Body Movers (23 page)

going to introduce me to your friends?”

“Uh, Hannah Kizer…Walt and Tracey Tul y.”

“Lowenstein now,” Tracey gushed, flashing her ring again.

“Mrs. Dr. Lowenstein.”

“Mrs. Dr.?” Hannah asked, feigning awe. “I’l bet that looks

great on your vanity license plate.”

Tracey’s eyes narrowed, then she huffed and tugged on

her father’s arm. Walt gave Carlotta a suspicious, lingering

look that unnerved her before he hurried away.

“Behave,” Carlotta hissed. “That’s my godfather.”

“Damn, I’d hate to see how they treat complete

strangers.”

“Shh,” Carlotta said as they stepped into the crowded

wood-paneled foyer of the funeral home. The sickeningly

sweet smell of live flowers rode the air as they shuffled

forward on industrial-grade beige carpet toward what

appeared to be the main parlor. At the far end of the

entryway, a tall man in a striking brown suit nodded to her

over the heads of the crowd. Surprised, she smiled and

nodded back.

“Who’s the deep dish?” Hannah said into her ear.

“It’s Wesley’s boss, Cooper Craft. I guess this is his family’s

funeral home. I had no idea.”

“Yowza, he’s hot.”

“He’s a funeral director,” Carlotta reminded her friend, but

she had to admit, the man knew how to wear a suit.

“So? What’s the saying—cold hands, big schlong?”

Carlotta shook her head in exasperation as they were

swept up in the crowd and herded into the burgundy-and-

hunter-green parlor where low organ music played. They

seized two of the few remaining empty seats, and the

wal s were quickly lined with overflow guests.

Standing room only, Carlotta thought morosely. Angela

would be thril ed, if only she weren’t dead.

But she was dead, lying, presumably, inside the gold-and-

white casket on display at the top of three steps at the

front of the long room, flanked on either side by countless

baskets and wreaths of flowers, crammed into every

square inch of space, each seemingly more huge than the

next.

“Christ,” Hannah groused, “how many acres of hot-house

flowers were depleted for this send-off?”

Carlotta ignored her and as discreetly as possible looked

for Peter. She spotted him in the front row, head bent as

he spoke to the tanned, older couple next to him—

Angela’s parents, no doubt. On the other side of him sat

his own parents, spines ramrod straight, the picture of

propriety. The same propriety that had driven Peter to end

their engagement ten years ago. How different things

might have been if only…

A few rows in front of them, Tracey Tul y bent her head to

whisper into the ear of the woman sitting next to her, and

the woman turned around to send a laser stare Carlotta’s

way. She watched as Tracey’s companion then whispered

to the next woman, who turned to gawk. One by one, the

entire row of women turned to look, al of their noses

identically chiseled, their mouths tattooed with

permanent lip liner.

“Are the clones friends of yours?” Hannah asked dryly.

“Hardly,” Carlotta murmured, “although I’m sure I went to

school with some of them.”

The rise of organ music signaled that the service was about

to begin. A minister strode down the aisle and stopped to

shake hands with Peter and with Angela’s parents before

ascending to the podium. He read a short, dry eulogy in a

detached monotone and as he droned on, Carlotta

realized that the man had probably never met Angela

Ashford or, if he had, that he didn’t know her. He divulged

no personal details, nothing to conjure up images of

Angela as a living, breathing human being.

The same was true for the three women (al of them with

names ending in “i”), who had apparently requested or

had been asked by the family to talk about Angela.

“She loved Peter more than anything,” Staci gushed into

the microphone. “The day they were married was the

happiest day of her life.”

“She worked out and took care of herself,” Lori said.

“Everyone on the tennis team is really going to miss her.”

“Her house was her pride and joy,” Tami said, “down to

the last flower arrangement.”

“Egad,” Hannah whispered behind her hand. “If that was

her life, she’s probably glad she’s dead.”

Helplessness tightened Carlotta’s chest as she

remembered the two sentences the radio announcer had

used to sum up Angela’s life and death. The indifference

was heartbreaking, but Carlotta had expected more out of

the woman’s friends.

“Would anyone else like to share their memories of

Angela?” the minister asked, giving the audience a cursory

glance.

Stand up, Carlotta willed Peter. If you had any feelings for

this woman, don’t let people leave here thinking that the

sum of her existence was being your wife, going to the

gym and living in a big house.

“Very well,” the minister said.

“Wait,” Carlotta said, lurching to her feet. She felt

everyone’s heads turn toward her and the weight of their

attention fall on her.

“Yes?” the minister said. “You’d like to say something?”

Now what? her racing mind screamed. Her gaze flitted

over the expectant crowd and to the bewildered

expression on Peter’s face.

“Go ahead,” the minister urged.

Carlotta wet her lips and clamped her hands on the back of

the seat in front of her. “Angela and I were friends a long

time ago,” she said, her voice high and shaking. She took a

deep breath, then exhaled. “A lifetime ago really—we

were just kids, trying to make sense of things.” She gave a

little laugh. “Angela had a talent for drawing cartoons. She

would make up characters and stories about them and put

together her own little comic books. She was real y good

at it, and said that she’d like to draw comics for a living

someday.”

The room was deadly quiet now, and Carlotta’s throat

tightened. Fervently wishing she’d never stood up, she

pressed on. “Angela bit her fingernails to the quick, she

always dreamed of owning a pinto-colored horse and she

could hit the high note in ‘The Star-Spangled Banner.’ I

remember her saying that one of her favorite movies was

Awakenings—she was captivated by the fact that people

could be frozen inside themselves, and how agonizing it

must be to want to get out and not be able.”

People were gaping at her now, and she realized that this

crowd didn’t really want to hear anything deep or

meaningful about the woman in the casket. They simply

wanted to do their duty as neighbors and club members

and put in ass-time at the funeral. Some of them were

already glancing at their watches. Angela’s parents

seemed confused and although Peter was smiling, based

on the way people were looking back and forth between

them, she wasn’t so sure that was a good thing.

“She’l be missed,” Carlotta finished abruptly, then sat

down.

“That was memorable,” Hannah muttered.

As the minister brooked the awkward pause with a thank-

you and some throat-clearing, she could feel people’s

sideways glances land on her and whisperings ensue.

“Who is that?”

“Is she drunk?”

“What was she talking about?”

In front of her, the Clone Club was practically buzzing. Her

face flamed as she shifted in her seat. In trying to reveal a

side of Angela that no one else seemed privy to (or would

own up to), she’d simply made a spectacle of herself. And

the kicker was, she couldn’t explain what had made her do

what she’d done.

At the side of the room, she caught the eye of Cooper

Craft, who was staring at her with a little smile. He inclined

his head as if to say “wel done,” but she couldn’t be sure

that he wasn’t making fun of her.

She stared at her hands for the rest of the service,

standing at the end to join in the processional past the

casket and to shake hands with the family. Her feet felt

like lead as she made her way up the aisle, but she

shuffled along until she stood before Angela’s parents and

Peter. Even as she shook hands with the stoic couple, she

felt Peter’s gaze on her. When she finally looked at him,

his blue, blue eyes bored into her, and she could sense

that he was holding himself back from embracing her. He

clasped her hand and squeezed her fingers, sending whol y

inappropriate sensations tumbling through her body. Her

heart expanded painful y.

“Thank you for coming,” he said, just as if she were

anybody…or nobody.

“You’re welcome,” she said, then pul ed her hand away

and fol owed the crowd out into the parlor where people

were pouring out the front door, moving toward their cars,

already discussing where they might have lunch. On the

other side of the foyer, Cooper Craft stood erect with his

hands folded in front of him, a serene expression on his

face, the picture of poise and comfort.

“There won’t be a graveside service?” an older woman

was demanding to know.

“Um, no, ma’am.”

“Why not?” the woman pressed, clearly affronted.

“Mrs. Ashford requested that her body be cremated,

ma’am, rather than be buried.”

“Cremated? Burned alive?”

He wiped his hand across his mouth, but to his credit, kept

a straight face. “It’s a very respectful procedure, ma’am,

and good for the environment.”

The woman hmphed and walked away, shaking her head.

Coop smiled in Carlotta’s direction, and Hannah nudged

her from behind. “Introduce us.”

Carlotta threw Hannah a withering look, then stepped

toward him. “Hel o,” she said as they walked up.

“Hi,” Coop said, his light brown eyes crinkling in a smile.

The man had nice eyes, she conceded, and wondered what

he looked like without his glasses.

Hannah bumped her from behind. “Oh, um, Cooper Craft,

this is my friend Hannah Kizer.”

Coop stuck out his hand. “How do you do?”

“Thoroughly,” Hannah cooed, practical y licking her lips as

she clung to his hand.

Carlotta laughed nervously. “I didn’t realize that

Motherwel ’s was your family’s funeral home.”

“My uncle’s,” he clarified. “I just help out. By the way, that

was nice, what you said in there.”

She smiled weakly, then looked behind her to see that the

main parlor had almost emptied. The family would be

coming out soon. “Hannah,” she said, pressing her keys

into her friend’s wayward hand, “would you mind waiting

for me in the car?”

Hannah scowled. “Yes, I would.”

“Hannah.”

“Okay,” Hannah said, then turned a wry smile to Coop.

“Guess she wants to keep you to herself.”

“Hannah, go.”

Carlotta watched her friend stomp away in her black

combat boots, then looked back to Coop. “Sorry about

that. Can I…talk to you?”

He lifted his eyebrows. “Isn’t that what we’re doing?”

“I mean about Angela Ashford.”

He frowned. “What about?”

She leaned forward. “I overheard what you said the night

that…it happened. You told Detective Terry that you

thought the body should be autopsied. Why?”

He shrugged slowly. “Because it would be easy to tell if she

drowned accidentally…or not.” Then he angled his head.

“Why are you asking?”

Carlotta squirmed and told him what she’d told the

detective, about the men’s jacket that Angela had bought

and returned, and that Peter had denied knowing anything

about it.

“You think that Angela had a man on the side?”

She lifted her chin, prepared to be laughed at again. “I

have no idea, but I had to tel someone.”

“You should be talking to the police.”

“I did. Detective Terry blew me off.”

“Why?”

She sighed. “Because I have history with Peter Ashford.”

“Yeah, Wesley told me.”

Carlotta frowned. “My brother talks too much.” She

glanced over her shoulder, then back to Coop. “Look…I

guess I’m asking if you saw anything peculiar about the,

um, body when you…did whatever you do to bodies to get

them ready for viewing.”

He pursed his mouth and appeared to be chewing on her

words. “Maybe.”

Her pulse ratcheted higher. “You did?”

“That doesn’t mean I can do anything about it.”

“Jack Terry said you used to be a medical examiner.”

Coop frowned. “Jack Terry talks too much, too.”

“Is it too late to check?” she asked, her heart thudding

against her breastbone.

“No,” he murmured. “Not until the body is cremated.”

Then he folded his arms. “Carlotta, you must have been

close to Angela Ashford.”

“Not really,” Carlotta admitted. “Like I said in there—

friends, a lifetime ago. But no matter what’s happened

since, I can’t just let her be overlooked.”

Coop glanced in the direction of the parlor, then back.

“Not even if it means your former boyfriend might

somehow be involved?”

Carlotta swallowed hard, battling a bout of vertigo, as if

she were balanced on a precipice, rocking back and forth

between the past and the future. “N-not even.”