Body Movers (27 page)

she could sel them for a third of what she’d paid for them,

she could pay down her credit cards and maybe have her

Miata fixed. The thought of being able to get rid of the

dreadful Monte Carlo made her giddy.

“Why don’t you load up a few things and we’l take them

in,” Hannah suggested.

Carlotta narrowed her eyes. “You despise designer clothes.

How do you know about this place?”

“It’s next door to a place I shop, and the same people own

it. Stop stalling.” She grimaced at the overflowing closet.

“Good grief, Amelia Earhart could be in there.”

Carlotta emptied the contents of the Coach bag on her

bed, then went through her closet, choosing purses that

she’d grown tired of but that were stil in great shape,

many of them protected by dust bags. Hannah began

pul ing out clothes in clumps. “How long has it been since

you wore this?”

Carlotta studied the fitted orange tweed jacket. “I can’t

remember.”

Hannah tossed it on the bed. “It goes.”

“Wait a minute!”

“Jesus, Carlotta, the closet rods are bowed. You couldn’t

wear all this stuff in ten years!”

With a sigh, Carlotta relented and thirty minutes later,

they were piling clothes and shopping bags of accessories

into Hannah’s retro refrigerated catering van that was

covered in graffiti.

“When are you going to get this thing painted?” Carlotta

asked.

“It is painted,” Hannah said, clearly annoyed. “Some of the

best graffiti artists in Atlanta live in my neighborhood and

have left their mark on my ride.” She stepped back and

gestured to the words Do yourself written in stylized white

lettering, highlighted to look three-dimensional. “See the

signature—Zemo. He’s huge. This van is going to be in the

Smithsonian one day.”

“Right,” Carlotta said as she rearranged the bags stuffed

ful of clothes. She sniffed and wrinkled her nose. “It smel s

like garlic in here.”

“Last night’s gig,” Hannah said, closing the rear halfdoors.

“I made so many garlic rol s I swear this morning I crapped

a clove.”

“You really should write poetry.”

“I just might someday.”

Carlotta climbed up and swung into the cracked blue vinyl

bench seat and slammed the door hard to get it to stick.

When Hannah pul ed away from the curb, Carlotta waved

at a frowning Mrs. Winningham, then rol ed down the

window and lit the cigarette she’d been playing with for an

hour.

It was a breezy, cloudless spring day and she couldn’t

stave off the pang of sadness that Angela had been dead

for mere days and the world had marched on, with hardly

a pause. She wondered what Peter was doing—if he’d

returned to work yet, sold Angela’s car, spread her ashes,

ordered her grave marker. Would he order a double

headstone, with thoughts of someday being buried next to

his young wife, or was he already thinking ahead to

inviting another woman into his life?

Like her.

“Why can’t you let it go?” Hannah asked, wrestling with

the huge steering wheel with one hand, holding her

cigarette in the other.

“What?”

“You know what—Angela Ashford’s death. Everyone but

you thinks it was an accident. And if it was an accident,”

she said lightly, “doesn’t that sort of clear the way for you

to get back with the love of your life?”

Carlotta flicked ash out of the window. “I suppose so.”

“Wel , I’m no shrink, but either you think Peter kil ed her

or you’re conflicted about your feelings for him and are

going to some pretty extreme lengths to avoid the

situation altogether.”

Carlotta studied the cigarette she held, asking herself why

people did things that they knew would hurt them

eventually, and if she had a particular propensity for self-

destruction. She took a long draw, then exhaled. “Wel ,

like you said, you’re no shrink.”

Hannah frowned and replied by leaning forward and

turning up the volume on the radio, blasting Marilyn

Manson into the cab for the short ride south into Little

Five Points.

Carlotta felt torn over shutting out her friend, but she was

already so confused about Peter, she was afraid that

talking about him, that putting words to half-baked

feelings, might send her into an emotional abyss. What if

she did give in to years of pent-up longing and al ow Peter

into her life…and into her heart? Would he tire of her after

he felt he’d paid penance for abandoning her? After all,

how much did they really have in common now?

She slid her gaze sideways at Hannah, the tongue-pierced,

stripe-haired, smoking and cursing bondage queen…with a

heart of gold. Her best friend, but would Peter accept her

and her eccentricities? And how would he feel when he

discovered that she herself had had a couple of, er,

misunderstandings with the law? And she doubted that

Peter’s boss, Walt Tul y, would look kindly upon him taking

up with the daughter of the man who had stolen hundreds

of thousands of dol ars from their clients, the man

responsible for an embarrassing asterisk on the company

records.

So what could she really ever be to Peter—a

pastime…closeted?

“This is it,” Hannah said, throwing the van into park.

Carlotta looked up and took in their eclectic surroundings.

The people and shop owners in Little Five Points prided

themselves on their individuality. Antique book-shops,

organic restaurants, futon stores, bike shops, alternative-

music stores, hip T-shirt shops. The theaters and

playhouses and trendy eateries had caught on with the

younger Buckhead crowd determined to prove that they

were get-real cool despite their black American Express

cards, so the clientele was slowly changing from students

with pocket change to young professionals with loads of

disposable income. Ergo, next door to a retro used-

clothing store cal ed Rebound Rags sat Designer Consigner.

They loaded up armfuls of bags and clothing and headed

for the door. Carlotta felt a little sheepish to be taking her

personal items in to hock—it smacked of desperation. Her

mother, she thought, would be appalled at the notion of

Carlotta sel ing her clothes—consignment stores and yard

sales were too pedestrian for the Wrens.

Embezzlement, bail skipping and child abandonment, on

the other hand, were acceptable.

She fol owed Hannah into the store that was remarkably

wel merchandised for a consignment shop. A petite Asian

woman with a sleek bob and wearing a Chanel suit as wel

as anyone Carlotta had ever seen looked up from a table

where she sorted items that, presumably, the two women

standing in front of her had just brought in.

“I’l be right with you,” the Asian woman said in a clear,

cultured voice.

The two customers turned and Carlotta blinked in

surprise—one was Tracey Tul y…er, Lowenstein. Mrs. Dr.

“Carlotta,” Tracey said, her voice chil y. “How utterly

bizarre to see you again so soon.”

“Hel o, Tracey.” A flush blazed its way up Carlotta’s neck as

she saw Tracey take in the bulging shopping bags she and

Hannah held. Humiliation washed over her.

Tracey gestured to the dry-cleaner bags of clothing

stacked on the table. “My friend Courtney and I were just

dropping off some items for the Women Helping Women

clothing drive.”

The other woman smiled tightly without making eye

contact, as if Carlotta and Hannah might qualify as some of

the women who needed help.

“Wel …what a coincidence,” Carlotta said, lifting her chin.

“So are we.”

She ignored Hannah’s strangled noise as she lifted the

shopping bags to the table. After she jerked her head

meaningful y, Hannah did the same with the bounty she’d

carried in.

From the top of one of Carlotta’s bags, Tracey plucked a

nearly mint Kate Spade leather hobo bag from two

seasons ago. “Yes, underprivileged women wil appreciate

these items, even if they are hopelessly dated.” Then

Tracey made a face. “This stuff smel s like garlic.”

Carlotta smiled through clenched teeth as the woman

carelessly tossed the expensive purse back into the bag.

“You’re very generous, ma’am,” the salesclerk murmured

to Carlotta.

Carlotta tried to keep smiling as the woman gathered up

the bags and disappeared with them in a back room. There

went the extra cash she’d hoped to have.

When the salesclerk returned, Tracey snapped her fingers,

as if she were talking to a servant. “I’l be needing a receipt

so I can deduct this from my income taxes. I’m a doctor’s

wife and in our tax bracket we need all the deductions we

can get.”

Hannah coughed, disguised her muttered “bitch” as a

wheeze.

“Yes, ma’am,” the salesclerk said, then she smiled at

Carlotta. “If you’l write down your name and phone

number, I’l give you one as wel .”

Not that it mattered in her tax bracket, Carlotta thought

miserably.

Tracey snatched the receipt from the woman’s hand, then

turned to Carlotta. “Now that Angela is gone, I guess I’l be

seeing you at the club.”

Carlotta frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Tracey tossed her hair. “I mean, it’s pretty clear that you

and Peter Ashford are going to pick up where you left

off…if you ever stopped.” She gestured toward the back

room where the salesclerk had taken the shopping bags.

“You’re probably giving away all your old things because

you think that Peter is going to buy you whatever you

want now. Poor Angela, not even cold in her grave.”

Anger flared in Carlotta’s chest and she struggled to keep

her voice steady. “You don’t know what you’re talking

about.”

“Oh, it’s not just me talking,” Tracey assured her with a

cocked hip. “After you made a spectacle of yourself at the

funeral and the way that Peter fawned over you afterward

in front of everyone, trust me, everyone is talking.” Then

Tracey smiled meanly. “But considering the way you were

raised, no one is surprised.”

Carlotta flinched as if she’d been slapped, but Hannah

apparently wasn’t nearly so traumatized. “Mrs. Dr., how’d

you like my pointy-toed boot up your charitable ass?”

“We’re leaving,” Tracey said, looking them up and down

with contempt as she and her friend made their way

toward the entrance—but not without a parting shot.

“Really, Carlotta, you’ve gone to the dogs.”

Hannah lunged toward them, but Carlotta grabbed her

arm. Stil , it was enough to send Tracey and her sidekick

scrambling out the door.

When Carlotta turned back to the salesclerk, the woman

had a faint smile on her face. “Sorry about that,” Carlotta

murmured, then bent to write her name and number on

the receipt book.

“They have history,” Hannah added unnecessarily.

“So I gathered,” the woman said, her dark eyes shining.

She extended the receipt she’d written to Carlotta. “Thank

you very much for the donation.”

“You’re welcome,” Carlotta said, feeling guilty as hel as

she took the slip of paper.

When their hands brushed, a strange look crossed the

woman’s face. She clasped Carlotta’s hand. “Wait.”

From the sharp tone in the woman’s voice, alarm blipped

through Carlotta’s chest. “What is it?”

The woman had turned Carlotta’s hand palm up and was

studying it, a crease between her perfectly arched brows.

Carlotta glanced at Hannah, who only shrugged. After a

few awkward seconds had passed, the woman looked up.

“I don’t mean to worry you,” she said quietly, “but you are

facing danger.”

Carlotta squirmed. “Why would you say that?”

The woman’s cheeks turned pink. “I’m sorry. Sometimes I

have a gift…for seeing things. When I touched your hand, I

felt danger. Do you have a big, strong man in your life to

protect you?”

Hannah snorted. “No.”

Carlotta nervously withdrew her hand. “We’d better be

going, Hannah.”

The woman smiled. “My name is Amy, Amy Lin. I didn’t

mean to scare you, but please be careful.”

Carlotta studied the woman’s body language for some sign

of a con or impending sales pitch. Instead, Amy Lin’s eyes

burned with sincerity and…concern.

Without responding, Carlotta backed away and left the

store, with Hannah at her heels like an excited puppy. “Oh

my God, that was a psychic moment!”

“I don’t believe in psychics,” Carlotta said as she climbed

into the van.

Hannah catapulted herself into the seat and slammed her

door. “Wel , I do, and I’ve always wanted something like

that to happen to me.”

“If it makes you feel better, I wish it had happened to you,

too. That kind of stuff is wasted on me.”

“I wonder what she meant by you facing danger?” Hannah

bounced in the vinyl bench seat. “Ooh, ooh—maybe Peter

Ashford is the danger, and you need someone to protect

you from him.”

Carlotta sighed, exasperated. “It doesn’t mean anything,