Body Movers (26 page)

Behind the bar was an older gentleman with a ponytail. He

nodded to the women, his gaze raking Carlotta with

appreciation.

“May I offer you a drink, Carlotta?” June asked. “On the

house.”

“A martini, thank you,” Carlotta said to the man, taking in

the art deco barware, decanters and glasses. “Nice place.”

“I’m glad you like it,” June said, nodding her approval

when the man dropped two olives in each crystal-clear

martini. “Thank you, Nathan. Wil you ask Tonia to keep an

eye on the shop? Carlotta, let’s take our drinks in here.”

Carlotta picked up her martini and fol owed the woman

into a room where more tables and chairs were situated

around a fireplace that, even unlit, was a welcoming

feature. It was easy to see why Moody’s was a busy little

place and Carlotta wondered with consternation why she

hadn’t heard of it before now.

“How long have you been in business?” she asked June as

they sat in sumptuous gold-colored club chairs.

“It was my father’s business,” the woman said, taking a sip

of her drink. “He passed away four years ago. It’s been my

place since then.”

Carlotta surveyed all the men sitting back, cradling drinks

and puffing on cigars. “I wondered where all the straight

men in Atlanta were hiding.”

June laughed. “They’re right here, darlin’. Bring in your

girlfriends sometime.”

Carlotta smiled at the thought of bringing Hannah and

Michael to this place. They wouldn’t exactly “blend.”

Carlos appeared and handed June a small, slender cigar

about five inches long. June thanked him, then handed the

cigar to Carlotta. “I hope you don’t mind. I took the liberty

of choosing a cigar I thought you’d like.”

“Not at all,” Carlotta said. “But I don’t know what to do

first.”

“Some people take off the band, but I like to leave it on so

that the tobacco doesn’t stain my fingers, at least until it

burns down.”

She read the colorful band: Key West Havana Cigar

Company. “Okay.”

“Here’s a cutter,” June said, handing her one of the small

guil otine-looking devices that littered the tables next to

enormous art-glass ashtrays. “The tapered end is the cap

end. That’s the end that you cut and light. See the cut

line?”

Carlotta scrutinized the cigar, and saw the faint

impression. “Yes.”

“Don’t cut beyond the line or you’l risk cutting the

wrapper leaf.”

Carlotta situated the cutter and severed the cap with

surprising little effort.

“Good. Do you have a lighter?”

She withdrew from her purse the trusty mother-of-pearl

lighter that she’d unearthed from a bureau drawer

yesterday—just in case a cigarette fel into her lap.

“Hold the cigar in your hand and rotate the cigar tip near

the flame. It’s best if you don’t actually touch the tip to the

flame. Just let it char from the fumes.”

Carlotta did as she was told, fascinated. When embers

began to appear, June said, “Okay, now put the cigar to

your mouth and draw by pul ing in your cheeks, like this.”

She imitated the woman, noting the unfamiliar, but not

unpleasant, taste of the leaf upon her lips. She was

gratified when the tip of the cigar began to glow.

“Good.” June sat back in her chair and raised her martini

to her mouth. “It’s like giving a blow job, only more

enjoyable.”

Carlotta inhaled sharply at the unexpected comment and

her lungs rebel ed, sending her into a coughing spasm.

“Don’t inhale,” June said, laughing. “Take it slow, puffing

occasionally to keep it lit.” She smiled. “Also like a blow

job.”

Carlotta recovered, thinking it was a good thing that her

memory was long, or the comparison would be lost on her.

But she acknowledged that she liked the feel of the cigar in

her hand, and that she was very tempted to like the

woman across from her, although admittedly, June Moody

was difficult to read.

“So,” June said, turning her head to exhale, “tel me about

the Dominican Cohiba.”

Carlotta recognized the name as the brand of the cigar

she’d brought in. Her mind whirled for an explanation

more reasonable than the real one. “I work in a

department store, and someone left it. I’m just trying to

find the owner.”

“I see,” June said mildly. “That’s mighty generous of you.”

Carlotta smiled guiltily.

“Did you actually see the person who left it?”

“N-no.”

“You just found it?”

“In the pocket of a men’s jacket that had been returned.”

“Ah. So why couldn’t you just check the sales receipt?”

June puffed on her cigar casually, but her eyes were wary.

Carlotta averted her gaze and pretended to concentrate

on her cigar.

“If you expect me to give you the name of my best

customers,” June said, “you’re going to have to come up

with a better story than that.”

With a sigh, Carlotta decided to come clean with the

woman. What choice did she have? “The jacket that I

found the cigar in was purchased by a woman named

Angela Ashford, who’s…dead.”

She had June’s ful attention now. “Go on.”

“Angela drowned, but the circumstances around her death

are suspicious and I thought…that is, I wondered…if she

could have been involved with a man who had…hurt her.”

June exhaled, then gave Carlotta a pointed look. “You

mean, kil ed her?”

“I don’t know.”

“If her death is suspicious, then why aren’t the police

involved?”

“Let’s just say they’re not interested.”

“So you thought you’d do a little investigative work on

your own?”

Carlotta nodded.

“Were you friends with this Ashford woman?”

“Sort of,” Carlotta hedged.

“Was she married?”

“Yes.”

“So this jacket, the cigar—they don’t belong to her

husband?”

“No.”

June’s eyebrows shot up. “I see. So the person who bought

the cigar could have been a lover?”

“Maybe. Again, I don’t know.”

June sat forward and tapped ash into the beautiful

ashtray. “So you’re asking me to divulge the names of the

customers who bought this particular kind of Cohiba,

knowing that it could lead to an investigation?”

Carlotta nodded again. “If it’s an expensive cigar, it

couldn’t be that many customers.”

“Only a handful,” June confirmed.

Carlotta’s heart began to beat faster, partly due to the

nicotine infusion, partly due to the feeling that she was

onto something. She puffed on the cigar, then exhaled in a

frustrated sigh. “Are you going to help me?”

June studied her for a few seconds, then leaned forward

and used her cigar to gesture to the people around them.

“Carlotta, most of the guys in here are decent fel as who

come to hang out because their wives don’t want cigar

smoke stinkin’ up the living-room curtains. But some of my

customers—wel , they aren’t the nicest people. Are you

sure you know what you’re getting yourself into?”

Carlotta swallowed a mouthful of the martini, then shook

her head against the sting of alcohol. “No. But this

feels…necessary.” Besides, she was starting to get used to

having “not nice” people in her life: a fugitive father,

lurking loan sharks, a detestable detective.

June lifted her glass. “Fair enough, darlin’. I’l give you

what you want. But you’d better watch your step. If your

suspicions are correct, one dead girl is plenty enough.”

21

“Mrs. Susan Harroway,” Carlotta read from the napkin on

which she’d written the names that June Moody had given

to her the night before, after the cigars had been smoked

and another round of martinis exhausted.

“Harroway is an old Atlanta name,” Hannah said, reclining

on Carlotta’s bed in ful goth getup and fingering the silver

barbel piercing her tongue. “I don’t know a Susan in

particular, but I’ve catered parties for various Harroways.”

“I’l ask Michael at the store. Maybe he’l know something

about her.” Carlotta worked her mouth from side to side.

“But June told me the woman said the cigar was a gift, so

that could mean her husband, her father, a brother.”

“Or a boyfriend,” Hannah added.

Carlotta frowned. “Not everyone cheats on their spouse.”

“Sure they do, if they live long enough. Who else is on the

list?”

“Dr. Joseph Suarez. I looked him up in the phone book and

he’s a plastic surgeon. His office is in Buckhead.”

“A plastic surgeon in Buckhead? Ooh, big surprise.”

“Michael mentioned that he had a friend who worked in a

clinic where Angela got Botox injections. Maybe Dr. Suarez

works there.”

“Hmm. Next name?”

“Bryan D’Angelo. June says he’s an attorney and I got the

feeling that he’s a little shady.” She bit the end of her

fingernail. “Maybe Liz Fischer knows him.”

“Who’s that?”

“Wes’s attorney,” she said dryly. She hated the thought of

calling the woman. Liz’s history with Detective Terry made

her even less palatable in Carlotta’s eyes.

“Do you have a beef with Liz?”

“She was my dad’s attorney, too.”

“Oh?” Hannah’s voice rose in curiosity, probably, Carlotta

presumed, because she rarely mentioned her father.

“What about Dennis Lagerfeld?” Carlotta asked to redirect

Hannah’s attention.

Her friend squinted, as if the name was familiar.

“His is the last name on the list. June said he used to be a

professional athlete.”

“Oh, right,” Hannah said, nodding. “Receiver for the

Falcons, maybe ten years ago. Man, he was fucking

gorgeous. I wonder if all that muscle has gone to fat.”

“There’s no obvious connection to Angela.”

“They could have met anywhere—at a party, at the club,

at a day spa.”

“Or he could be a client of Peter’s,” Carlotta murmured.

Mashburn and Tul y prided themselves on representing

the investments of athletes and celebrities. Part of the

reason she had first begun col ecting autographs when she

was a teenager was due to the access her father had once

had to famous people.

“So what if you find out that one of these people does

have a connection to Angela Ashford? Are you going to

confront them, Nancy Drew?”

“I don’t know.” Carlotta sighed. “I’l cross that bridge if I

get there.”

“Any news on whether there’s going to be an autopsy?”

“No. I haven’t talked to Coop since the funeral.”

“What, you need an excuse to talk to the hunky

undertaker? Step aside and let me at him.”

Carlotta smirked. “You just want to have sex in a coffin,

don’t you?”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

“You need help, you know that?”

Hannah smirked. “So have you heard from the grieving

husband?”

Carlotta laid the napkin on her nightstand. “He’s called a

few times.” Six, to be exact. “But I haven’t answered.”

“Did he leave messages?”

“Just that he called and would like to talk to me.” In the

last couple of messages, though, she’d detected a bit of

desperation in Peter’s voice.

“Are you going to call him?”

“Probably,” she admitted. “Eventually.”

Hannah held up a pack of menthol cigarettes. “Want a

smoke?”

“Yes,” Carlotta said, then moaned. “No. I have such a

headache after smoking that cigar last night…of course,

the martinis probably didn’t help.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t take me with you.”

“You were working.”

“Stil .”

Carlotta smirked as she reached for a cigarette. “I’l take

you back sometime—you’d love it. Everyone there looked

married.”

Hannah clapped her hands. “This is great. I thought when

you gave up the party-crashing, you were going

mainstream on me. But then you kissed a married man,

and now you’re smoking again!”

“I can’t afford to start smoking again. I’m already broke,

and do you know how much cigarettes cost these days?”

“Yeah,” Hannah said holding up the box of cigarettes from

which Carlotta had taken a smoke. “I kind of bought these.

And for someone who’s always broke, you always seem to

always have money to spend on clothes.”

Carlotta looked at her closet that was too full for the

double doors to close. Designer bags and shoes, belts and

coats, dresses and jeans bulged past the door frames. She

thought of the money from her pawned engagement ring

that was rapidly dwindling. “Too bad I can’t sel some of

this stuff.”

“You can,” Hannah sang. “eBay.”

“Under the rules of Wesley’s probation, we can’t have a

computer in the house.”

“Oh. Bummer.” Then Hannah brightened. “I know a

place—Designer Consigner, in Little Five Points. They’ll

take all this name-brand crap off your hands.”

Carlotta frowned. “For how much?”

“You set your price, and they add a percentage. You get

paid when it sel s, and you know this shit wil sel , like,

instantly.”

Carlotta picked up the purse she’d carried last night—last

season’s Coach, but stil in prime condition. And she had at

least two dozen more like it, al different brands. Even if