Stephanie Bond - Body Movers - 2 Bodies for the Price of 1

Carlotta hung up the phone and studied the bewildering bouquet she’d set on the corner of the stained lunch table. “I have no idea.” She showed him the card. “I don’t know anyone named Mason. Does it ring a bell for you?”

Michael shook his head. “Some guy you met in a bar maybe?”

“No, I’m sure of it.” Her nerves were unraveling. Had her father sent the flowers? Was it some kind of message? Or was it simply a misdelivery?

“Then you must have a secret admirer. Someone dropped a mint on these American beauties.”

Her expression must have reflected her dour mood, because he shook his head with a sigh, then produced a business card. “Here. Dr. Delray said he could squeeze you in Wednesday afternoon at six, but only for thirty minutes, so you’ll have to talk fast.”

“Thank you.” She folded the card into her pocket.

Michael fingered a perfect bloodred rose and sighed. “Meanwhile, if you don’t want this guy, send him my way, okay? Buh-bye.”

“Bye.” She carefully removed one long-stem rose and stroked the velvety petals. Had her mother liked roses? Her father? She couldn’t recall. And Mason wasn’t a family name that she knew of, nor a place they’d been, nor a pet they’d owned. If the roses were from her father, the message was lost on her. She tightened her grip on the stem in frustration and was rewarded with a zing of pain as a thorn pierced her palm, drawing blood.

“Dammit!” Carlotta put her mouth to the tiny wound, feeling the return of tears that were too common lately. She wondered if Michael’s shrink would be able to help her, or would her life scare even a trained professional?

Pushing aside the troubling thoughts, she picked up the pay phone and dialed the number to the auto body shop. Carlotta hated the blue muscle car that she’d gotten stuck with after taking it on a twenty-four hour test drive that had gone wrong, but since she owed more for the car than it was worth, she was resigned to driving it until it was paid for or until the wheels fell off.

She had hoped the wheels would have fallen off by now, but no such luck.

The repair shop was recommended by Wesley via his odious friend Chance, so even though it had taken in her car immediately and promised a quick turnaround, she was leery. After several rings, a man answered with a half-grunt, told her to hold, then told her that the Monte Carlo wasn’t ready yet. “Wednesday,” he promised.

She pinched the bridge of her nose. “What time Wednesday?”

“After noon?”

“Okay,” she said wearily, then hung up.

Carlotta turned and eyed the enormous bouquet, weighing the hassle of getting the flowers home on Marta versus the cost of a cab in rush hour. With a sigh, she slung the strap of her bag over her shoulder and scooped up the vase. During the trip through the mall and the half-block walk to the train station, she garnered lots of enviable stares. On the packed train however, the stares became murderous as she inadvertently poked an eye here, snagged someone’s clothing there.

“Sorry,” she mumbled to no one and to everyone standing near her in the shoulder to shoulder crowd. To save space, she brought the bouquet closer to her face but the sickeningly sweet scent of the roses reminded her of death—of the scent that permeated the funeral home that Cooper Craft ran.

She wondered if he’d called Hannah yet for a “body run” or if he and Wesley were working together today. Body moving wasn’t the sort of job she’d hoped Wesley would get, but with his recent arrest record and probation, she couldn’t complain. At least he was bringing in money legitimately, making his weekly payments to the thugs he owed and staying away from the card tables. And Coop seemed to be a good influence on Wesley, which was a relief. After raising Wesley, she had enormous respect for single mothers; the pressure was relentless. So was the guilt.

Things should have been so different for Wesley. For her. The thought only fueled her frustration and confusion over her father’s cryptic phone calls. What should she do? Report it? Wait? Report it, then wait?

“Lindbergh,” the conductor announced. “Lindbergh is your next station.”

The train slowed to a swaying halt and the doors lurched opened. Carlotta pushed her way to the platform and rode the escalator to the street level. A whipping wind had descended with the promise of rain before she could walk the few blocks home.

She picked up the pace, cursing the questionable repair shop and thinking that if she’d known her car wouldn’t be ready, she wouldn’t have worn her Stuart Weitzman mules to work. They were good for standing still or for sashaying around the sales floor, not so good for eating up uneven sidewalks while wrestling an enormous vase of roses. By the time it started to rain, she had the beginning of a serious blister or three. She muttered a string of curses as she tried to shield her Nancy Gonzalez clutch. It was last year’s style, but didn’t deserve water spots.

She glanced around at the slightly shabby homes in her neighborhood, Lindbergh or as locals liked to say, east Buckhead. When they’d moved here after her parents had lost their lavish home, Wesley had called it Limberg, like the cheese, and her mother had said it was fitting. The cramped, nondescript town house had been a jolt to them all after living large. Even the weather in this part of town seemed to reflect the plight of the people who lived here—not quite as good as anywhere else. She’d bet that a few miles away in Buckhead, skies were blue.

She was hobbling in pain by the time she reached the stoop of their home. The rain had stopped, but she was thoroughly drenched as she fumbled with the flowers and her key ring.

“Well, aren’t you special?”

Carlotta turned her head to see their neighbor Mrs. Winningham standing on the other side of the fence she’d erected. The tall, skinny woman sported a bright red helmet of teased hair, elastic-waist polyester pants and a shiny button-up shirt. In her arms she held an umbrella and her dog, Toofers, the ugliest, meanest canine imaginable. Over the years, the bizarrely black-tufted dog had sunk its razor teeth into Wesley more times that she could count. And always when they could least afford a trip to the emergency room for stitches.

“Hello, Mrs. Winningham. Hello, Toofers.”

Toofers growled at her, and the woman gave him a reassuring pat. “Nice flowers, Carlotta. Do you have a man friend?”

“Uh … no.”

“There’ve been a lot of men coming around lately. The man who drives the dark sedan, for instance, and the man with the fancy little sports car and the man who drives the white van.”

She’d bet the woman had copied down all the license plates, too. “Those are just friends of ours, Mrs. Winningham.”

“What about the woman with the striped hair and the chains?”

“Uh … that’s another friend.”

Her neighbor frowned. “Are your parents ever going to come back for you?”

Carlotta almost dropped the vase of flowers, then considered throwing it at the biddy and her bite-happy pooch. Instead she gritted her teeth. “I wouldn’t count on it, Mrs. Winningham.”

“Your townhouse is in terrible disrepair. It makes the entire street look bad.”

She so didn’t need this.

“I wasn’t happy when the two homosexuals moved into the house next to yours, but they have at least updated the place and keep it looking nice. Although that solarium sticking out in the backyard does block the view to the houses on the other side.”

Carlotta gave the woman a flat smile. The two men who had moved in next door about five years ago kept to themselves and had never talked to her or Wesley. Then she bit into her lip. Maybe she should make an effort to get to know them. They probably thought everyone in the neighborhood was as homophobic as this woman.