a trial.”
“That’s what Jack said.”
“Speaking of, I just talked to Jack.”
“Oh?”
Coop walked over to a printer and removed a report of some kind. “I have a present for you, too. That wad of gum you gave me from the young man who collapsed at the Expo tested positive for anticoagulant rodenticide.”
She frowned. “What’s that?”
“Rat poison.”
Her pulse bumped higher. “You’re saying Jeremy Atwater was murdered?”
“I’m saying he was poisoned. Rat poison is common, so it pops up in a lot of strange places, like in people’s homes and schools and restaurants and public toilets.” He spread his hands. “For all we know, Jeremy dropped his gum in it and put the gum back in his mouth.”
“Ew.”
“But it’s suspicious, so I called Jack, to tell him the case needs to be reopened.”
“And what was his reaction?”
Coop gave a little laugh. “He was pretty upset that you and I, as he put it, had gone behind his back. But he also admitted you were suspicious from the beginning, and he’d written it off.”
“So you’re going to take another look at Jeremy’s body?”
“Yes.”
“And Greg Pena’s?”
Coop frowned. “What does he hav
e to do with it?”
“What if he was poisoned, too? He was having an affair with the neighbor, by the way, the lady who found his body.”
“The dog sitter?”
“Right. I found one of her fingernails in his bed.” She rummaged in her purse and came up with a tiny plastic bag that held the wayward fingernail.
Coop pursed his mouth and reached for the bag. “And when was this little fact-finding mission?”
Carlotta lifted her chin. “Sunday evening. Hannah’s interested in renting the apartment, so she and I went back to look around.”
“Uh-huh. I take it Jack doesn’t know about this?”
“Can it be our secret until you take another look at Greg Pena’s body?”
“Unfortunately not...because I identified another possible victim who died prior to Jeremy Atwater.”
“You did?”
He nodded, then reached for a clipboard and thumbed back a few pages. “Simon Markhall, African-American male age twenty-eight died suddenly in his home.” He pointed to a wall calendar and counted back. “Six days before Jeremy Atwater.”
“Was he poisoned, too?”
“Looks that way. The guy was overweight and had a big last meal, so I’m still going through the stomach contents.”
She made a face. “What made you suspicious?”
“Unexplained death in the young always bothers me, but there was something else on his profile that jumped out at me.”
“What was that?”
“He was engaged to be married.”
Carlotta’s jaw dropped. “Really?”
“But wait, there’s more,” he said in the voice of an infomercial spokesman. “Remember our shooting victims in front of the Clermont?”
“Of course.”
“We identified them as Grant Monk, and Timothy Chin, and you were right—one of the men, Grant Monk, was about to be married.”
“But they were shot, not poisoned.”
“Yes, they were shot, but maybe as a backup. Both men had vomited.”
“I remember the smell.”
7 Brides for 7 Bodies Page 21
