Body Movers (18 page)

it some ridiculous name, and I’d be ashamed to tel you

how much it cost. Do you believe that we had a party so

that people in the neighborhood could come and look at

the damn flower arrangement?”

He looked up as he finished, the anger in his voice

traveling to his startling blue eyes, hardening the drunken

lines of his face until he looked almost…mean.

Carlotta was glad when the maid appeared with a coffee

tray and set it on the table. The woman fil ed a cup and

slid it in front of Peter, then offered Carlotta a watery

smile. “Coffee, miss?”

Carlotta shook her head. “I don’t think—”

“Please,” Peter implored. “Sit with me, just for a little

while.”

She hesitated, then took the chair opposite him. Too late,

she realized it gave her a direct view of Angela’s body. The

woman’s pale face was turned toward Carlotta, her eyes

slightly open. It was as if she were determined to watch

Peter and Carlotta, even in death.

Just as the maid set a cup of steaming coffee in front of

Carlotta, the glass door slid open, revealing Detective

Terry. He stepped in without being asked, although he did

make a perfunctory pass at wiping his feet on the

doormat.

He scowled at her briefly before addressing the maid. “I

understand, ma’am, that you found the body?”

The old woman’s eyes teared and she nodded.

“What’s your name, please?”

“Flaur Stanza.”

He made a note on a palm-size notebook he carried. “Can

you tel me what happened, Miss Stanza?”

“I…come home from store,” she said in broken English. “I

see Miss Angela’s purse, so I know she is here. I cal her

name to see if she want tea, and she no answer. I come

out here to sweep, and…and—” She began to sob, her

shoulders shaking.

“Take your time, Miss Stanza,” Peter said, his voice

strangely calm.

“I see her…in deep end…floating facedown,” the woman

said. “She fel in, I think.”

“Had she been drinking?” Peter bit out.

Detective Terry frowned. “Mr. Ashford, if you don’t mind,

I’l ask the questions. Miss Stanza, did you see anything

else, any signs of where she might have fal en in?”

She nodded and pointed to the far end of the pool. “A

broken glass on the edge. I show policeman when he get

here.”

Detective Terry made another note. “Anything else?”

“Black marks, I think from her boots.”

The detective nodded. “And you called 911?”

“Yes, sir. And Mr. Peter.” She shot a quick glance at Peter

and her face crumpled again.

“It’s okay,” Peter soothed, patting her arm. “It’s not your

fault. I was afraid something like this was going to

happen.”

Detective Terry perked up. “Oh? Has something like this

happened before?”

Peter pursed his mouth. “You mean Angela drunk? Only all

the time. And she was a poor swimmer.”

Detective Terry told the maid that she could go. The

woman looked to Peter for confirmation, and he nodded.

“Go home, Miss Stanza. I’l call you tomorrow.” When the

woman left the room, Peter gestured to the tray. “Would

you like some coffee, Detective?”

“No, thank you.” Then Detective Terry looked at Carlotta.

“Ms. Wren, wil you excuse us for a moment?”

Realizing that he was asking her to leave, she started to

stand, but Peter’s hand on her arm stopped her.

“Stay,” he said, his voice beseeching, then he turned to the

detective. “I have no secrets. Ask me anything.”

The detective looked back and forth between them until

Carlotta averted her gaze. This was really beginning to

feel…wrong.

“Okay,” Detective Terry said with a sigh. “Mr. Ashford, was

your marriage in trouble?”

Next to her, she felt Peter stiffen. “No more so than any

other marriage, I would suspect.”

Outside, the medical examiner and the police had stepped

away from the body. Cooper unfolded a white sheet,

whipped it open and allowed it to float down over

Angela’s body. Carlotta stared until the woman’s face was

completely obscured by the sheet. Wesley lowered what

resembled a long plastic tray with scooped sides and black

handles. With care that impressed her, Coop rol ed the

covered body toward him until Wesley had slid the tray

underneath. Then he gently lowered the body and situated

it onto the carrier. Both men tucked the sheet around the

body with respectful concentration. She felt a swel of

pride for Wesley, that he was handling such a terrible job

with professionalism and obvious detail.

“Were the two of you discussing a divorce?”

The question yanked her attention back to the

conversation.

“No,” Peter said defiantly.

Carlotta shifted in the uncomfortable chair, the memory of

their kiss now even more sordid. She closed her eyes

briefly and when she opened them, found Detective Terry

studying her before he turned his attention back to Peter.

“Has your wife ever threatened to hurt herself?”

“No, of course not.” Peter’s expression darkened. “You’re

not thinking that she did this on purpose.”

“Just covering all the bases, Mr. Ashford. Was she taking

any medication?”

Peter rubbed his eyes and sighed. “Sure, it was always

something with Angela. She had insomnia and back

trouble, and she took a ton of vitamins. You can check the

medicine cabinet in her bathroom if you want the

specifics.”

Detective Terry cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should

both go check, to see if Mrs. Ashford left a note.”

Peter’s jaw clenched. “There’s no note.”

“How can you be sure?”

Peter pul ed his hand down over his faced and sighed.

“Because…I asked Miss Stanza to look for a note when she

called me. She didn’t find one.”

“So you suspected suicide?”

Peter lifted his hands in a helpless gesture. “I didn’t know

what to think, but it crossed my mind. You didn’t find one

on…on her?”

“No. The guesthouse was also checked, plus the sedan in

the garage—I assume that’s Mrs. Ashford’s car?”

“No, actually. Her Jag is at the dealership for regular

maintenance. The sedan is a loaner.”

“Mr. Ashford, where were you when Miss Stanza called to

give you the bad news?”

Peter’s mouth tightened. “If you must know, I was at a bar,

Geary’s, not far from my office.”

“Where do you work?”

“Mashburn and Tul y Investments. I’m a broker.”

Recognition flashed in the detective’s eyes and his gaze

flicked to her, then back. He’d made the connection that

her father had once been a partner there. A harmless yet

suspicious coincidence.

“Were you alone at the bar, Mr. Ashford?”

“Yes. What’s that got to do with anything?”

Detective Terry shrugged his big shoulders. “I just

wondered why I got here before you, that’s all.”

“There was construction on the connector,” Peter said

hotly.

Warning bel s sounded in Carlotta’s brain. Surely Detective

Terry didn’t suspect that Peter had something to do with

Angela’s death? She bit her lip, wondering whether to say

that she’d seen Angela earlier that day and what her state

of mind had been. But if she did, she’d have to admit that

Angela thought that she and Peter were having an affair,

and wouldn’t that only throw more suspicion on Peter?

She clamped her mouth shut, tel ing herself that she was

doing the right thing. Angela’s death was just a tragic

accident, a result of a bad vice and bad balance. She felt

the detective’s gaze on her and decided that her presence

might be doing more harm than good. She pushed to her

feet. “Peter…it’s time for me to leave.” Her throat

convulsed. “I’m…so sorry for your loss.”

“Before you go, Ms. Wren,” the detective said, holding up

his hand, “I’d like to ask one more question.” Then he gave

Peter a pointed look. “Were you, sir, having an affair?”

Carlotta’s pulse skipped and she forgot to breathe. Peter

put his hands on the table, then slowly pushed to his feet.

“No, Detective, I wasn’t having an affair. My wife’s death

was an accident, pure and simple. I’d think that the police

have enough on their plate without trying to turn this

tragedy into a crime.”

Detective Terry closed his notebook, then looked contrite.

“How right you are, Mr. Ashford. My sincere condolences.”

Then he swung his gaze to her. “Ms. Wren, since I’m

leaving, too, I’l walk you out.”

She couldn’t think of anything less appealing, but since she

couldn’t think of a way to refuse, she simply nodded.

“Peter, cal me if…I can help.”

He looked at her for a long while, then nodded. “Okay.”

Aware that the detective was hanging on their every word,

she quickly walked to the door, slid it open and stepped

outside. Detective Terry was on her heels. She retraced

her steps down the stone path back to the front of the

house where Wesley and Coop were closing the door on

the back of the van.

“You okay, sis?” Wesley asked, his face contracted in

concern.

“I’m fine,” she said, slowing her pace. “Wesley, you

remember Detective Terry.”

“Hard to forget,” Wesley said wryly, then nodded. “How’s

it going, man?”

“Glad to see you got a job,” Detective Terry said.

“This is my boss, Cooper Craft.”

The detective nodded. “The doctor and I know each

other.”

Coop nodded, but his eyes were…wary? Carlotta

wondered about the men’s history. And had the detective

cal ed him doctor?

Detective Terry looked around. “I see the M.E. already left.

Do you have the report?”

Coop nodded and handed it to him.

Detective Terry looked over the form, then glanced up.

“Do you agree, Coop?”

Coop hesitated. “It’s not my place to agree or disagree.”

The detective’s mouth tightened. “I’m asking.”

“Since you’re asking…no, I don’t agree with the report.”

Carlotta pressed her lips together. This couldn’t be good.

The detective grimaced in thought then said, “I want an

autopsy. Take her to the morgue.”

“But—” Coop began.

“I’l handle the paperwork,” the detective cut in.

Coop gave a curt nod, then said, “Let’s go,” to Wesley.

“We have another cal after this one,” Wesley said to

Carlotta. “Coop said he’d give me a ride home.”

“Okay.” She turned to walk up the steep driveway, eager

to be away from death and all this talk about the morgue.

“Ms. Wren,” the detective said, catching up to her easily,

“how exactly are you acquainted with Peter Ashford?”

Her skin tingled as she pumped her arms to manage the

climb in her high-heeled Mary Janes. “Peter and I used to

date, ages ago, when we were kids. He’s older and when

he went to col ege, we broke up, just like a mil ion other

teenagers.” She was proud of herself for how nonchalant

her voice sounded.

“He seemed pretty eager to rekindle your friendship.

When was the last time you saw him?”

In another few steps they were at the top of the incline in

front of their vehicles. She stopped and turned to face

him, breathing hard and blinking into the glare of a street-

light. “I’ve seen him twice in the past ten years, Detective,

once at the mall when he wasn’t aware of it, and once at a

cocktail party.”

“When?”

“Three nights ago.”

His eyebrows climbed. “Is that so?”

“There’s nothing going on between me and Peter Ashford,

Detective.”

He studied her as if trying to determine whether she was

tel ing the truth. Then suddenly he leaned forward and she

had the insane notion that he was going to kiss her. She

jerked back. “What are you doing?”

“What happened to your neck?” he asked, squinting.

She raised her hand to the welts on her skin that stil felt

raw and tender. Panic bolted through her chest that she

bore marks left upon her by a woman who was now dead.

“Nothing happened. I’m fine.” She turned and walked to

her car, fumbling in her pockets for her keys before

remembering she’d left them in the ignition.

He fol owed her, wearing a dubious expression. She fisted

her hand that hid the marks from his prying eyes.

“Detective, would you please stop staring at my chest?”

He lifted his gaze, but took his time. “Yes, ma’am. Good

night, Ms. Wren. I’l be seeing you.”

“Stop spying on us. You’re making my neighbor paranoid.”

“Wouldn’t have to if you’d cooperate.”

She glanced at the purse that she’d left on the car seat and

thought of the postcard from her parents tucked inside. “I

don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Right,” he said, then turned and walked toward his own

car.

Carlotta stuck her tongue out at his back, then glanced

down at the house just as Coop turned the white van

around. When he pul ed away, the open garage was ful y

lit, revealing a dark sedan sitting inside. Carlotta recalled

the morbid conversation about checking Angela’s car for a

suicide note, and grimaced.

But as she stared at the loaner car, a memory chord