Body Movers (39 page)

already bought it. He’s not sure—you know how men are.

Is it possible to look up an item number for our location,

then track the purchase of each item back to a name on a

credit card? I’d doubt if we carried more than a dozen of

this particular item.”

“It’s possible,” Jeanine said, “but it’l be a few hours before

I can run a report. And if she paid with cash, you’re out of

luck.”

“I understand.” She gave Jeanine the item number and her

cel -phone number. “Call me when you have the results?”

“Wil do.”

“I owe you one.”

“You owe me about fourteen. When are you going to pay

up?”

Carlotta bit into her lip. “How do you feel about skin

care?”

“Huh?”

“I have cleansers, scrubs, peels, all of it pharmaceutical

grade. Name your poison.”

“Hmm—got any glycolic acid gel?”

“Twenty percent solution.”

“You’ve got yourself a deal. I’l call you back.”

Carlotta returned the receiver and walked back toward her

section, wondering how angry Detective Terry would be if

he knew she was stil asking questions.

And that after tearing apart her bedroom and car she stil

hadn’t found that damn cigar.

“Carlotta to the men’s department,” a woman’s musical

voice sang over the P.A. system.

Carlotta looked toward the ceiling, frowning at the hidden

speakers. Pages were made only as a last resort—someone

had obviously been by her station and couldn’t find her.

She hurried downstairs, perplexed. But when she walked

into menswear and saw Dennis Lagerfeld lounging against

a counter as if he owned it (and he probably could), she

realized that she’d been “summoned.”

“Carly,” a menswear associate said, shooting arrows her

way, “Mr. Lagerfeld asked that you assist him today.”

“I’d be happy to,” she said, trying to tamp down the

nervousness that threatened to paralyze her. The fact that

he’d come looking for her told her a lot about the man: He

was predatory, accustomed to going after and getting

what he wanted. She conjured up a smile. “Hel o, Mr.

Lagerfeld.”

He splayed his large hands and she noticed that he wasn’t

wearing his wedding ring again. “Please, call me Dennis.”

She nodded. “Dennis.”

The other associate slipped away, leaving them alone.

Stil leaning, he perused her skirt suit—yel ow-and-gray-

striped, with a lime-green T-shirt underneath, and gray T-

strap high heels. It was, she relented, a great ensemble,

but the man looked at her with those languid, pale eyes of

his in a way that made her feel as if she needn’t have

bothered getting dressed.

“You’re looking lovely today,” he oozed.

“Thank you. You look nice, too.”

He brushed a hand over the fine knit of his long-sleeve

black shirt. In fact, he was dressed all in black, with every

garment fitting his big, athletic body like a glove. She

couldn’t help but wonder if his leaning pose had been

practiced in order to show off his long, muscular figure to

best advantage.

“I have a guest appearance later today,” he said. Gesturing

vaguely to the racks of clothing around them, he said,

“Meeting you yesterday reminded me that I needed some

things.”

“Suits? Sportswear? Shoes?”

“Yes,” he said with a moneyed smiled.

Her return smile was genuine—a potential murderer’s

money was as good as anyone else’s. Maybe she could

repair her sales record while plying him for more

information. “Then let’s get started, shall we?”

She gave him a guided tour through every section of the

men’s department, making suggestions along the way,

although she soon realized that Dennis Lagerfeld had

developed an eye for what types of clothing

complemented his large physique. She could see how a

woman could get caught up in his aura, she decided. Just

watching the man move was a treat—his physicality

suggested he’d probably be a great lover. Plus, he was

undeniably handsome…and rich.

And married, she reminded herself. And on the prowl.

And quite possibly, a dangerous man.

He shopped for shoes first, flirting with her while he

walked around picking up exquisitely made styles. “I wear

a size fifteen,” he announced, “but I like a tight fit.”

She squirmed, unable to stop from visualizing the exact

image that he’d intended. “I’m sure we can accommodate

you,” she murmured, wondering what it would be like to

be the mistress of someone like Dennis Lagerfeld. He

seemed like someone who enjoyed the chase but would

probably tire of the conquest.

A chil settled over her when she returned with a selection

of size fifteens and knelt before him. Was he pursuing her

because he’d recently rid himself of a mistress and was in

search of a new one?

His cel phone rang and he answered while working his

foot into a black ostrich-skin lace-up dress shoe. “Yeah,

Patrick, what’s up?”

Carlotta tied the shoe slowly, shifting when she realized

that Lagerfeld was trying to look up her skirt. What a cad.

“I don’t want to deal with this right now,” Dennis said into

the phone, his voice agitated. “Just make it go away,

Patrick. That’s why I pay you the big bucks.” He snapped

the phone closed.

“Trouble?” she asked lightly.

“Comes with the territory,” he said. “There’s always

someone plotting to sabotage me or trying to get to my

money—fans, competitors, strangers…even friends. It gets

to the point that I don’t know who I can trust.”

“Sounds lonely,” she observed.

“It is,” he said, then leaned forward and gazed into her

eyes with a pained expression so convincing she could see

how a woman might fall under his spel . “More lonely than

you could possibly imagine.”

She smiled nervously, then stood and looked down at the

two-thousand-dol ar pair of shoes. “What do you think?”

He didn’t even look down. “I think I’l wear them. You’re a

great salesperson.”

She laughed, going along with his flattery. “Then let me

sel you something else.”

She led him into the suits section, accumulating armfuls of

things he liked, eventually stopping next to a rack of

cashmere jackets with a crest embroidered on the lapels—

the same brand that Angela had purchased. She hung

back, watching his reaction. He fingered the same jacket

that Angela had purchased, even removed it from the rack,

then frowned thoughtful y. Carlotta held her breath. Did

he recognize the jacket?

“Nice jacket,” she murmured. “Would you like to try it

on?”

He glanced up, then grinned. “Only if you’l help me get

undressed.”

She blushed and delicately picked a hair off his sleeve. She

was getting pretty good at DNA col ection on the sly.

“You’re going to get me into trouble.”

“Trouble excites me,” he said with a low laugh. Then he

donned one of those interested-in-an-offhand-way

expressions. “Say…do you ever take back clothes that have

been worn?”

Her mind flashed back to the days when she’d returned

worn clothes herself. She made a rueful noise. “Not unless

there’s a defect…although funny you should ask. A woman

just returned that same jacket a few days ago, you know,

the customer of mine who drowned.” She frowned. “It was

very strange. She caused a bit of a scene, so we took it

back—not that it mattered in the end.”

His eyebrows rose almost imperceptibly. “I’m curious.

What happens to clothing that’s been returned?”

The back of her neck prickled. Resisting the urge to run,

she said, “In this case, I put it with our other returns. It was

too…soiled…to be put back on the floor. Eventually it’l be

sent back to the manufacturer, I suppose.”

“Ah.” He leaned down and wet his curvy lips in slow

motion. “What time do you get off work?”

“S-six.”

“Let’s go somewhere,” he said. It wasn’t a question but a

foregone conclusion in his mind.

“I can’t,” she said. “I…already have a date.” He didn’t have

to know it was with her brother and a plate of lamb chops.

Dennis pouted. “I promise I’l show you a better time than

he can.”

“Maybe some other time,” she said and conjured up a

hopeful smile.

He continued to flirt while he tried on the clothes and then

she rang up his sale. When she told him the total, he shook

his head and handed over his credit card. “This is the most

money I’ve ever spent just trying to get someone to go out

with me.”

“Really? I pictured you as a generous guy—lingerie,

perfume, the whole bit.”

He grinned. “Wel , I admit, I do have a weakness for a

beautiful woman wearing beautiful lingerie. I’ve purchased

quite a lot of lingerie here, in fact.”

Her pulse picked up, but she played the demure flirt as she

handed back his card. “Wel , I’m not so sure I want to be

part of a harem. You probably have ladies falling all over

you. I bet you don’t even have to look farther than your

own neighborhood to find a wil ing woman.”

In the span of two seconds, his expression morphed from

playful to panicked. He jammed his credit card back into

his wallet. “It’s not like that.”

“Come on,” she said, baiting him. “A celebrity like you—

you’re probably fueling the fantasy of every housewife in

your zip code.” She gave him a sexy wink. “Women talk,

you know.”

His swarthy coloring faded to a sickly green-gray. “You

don’t say.” He glanced at his watch. “I didn’t realize it was

getting so late. I need to go or I’m going to miss my

speaking engagement.”

She handed his bags over the counter. “Thank you for

shopping with us. See you around?”

“Yeah,” he muttered, then picked up his shopping bags

and strode away.

Carlotta crossed her arms and watched him walk away,

wondering if Detective Terry had questioned Dennis

Lagerfeld, if he’d given any credence to her information

that a man who smoked the same cigar that she’d found in

the pocket of the returned jacket just happened to live in

the same neighborhood where both women had been

murdered. And who seemed inordinately interested in

what had happened to a jacket that had been returned.

She held up the Baggie with the hair she’d plucked from

Lagerfeld’s sleeve. The detective would probably be

furious with her if he knew she was stil poking around, but

she’d resigned herself to the fact that the man was in a

perpetual bad mood where she was concerned.

As she walked back to her department, her cel phone

rang—it was Jeanine.

“Got those names for you,” she said.

“Go ahead,” Carlotta said, certain now that Dennis

Lagerfeld’s name was on the list and that she had cracked

the case.

“Six garments sold, two of them cash sales. The credit card

sales were in the names of Rebecca Bright…Regina

London…Robert Kenny…and Peter Ashford.”

Carlotta froze, her vital signs going haywire. Peter?

“Are you there?” Jeanine asked. “Does this answer your

question?”

“Yes,” Carlotta managed on an exhale. “Thanks, Jeanine.”

“When wil I get my gel?”

“It’s in the mail,” Carlotta murmured, then disconnected

the cal , feeling as if she were moving in slow motion.

Peter had bought the lingerie that Lisa Bolton had been

wearing when she died? She recalled something that

Angela had said on her last shopping spree when she had

bought some lacy underthings. Peter likes me in black.

Perhaps he liked al of his women in black.

She covered her mouth, afraid she might be sick. Had

Peter been having an affair with Lisa Bolton? Had he

gotten her pregnant? Had Angela found out? And had

both women died at his hands? Had he always possessed

the capacity for violence and she hadn’t seen it, or had he

changed after they’d parted? Feeling light-headed, she

considered crawling behind the counter and curling up in a

ball. But no, she could—and would—col apse later. Right

now she had to make a phone call.

She picked up the counter phone, dialed the police station

and asked to speak to Detective Terry. After a few

minutes, his voice came on the line.

“Terry here.”

“Detective…it’s Carlotta Wren.”

“Yeah. What’s up?” She could hear him shuffling papers in

the background.

“I need to talk to you.”

“So talk.”

“Not now—I’m at work. But I get off in an hour. Can I meet

you somewhere?”

“I’m leaving soon, too, and I need to make a few stops.

How about I meet you at your place?”

“My brother will be there.”

“Even better. I’d like to talk to him as wel .”

Why did she have the feeling that he had more questions

about her parents? She sighed and massaged her temples.

“Okay, I’l see you there.”

Somehow she made it through the next hour without

flying apart. But by the time she got to her car, her feet

and her heart were dragging. She was terrified that Peter

might be waiting for her again, but thankful y he was