Body Movers (36 page)

The door opened, snapping her attention to the man who

strode into the room. Dr. Joseph Suarez was tall and

barrel-chested—a definite possible fit for the men’s jacket

that Angela had purchased, Carlotta immediately thought.

Pleasantly handsome, he looked to be in his mid to late

forties.

Although, if he’d bought into his own procedures, the man

could be seventy, she mused.

He removed the gum he was chewing and tossed it in a

trash can, then smiled at her as he picked up her chart.

“Miss Wren?”

“Yes,” she said, suddenly nervous.

“What can I do for you?”

Before she could reply, he dropped into the seat opposite

her and reached forward to cup her face in his hands.

“Um, I’m here for a consultation,” she murmured,

wondering what he was frowning at.

“Uh-hmm.” He moved her head from side to side. “You

have a lovely neck.”

She swallowed hard at the bizarre remark. “Th-thanks.”

His fingers were butter soft, but strong and adept. She

imagined them squeezing the life out of Angela and

shivered.

“Are you cold?” he asked in a way that made her think he

didn’t real y care.

“A little.”

As expected, he ignored her response as he ran his thumbs

over her nose and cheekbones. “I can fix that.”

“The temperature?”

“No, the bump on your nose.”

“I have a bump on my nose?”

He nodded and angled her head so that she could see her

profile in the mirror. “That bump.”

“That’s not a bump,” she argued. “That’s a…hump.” Her

mother’s hump, to be precise. “I don’t want it fixed.”

“Okay,” he said easily, then proceeded to push and prod

her skin as if she were a wad of Sil y Putty. “Laser

resurfacing wil take care of the blotchiness, col agen

injections wil fil in your laugh lines and crow’s-feet, and

Botox wil help those forehead wrinkles.” Then he made a

sorrowful noise. “I can’t fix your teeth, but I can refer you

to a good cosmetic dentistry group.”

She tongued the familiar gap between her front teeth,

then frowned. “I don’t want to fix my teeth.”

“Oh.” He sat back and lifted his hands. “What then?”

The whole hard-sel routine had left her feeling a little

blindsided, not to mention homely. With a mental shake,

she reminded herself why she was there. “I’m interested in

learning more about Botox. My friend Angela Ashford

referred me to you.”

The reaction was unmistakable. His eyes widened slightly

and his mouth twitched downward before he reached for

her file and pretended to peruse it—odd, since there was

nothing to peruse other than her home address and phone

number and the fact that the only medication she took

was birth control pil s.

Which was anecdotal, considering her lackluster sex life,

but not particularly noteworthy.

“What…exactly did Ms. Ashford say about me?” he asked.

At his suspicious body language, her stomach fluttered

with excitement. She paused for effect, then gave him a

coy smile. “Angela said the two of you—how did she put

it?—had a special relationship.”

He fidgeted. “Were you aware that Ms. Ashford

had…passed away?”

She nodded. “Everyone is torn up about it. Did you hear

that the police had reclassified her death as a murder?”

More fidgeting. “I think I read something about it in the

paper.” He stood suddenly, then wiped his mouth with his

hand. “I might have been too hasty, Ms. Wren.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that you could postpone any work at all for at

least another five years.”

She perked up. “Really?” Then she realized he was trying

to make a fast exit. “Hey, wait a minute, I paid three

hundred dol ars so you could tel me that I don’t need any

work?”

He walked over to a cabinet, opened the door and raked

an armful of bottles and jars into a plastic bag. “Here you

go,” he said, setting the bulging bag on the table in front of

her. “That’s at least a thousand dol ars’ worth of product.

Have a nice day.” Then he opened the door and walked

out, not bothering to close it.

“You’re not going to get a referral from me!” she shouted,

but her pulse clicked like a timer. The good doctor was

definitely guilty of something besides a bad bedside

manner. But could it be murder?

She hefted her bulky bag of samples, not sure if she had

enough information to pass to Detective Terry. Then she

spotted the trash can and remembered the gum Dr. Suarez

had been chewing—wouldn’t the detective be impressed if

she were able to provide a sample of the man’s DNA?

Probably not, she thought moodily as she set down her

load and snagged a plastic Baggie from a dispenser. The

man would probably just reprimand her again for “doing

his job.” She grimaced at the feel of the squishy gum

through the Baggie, then stuffed it in her purse.

But as she walked to the door, a face on the computer

screen caught her eye. The “before” picture wasn’t

familiar, but the “after” picture was: Lisa Bolton, post eye

and chin lift.

Carlotta inhaled sharply. Coincidence?

“There is no such thing as a coincidence,” Hannah declared

over lunch.

“Yes, there is,” Carlotta argued. “It’s not a stretch to

imagine that two wealthy women in Buckhead went to

one of the most popular plastic surgery clinics in

Buckhead. What’s harder to imagine is why a successful

plastic surgeon would murder two of his patients. But the

man certainly acted strange when I mentioned Angela’s

name.”

“If you ask me,” Hannah said, “the entire population of

Buckhead is one therapy session away from drinking the

magic Kool-Aid. Most of these people are nuts, or have

you forgotten so quickly the murder plot we stumbled into

last fal ?”

“As much as I’d like to forget being hauled to the police

station and gril ed like a piece of chicken, I haven’t been

able to yet.” Then she clasped her hands together. “That

reminds me—I got a letter from Jolie yesterday. She and

Beck are doing great. She says she’s never been happier.”

“Do they have plans for returning to Atlanta?”

“Not anytime soon. And after everything she went

through, I can’t say I blame her.”

“I know. And look how quickly that story disappeared from

the headlines. Three people dead, and after the murderers

were caught, the people in their social circle pul ed in tight

to keep it hush-hush. Unless someone was in the middle of

it, like we were, they might not even know the whole thing

had happened.”

“The wealthy are masters at self-preservation,” Carlotta

said. “I’d be surprised if the police have any luck

questioning the Martinique Estates residents about what

might have happened. Even if anyone knows something,

they’re likely to remain silent just to keep property values

high.”

“A friend of mine told me yesterday that she once

bartended a party in that neighborhood, and that by the

end of the evening, everyone had traded partners and

disappeared into bedrooms.”

Carlotta winced. “Swinging?”

“Don’t look so outraged. It happens all the time, especially

in high circles where people feel entitled and bored.”

“I know.” Yet the thought of Peter and Angela indulging in

something so sordid made her queasy. Maybe Peter

hadn’t loved Angela, but he had cared for her. And surely

his own sense of integrity would have kept him from

handing his wife off to another man. She rubbed her chin

as another thought occurred to her. Was Peter so adamant

that Angela hadn’t had an affair because he didn’t want his

own shame to be revealed?

Her cel phone rang and she pul ed it out, grateful for the

distraction. The local number that came up on the screen

was one she didn’t recognize, but she pushed the call

button. “Hel o?”

“Is this Carlotta?” a woman’s voice asked.

“Yes. Who is this?”

“June Moody, darlin’, from the cigar shop. I thought you

might want to know that one of the people who bought

the cigar you asked about is sitting upstairs in my bar.”

“Who?” Carlotta asked, worrying her lip.

“Dennis Lagerfeld. He’s with a buddy.”

Carlotta’s mind raced. “I’d like to talk to him.”

“Want me to stal him until you get here?”

Carlotta covered the mouthpiece and looked at Hannah.

“Want to go on a field trip?”

“Hell yes.”

She moved her hand. “June? I’l be right there.”

29

“Try to look normal,” Carlotta said on the sidewalk in front

of Moody’s, then took in Hannah’s silver-studded black

leather jumpsuit and sighed. “Scratch that.”

“Don’t worry,” Hannah said with a flip of her striped hair.

“I’ll lie low.”

Carlotta had her doubts but walked inside. She was

surprised to find the shop crowded with men in suits and

noted that it must be a popular lunchtime destination for

businessmen in the area. Across the long, narrow room,

June Moody caught her eye and made her way toward

them.

“He’s stil upstairs,” June said without preamble. “I gave

him a nine-inch cigar on the house, so he’d have a reason

to stick around.”

“Thanks,” Carlotta said. “I’l be discreet.”

At her words, June stared at Hannah with a half smile.

“June, this is Hannah,” Carlotta said. “Believe it or not, she

can be discreet, too.”

“It might help if you’re smoking,” June offered.

“I’l have the same thing I had the other night,” Carlotta

said. “An Amelia.”

“And I’l have a Tamboril Torpedo,” Hannah said.

June raised her eyebrows, apparently impressed. On the

other hand, nothing Hannah did surprised Carlotta—her

friend’s travels and experiences would fil a book.

June left, then returned shortly with two cigars. “You can

pay when you leave. You’d better get up there before he

and his companion remember that there’s an X-rated

video store next door.”

Carlotta gave her a grateful smile. “Come on,” she said to

Hannah.

“Okay, I love this place,” Hannah said as they climbed the

stairs and entered the bar area.

Most of the chairs and couches were occupied, but

Carlotta’s attention went immediately to the bar. Dennis

Lagerfeld was impossible to miss, his big, athletic body

taking up more than his share of space, his pale eyes

latching on to her as soon as they walked in. She smiled a

greeting, then slid onto a stool, leaving one empty

between her and the businessman Dennis was talking to.

“He’s stil gorgeous,” Hannah murmured.

Nathan was tending bar again today. “You’re back,” he

said to Carlotta. “And I see you brought a friend. What can

I get for you ladies?”

She ordered a cosmopolitan, and Hannah ordered scotch

on the rocks.

“Put those on our tab,” Dennis Lagerfeld said, then got up

from his seat and took the empty one next to Carlotta. He

was the only man in the place not wearing a suit, instead

showing off his buff bod to perfection in flat-front trousers

and a close-fitting knit shirt—Salvatore Ferragamo…nice.

“I’m Dennis Lagerfeld,” he said with a wolfish grin.

“I know who you are,” she said, playing to his ego.

He grinned wider. “Then you have me at a disadvantage.

What’s your name?”

“Carly,” she said easily. “And this is my friend Hannah.”

“This is my agent, Patrick Forman,” Dennis said, leaning

back to allow the suited man to say hel o. The guy looked a

bit annoyed, as if he was accustomed to business meetings

with Dennis being interrupted, but he nodded hel o. The

nod—and his wedding ring—were enough of an opening

for Hannah, who made her way over to stand in front of

him, al smiles.

“So, Patrick,” she cooed, “tel me about yourself.”

Carlotta almost felt sorry for the man, but focused on

Dennis. “He’s your agent?” She lifted her glass for a sip.

“Are you stil playing football?”

“Nah,” Dennis said with a dismissive wave. “I retired from

the rough stuff. Patrick handles all my endorsement deals

and schedules my public appearances.”

“Sounds exciting,” Carlotta said, then picked up a cutter

and snipped the end of her cigar.

“Can I light your fire?” he asked with a throaty laugh. He

lifted a lighter and with a flick of his thumb, offered her a

three-inch flame. Sometime between the time they’d sat

down and now, he’d lost his wedding ring.

Smooth.

She smiled and moved in to light her cigar. The man’s

cologne was more overpowering than the smoke. She

coughed lightly, then batted her eyelashes. “Thank you.”

She drew on the cigar, slightly dismayed at the way her

body rejoiced when the first dose of nicotine hit her

system.

“What do you do, Carly?”

“I work at Neiman Marcus at the Lenox Mall.”

“Really? I shop there. I’m surprised I haven’t seen you.”

“I work in the women’s department,” she said. “And I see

you aren’t married, so I don’t suppose you’d have a reason