7 Brides for 7 Bodies (12 page)

And could she blame them?

In her small Tory Burch crossbody bag, her phone vibrated. Her heart lurched hopefully—stupidly—that it was some word from Randolph. Or Wesley calling to say hello and he was sorry for acting like a jerk since their foiled visit to the jail two days ago. Instead it was Hannah returning an earlier text.

Got a weeklong catering gig, catch up with you soon.

Carlotta battled a stab of disappointment. Between Hannah’s erratic job and spending all her free time with Chance, she’d been scarce lately. But it wasn’t her friend’s fault her life was crumbling at the corners.

Carlotta texted back
Okay, talk soon.

She checked to make sure she hadn’t missed a phone call from the U.S. Penitentiary, then reluctantly dialed Liz’s phone number. The woman answered on the first ring.

“What is it, Carlotta? I’m busy.”

Carlotta swallowed a foul word. “Too busy to go with me Monday to sit down with Kelvin Lucas?”

A beat of silence passed. “What’s this about?”

“I assume he wants to take my report on The Charmed Killer case, but I’m afraid he’ll use it as an excuse to dig for information about Randolph.”

From the throaty noise Liz made, she could tell the woman agreed. “What time?”

They synced details, then ended the call without ceremony. Carlotta stowed her phone with gritted teeth—she was so tired of Randolph occupying space in her brain!

With a mental shake, she busied herself helping customers, trying not to think about anything except selling men’s clothes and accessories. It was, at least, fun to help women decide if their man was a warrior, a king, a lover, or a magician. She had to give kudos to the booth designer—it was an interesting way to connect with shoppers and engage them in conversation. She drew on the high energy of the show and before she knew it, Melissa Friedman was announcing over the loudspeaker that the flower arrangement competition would begin soon in the runway area, and seats were filling fast.

Carlotta sighed. Yesterday a young man had died on that runway, and today the world marched on with its frivolous pastimes...but it was how things had to be.

Still, it made a person feel inconsequential.

“Hello, Carlotta.”

At the sound of the vaguely familiar female voice, she turned and blinked in surprise at the curvy redhead who had stopped next to the booth. “Hi, Rainie.” Guilt suffused her chest. “I’m sorry I haven’t returned your calls. I’ve been...busy.”

Rainie Stephens smiled. “I understand. You have a lot going on right now. How is your injury?”

“Better, thanks.”

“It must be if you’re working.” She nodded to the display. “The four male archetypes—very clever.”

“I can’t take credit for it, but yes. What brings you to the show? Are you planning a wedding?”

Rainie laughed and shook her head. “No. I’m writing a general interest piece for the paper. I’m sure you heard about the young man who collapsed and died yesterday?”

“Yes. I was there when it happened—very sad.”

“Is there a story there?”

Carlotta shook her head. “It was awful, but innocent enough. The poor guy had a baby on the way, was going to be married soon.”

Rainie made a mournful noise, then glanced at her watch. “Do you have time now to chat? I’ll buy you lunch.”

“I’m really not up for an interview, Rainie.”

The woman fingered a black leather Tom Ford wallet. “Maybe you can help me find a gift, then?”

Carlotta was wary. “Okay. Someone special?”

“Cooper, as a matter of fact. His birthday is next week.”

Rainie and Coop had some relationship history, but Carlotta didn’t know the details. A tiny ripple of jealousy pinged through her chest that the woman knew more about Coop than she did. “Right.”

“So which one of these archetypes do you think best matches Coop?”

She didn’t want to say, but her gaze involuntarily went to one particular display.

Rainie’s eyebrows rose. “The lover, huh?”

“Um...I...wouldn’t really know.”

The redhead circled the display, then nodded. “No, you’re right...he’s a lover.”

Carlotta pressed her lips together. “If you say so.”

“Can you recommend something?”

“How about this?” She held up a straw fedora with a black band.

“Yes, I think it would suit him nicely. I’ll take it.”

Carlotta stepped to a register to ring up the sale, still on her guard.

Rainie leaned into the counter. “So how about some questions to satisfy my own curiosity? Off the record.”

Carlotta hesitated, then remembered the times Rainie had helped her. “Okay...off the record.”

“When Bruce Abrams attacked you, did he tell you why he killed all those women?”

“He implied he was doing it to set up Coop.”

Rainie’s eyes clouded in concern. “Did he say why?”

“I got the impression he felt as if he was operating in Coop’s shadow.”

“Makes sense, I suppose. Coop was a popular chief M.E.”

A part of Coop’s life that transpired before Carlotta knew him. “I’m sure he was.”

“God, I’m so relieved Abrams is locked up and Coop’s nightmare is over.”

The way she said it made Carlotta think Rainie was helping Coop pick up the pieces...which was great. He deserved to be happy. “We’re all relieved.” She wrapped the hat in tissue and placed it in a shopping bag. Coop was the kind of guy who could wear a fedora. He was...cool.

Rainie handed over her credit card. “How is your father?”

Carlotta gave a careful shrug. “I wouldn’t know. I haven’t talked to him.”

“Why not?”

“Are we still off the record?”

Rainie’s eyes softened and she nodded.

“The feds are keeping him under wraps.”

“I heard he’d been moved to USP. You must be going crazy.”

Carlotta managed a smile. “Crazy is starting to feel normal.” She handed back the credit card, receipt, and shopping bag. “Coop will love it.”

“I hope so,” Rainie said happily as she tucked away her wallet. “Carlotta, when you’re ready to talk on the record about everything that’s happened, call me. It can be cathartic, you know, to tell your side of the story.” She started walking away.

Carlotta was tempted to call her back—to grant her an exposé into the life of the children of fugitives, to make public the way she and Wesley had been ostracized and had scraped by. They had been victims as much as the people who’d lost money they’d invested with Randolph. It would serve him and Valerie right for what they’d done, and for what Randolph was still doing to them.

“Rainie—wait.”

The woman turned back. “Yes?”

Except Wesley would never forgive her. And at the moment, the ground he stood on was shaky enough.

“Enjoy celebrating Coop’s birthday.”

The woman smiled wide. “We will. Thanks.”

The rest of the day dragged, marked by hourly announcements on the P.A. system for whatever activity was taking place in the presentation area—a tasting, a class, a demonstration. Jack walked by once and waved, but didn’t stop, seemingly resolute to keep their pact. As the clock crept toward closing time, Carlotta became more and more antsy to get home to check the mailbox, although she knew the chance it would contain some sort of correspondence from her father was slim. And unless Wesley decided to put in an appearance to make dinner, she was looking at a bagged salad to keep her company.

Stifling a yawn, she was on her way to the vending area for a shot of caffeine when she spotted someone who looked familiar. She did a double-take. The tall, polished woman wearing a tailored dress working the counter for HAL Properties, an exclusive hotelier in the Southeast, looked a little like...in this light, she sort of resembled...

She could
almost
be mistaken for...

The woman looked up and made eye contact. Then she froze.

Carlotta’s eyes bugged.
Hannah?

Chapter Eleven

INSTEAD OF WAVING, Hannah did a one-hundred-eighty-degree turn and strode out of the booth in the opposite direction.

Carlotta frowned and walked after her. “Hannah, it’s me!”

Ahead of her, Hannah picked up her pace and trotted through the crowd.

Carlotta zigzagged between people to keep up. “Hannah, stop!”

But Hannah was practically running now. Carlotta was ready to give up when she saw her friend trip and go down hard. She hurried to where Hannah had parted the crowd. She was lying on her back, slapping away hands that tried to help her up. Nearby lay a black high-heeled pump, minus the high heel. Carlotta rescued the amputated shoe.

When Hannah saw Carlotta, she squeezed her eyes shut and played dead.

Gone was the Goth makeup and in its place—if Carlotta had to guess from the air-brushed perfection—was Dinair foundation in Golden Tan. Gone were the miscellaneous rings in various face piercings and in their place, diamond stud earrings and a Mikimoto three-strand pearl choker. The fitted colorblock dress covering every inch of tattooed skin was Yves Saint Laurent. And her black and white striped hair had been tamed into a tight bun on the top of her head befitting of a ballerina.

All dolled up, Hannah Kizer was
gorgeous
. And almost unrecognizable.

Carlotta stood over her, hands on hips, taking it all in. “Hannah?”

No response.

“Should I call 9-1-1?” a woman standing next to Carlotta asked.

“No, but thank you,” Carlotta said. “I’ve got this.” She smiled and waved off the lookey-loos, then crouched down. “Hannah?”

Hannah cracked open one eye. “Yes?”

“What’s going on?”

The other eye opened. “It’s a wedding expo.”

Carlotta pursed her mouth. “I mean, why were you running from me?”

“I wasn’t running from you. I...had to go to the bathroom.”

Carlotta arched an eyebrow. “Then you’d better get up.” She extended her hand.

Hannah, looking miserable, let Carlotta help her stand. “Damn shoes.”

Carlotta held up the leather pump. “You must have put a lot of miles on these. Burberry usually can withstand anything.”

Hannah snatched it from her hand. “Good thing I brought flats as a backup. They’re back in the booth.”

“That would be the HAL Properties booth?”

Hannah squirmed. “That’s right.”

“Are you moonlighting?”

“Sort of.”

“Do you work for HAL Properties, or don’t you?”

Hannah’s berry-glossed mouth twitched downward. “My family kind of owns it.”

Carlotta’s jaw loosened. “Your family owns HAL Properties?”

Her friend nodded morosely. “It’s named for me and my sisters—Hannah, Anna, Linda.”

“And the brother you once mentioned?”

“Sterling. My folks put his name on their flagship hotel.”

“The Sterling House?”

Hannah sighed, then nodded.

An exclusive five-star hotel in Midtown that boasted a mere twenty-five rooms of alleged unparalleled luxury—Carlotta had never been through the hallowed doors. But its reputation was the stuff of urban legend.

Disparate pieces of information Hannah had let slip over the years began to fall into place—the disparaging remarks about her family, the implied estrangement. Carlotta had assumed her friend was ashamed of her family, and since she could relate, she hadn’t forced the issue. It hadn’t occurred to her that Hannah was embarrassed because they were
wealthy
.

A memory bounced into her head—once when the police had questioned Hannah about a theft at the country club where she was waiting tables, an officer had recited the address from her driver’s license as West Paces Ferry. At the time, Carlotta had thought it strange that Hannah lived on the same street as the governor’s mansion, but the detail had gotten lost in the flurry of the moment. Now it made sense.

“Wow...just...wow. Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

Hannah bristled. “What difference does it make?”

“I don’t believe it does.”

“So why bother?”

“Maybe because you know practically everything about my life?”

Hannah shrugged. “I’m a private person.”

Carlotta swept her arm up and down, indicating her friend’s drastic change in appearance. “I’m starting to think I don’t know you at all.”

From the depths of her memory came the voice of Maria Marquez when the profiler had once offered up some unflattering observations about Carlotta’s relationship with Hannah.
Is that why she’s friends with you—because you don’t care enough to ask questions?

Hannah grimaced. “This isn’t me—this is who my parents want me to be.”

“And this is so bad?”

“It comes with too many expectations.”

Unbidden, resentment rose in her chest. Had she and Wesley been a source of entertainment to Hannah...to see how the other half lived? “So you decided to slum it with the Wrens?”

Hannah’s face clouded. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Then how was it?”

“Don’t be mad. Can we go somewhere to talk?”

Carlotta hesitated. The sense of betrayal was keen...but her sense of curiosity won out. “We could go to Moody’s. But I rode MARTA, so you’ll have to drive.”

“Okay,” Hannah said eagerly. “I’ll change my shoes and meet you by the entrance in ten minutes.”

“I can walk with you.” She was dying to meet Hannah’s family.

“
No
,” Hannah snapped, then looked contrite. “One step at a time, okay?”

Carlotta stared after her, reeling inside. How was it possible to spend so much time with someone and know so little about them?

Could she trust anyone except herself?

Feeling numb, she made her way back to the booth to help Patricia tidy up and secure the cash registers. She glanced around, missing Jack and hating herself for it.

“He hasn’t been by,” Patricia murmured.

“Who?”

The blonde gave her a pointed look. “That cop who doesn’t have anything to do with you and Peter breaking up.”