Body Movers (25 page)

dash as Chance zigzagged through traffic and wondering if

some day he and Coop would be peeling his buddy off a

guardrail.

“So you got probation in your case, huh? You must’ve had

a kick-ass attorney.”

“Yeah, she was great, not bad to look at either.”

“Did you fuck her?”

“What? No. She’s a woman—she’s not interested in me.”

“Don’t be so sure,” Chance said. “And trust me, older

women are great in bed.”

Wesley smirked. Chance had more women than he could

count. The guy was legendary in his conquests, and

bragged that he’d once bedded four women at once.

Wesley didn’t doubt it. Girls loved Chance’s money and his

parties and to hear Chance tel it, his dick.

The guy had it made, Wesley thought, shaking his head. As

his friend guided the little sports car down the street

toward the town house, he said, “Thanks for the ride

home, man. And the piece.”

“Call it a bonus for taking care of the speeding tickets.”

Chance laughed. “I pretended to be an employer doing a

background check and called to see if the tickets were

gone. My record is clean as Clorox.”

“Great.” Wesley jerked his thumb toward the town house.

“Want to come in?”

“Nah, I’l pass,” Chance said. “All that talk about women

got me horny. I think I’l go get a massage, if you know

what I mean.”

He did. Chance liked paying for sex, even though he didn’t

have to. But his trust fund had to be spent somehow.

“Catch you later,” Wesley said.

“I keep hearing rumors of a high-stakes poker game being

put together. When it happens, I’l give you a call.”

“Okay,” Wesley said, and stepped away from the car. He

approached the house with trepidation, looking up and

down the street for suspicious cars. Seeing none, he

breathed a little easier and went inside.

After he reached his room, he closed the door and

inspected the gun again, taking a couple of test aims in his

mirror. Then he glanced around for a hiding place, trying

to think of somewhere that Carlotta—and the police—

would never look. He considered and discarded the top of

his closet, the clothes hamper and a boot. Then he glanced

at Einstein’s enclosure and smiled. No one would look

there.

He unlocked the pin, slid the screen top aside and reached

in to place the small revolver and box of shel s in the base

of a driftwood decoration that he seemed to like more

than Einstein did. As he expected, Einstein barely moved.

“Hungry yet?” He retrieved the squeaking mouse from its

temporary home and dangled it in front of the python,

without consequence. “A few more days and I’l have to

force-feed you,” Wesley warned, returning the mouse to

its container. “Just don’t swallow my gun. I’d have a hel of

a time explaining that one to the veterinarian.”

And to Carlotta. She’d never understand that having the

gun within reach made him feel better able to protect her.

He smirked, thinking of his green-eyed, flame-haired

probation officer. If she knew he had a gun, she, too,

would have his hide.

He lay down on his bed and crossed his hands behind his

head. Of course, that might be fun.

Yes, things were definitely looking up.

20

“Is everything okay, Carlotta?”

Carlotta started from her reverie as she nodded to her

boss. “Fine, thanks.”

“Glad to hear it,” Lindy said. “You’ve seemed preoccupied

of late. Last week’s sales reports just crossed my desk and

for the first time that I can remember, your name wasn’t

at the top.”

A flush burned its way up Carlotta’s face. “Um, I guess I’m

going through a little slump.”

“It happens,” Lindy said. “I just hope it doesn’t last too

long. There are lots of sales associates who’d love to have

a crack at your department.”

Carlotta’s stomach did a little flip and she dipped her chin.

The fact that Neiman’s prided itself on having the best,

sharpest employees was what had attracted her to the

company in the first place—next to the employee

discount, of course. “I understand, Lindy. Don’t worry,

things are…back to normal.”

“Good,” Lindy said. “Carry on.”

Watching her boss stride away, Carlotta gave herself a

mental shake. She had to get her mind back on her job and

off the preoccupations that threatened to drive her

insane, namely, Angela’s death, and Peter’s possible

involvement.

Oh, and then there was everything else that was wrong in

her life.

It had been three days since Angela’s funeral, three days

since she’d spoken with Coop about the men’s jacket and

her suspicions concerning Angela’s death, and the more

time that passed, the more she wished she’d kept her big

mouth shut.

Detective Terry was right—her deep-seated guilt over her

feelings for Peter were driving her to make preposterous

assumptions about the jacket issue, which could’ve been

innocent and completely unrelated to Angela’s marriage

and drowning.

Scowling at her own stupidity and determined to be rid of

the jacket, she went to the dressing-room area and

searched through a long rack of items tagged to be

returned to the floor or to the manufacturer. She located

the jacket and decided the best place for it was the trash—

it was paid for, and no one was going to claim it. And with

the heavy scent of smoke clinging to it, clearly it couldn’t

be returned to the floor.

She took the jacket from the hanger and wadded it up,

cursing herself for even getting involved, and felt

something unyielding in the inside breast pocket. Curious,

she reached inside and pul ed out a cigar encased in a

small plastic bag with a zip top. Peter had an aversion to

smoke—surely the cigar wasn’t his. She held up the jacket

and checked the size. When Angela had purchased the

jacket, Carlotta had assumed that Peter had fil ed out in

the past ten years, but now that she’d seen him, this jacket

was way too big for Peter. She squinted, recalling the thin

frame of Angela’s father. This jacket was way too big for

him as wel .

The hair on the back of her neck tingled as she considered

the jacket and the cigar. She careful y rehung the jacket

and covered it with a garment bag. There was no way she

could smuggle it out and take it home—employees’ bags

were checked when they left the store.

But the cigar…

She studied the eight-inch brown cylinder, wondering if it

could help her locate the person who had purchased it. On

the back of the plastic zip bag was a gold seal. She

squinted to make out the letters: Moody’s Cigar Bar,

Atlanta, Georgia.

She considered calling Detective Terry and tel ing him

about this new development, but the thought of his

sarcastic reaction stopped her short. She had enough

trouble with the man as it was. Besides, the cigar might

lead to nothing at all, and it would be easy enough for her

to locate Moody’s and ask a few discreet questions

herself. A quick check of the phone book at the checkout

counter gave her a street address—on the fringes of

downtown Atlanta in an unpredictable part of town.

Despite her promise to Lindy and to herself to get her

mind back on her job, she was distracted and jumpy until

her shift ended, then blew off Michael in the employee

locker room in her rush to get to her car. Traffic was

horrible, as usual, the roads choked with commuters vying

to get home and tourists flocking to the aquarium. She

craved a cigarette in the worst way—God, it didn’t take

long to fall back into a bad habit.

Like Peter, for instance.

Toying with the radio buttons and tapping on the steering

wheel helped to keep her hands busy, but her mind

continued to rehash the events of the past couple of

weeks. She had hoped that sel ing his engagement ring

would help her to sever the bond she had foolishly

maintained with Peter’s life. Yet with this little field trip,

would she open yet another can of worms? Insinuate

herself further into his affairs? She kept telling herself that

she should just let it go, but something compel ed her to

keep moving.

She got lost twice trying to find the address, but finally

spotted the smal neon sign—Moody’s—in a dark window,

and darted in front of another car to nab a lone parking

space. The area was on the verge of gentrification, but

Moody’s, sandwiched between a new trendy-looking

coffee shop and an adult video store, appeared to be part

of the old neighborhood.

She climbed out, dropped a few coins in the parking meter

and made her way inside. A brass bel tinkled when she

opened the big, solid door with a leaded glass insert. The

shop was what the name implied—a dark, atmospheric

space housed in a deep, narrow storefront with tal

ceilings, art deco light fixtures and original black-and-red

checkerboard linoleum tile floors. The lazy swirl of low-

hanging ceiling fans did little to dispel the acrid odor of

tobacco that permeated the air, tickling her nose and

throat, making her want a cigarette even more.

A horseshoe-shaped black lacquered counter dominated

the center of the store. The wal s were lined with glass

cabinets housing boxes of cigars and clear canisters fil ed

with fragrant blends of loose tobacco. A scratchy recording

of big band music sounded from an unseen source. The

crammed, quaint space gave her the feeling that she’d

stepped back in time, back to when pompadours and

polka-dot dresses were in style, when men wore sock

suspenders and hats with their suits.

She liked it instantly.

The sound of footsteps drew her attention to a stairway

near the back of the room that she hadn’t noticed. A pair

of shapely legs preceded a gray pencil skirt hugging slim

hips, a prim white blouse straining over generous breasts

and a nice double strand of pearls. The woman’s face

appeared, and the words steel magnolia sprang to

Carlotta’s mind. The pink-lipstick smile was welcoming, but

beneath the teased pouf of bleach-blond hair, the kohl-

lined eyes were piercing.

“Hel o,” the woman said as she made her way down the

stairs, her drawl low and smooth. She was wel into her

fifties, and looked as if she’d kicked some ass in her day—

and could stil cause some serious harm if the situation

called for it. In her elegantly manicured hand she held a

half-smoked cigar, its smoke plume wafting behind her. At

the bottom of the stairs a sign with an arrow pointed to a

martini and wine bar on the upper level and Carlotta

realized suddenly why the parking places were ful and the

store empty.

“Hel o.”

“Can I help you, darlin’?”

“Maybe,” Carlotta said, suddenly nervous as she reached

into her purse and withdrew the cigar. She walked deeper

into the store and could hear the buzz of a crowd

overhead. “I’m looking for the person who purchased this

cigar from your store.”

The woman stepped forward with a little frown between

her eyebrows. She set her cigar in one of the dozen

colored glass ashtrays lining the massive black bar, then

reached for the plastic bag. A young man wearing a

waiter’s waist apron came clopping down the stairs and,

referring to a notepad, moved from case to case, selecting

cigars, obviously fil ing orders.

A knot of customers came down, businessmen all of them,

ties loosened and voices raised. “See you next time, June,”

they said to the woman, and she called them each by

name when she said goodbye.

When the door closed behind them, the woman handed

the plastic bag back to Carlotta, then picked up the cigar

she’d been smoking and took a hearty puff. “That is a very

expensive cigar, Miss—?”

“Um, Carlotta. Carlotta Wren.”

“I’m June Moody,” the woman said with a slow nod. “May

I ask how it came into your possession?”

“I…found it,” Carlotta said, hedging.

The woman’s mouth twitched. “Do you smoke, Carlotta?”

“Not cigars.”

June Moody smiled. “You ever tried?”

“No.”

“Would you like to?”

Carlotta hesitated. “Wel …sure.”

The woman’s smile lit her eyes and Carlotta had the

feeling that she’d just passed some sort of test. “Why

don’t you join me upstairs, and we can talk about how you

happened to find such a fine cigar.”

Intrigued and edgy, Carlotta fol owed the woman upstairs.

“Carlos,” June said as they ascended, “would you please

bring me an Amelia when you come up?”

“Sure thing, Miss Moody.”

They walked upstairs, where the furnishings were plush

and the air was rich with smoke. The martini and wine bar

resembled an old-fashioned parlor, with deep velvet chairs

and thick rugs. The bar lined one side of the landing,

surrounded by groupings of chairs and couches around

low tables. Most of the seats were occupied by

businessmen, with a stray woman here and there.