Bond, Stephanie - Body Movers 06.5 (9 page)

“What’s that?”

His bold gaze raked over her again, skating over erogenous zones he traveled many times. “No matter what universe I’m in, I don’t mess around with married women.”

Her body warmed under his scrutiny, strained toward his magnetic pull. “I know,” she murmured. “But in the other world, I’m not married.” She held up her left hand. “Which is why I’m not used to wearing these rings.”

His lips parted and she could see the confusion again. He wanted to believe her, but he simply couldn’t.

“Goodbye, Jack,” she said with a little smile. “Take care of Maria.”

She opened the door and stepped out onto the driveway, then lifted her hand in a wave. When his car pulled away, Jack was still staring at her. Her heart shook until his taillights disappeared. Then she turned back to the house where she lived.

With her husband.

Chapter 10

As Carlotta walked down the driveway to the house she shared with Peter, dread billowed in her chest. She hadn’t had time to think about her marriage and her life with Peter since he’d picked her up this morning, but she could no longer ignore it.

Her husband had seemed cheerful enough earlier, if a little distant—had he been planning to meet Angela for a lunchtime tryst?

She checked her watch, then pulled out her phone to call Peter, but got his voice mail. She left him a breezy message to call her when he got a break. She ended the call and stowed the phone with worry gathering. According to Tracey and Bette Noble, the Ashford marriage was in deep trouble. Perhaps the house they shared would shed more light on their marital issues.

It was, by all accounts, a lovely home, stately in intricate brick and wrought iron. A turnaround in front of the flaring steps circled a large fountain. The two-story entryway rose to glorious palladium windows. On the left was a four-car garage. To the right of the house, workers swarmed the pool area that was being overhauled. She could see the beginnings of a manmade waterfall and a guest house—it seemed that she and Peter were building the identical home he and Angela had built in the place she’d come from.

So perhaps it was Peter’s home, and she and Angela were simply accessories?

She walked up to the front door, hoping one of the keys on her key ring would open the door. It did. But as soon as she crossed the threshold, the beeping of the security system sounded, warning her she had mere seconds to enter the personal code. She walked through the foyer to the keypad on the far wall and punched in the code she had used at Peter’s house before… and it worked.

She stood in the silent house and turned a full circle, taking in the familiar layout of the first floor—great room, enormous kitchen, den, and sunroom—and the furnishings, which were also familiar. Apparently her and Angela’s taste in decorating was as similar as their taste in men.

She wandered around other rooms of the first floor, filled with awe that she lived in all of this luxury, before climbing one of the two stairways that led to the second floor. The master bedroom was an expansive suite, furnished with oversized dark furniture. The ceiling featured an elaborately trayed inset and skylight. The bedroom gave way to a sitting room with a massive fireplace, wet bar, and large-screen TV, and a verandah beyond sets of French doors. In another direction, a mirrored dressing room serviced large his and her closets…. although “her” closet was suspiciously sparse.

On a table sat a black and white photo of their wedding portrait. Carlotta picked it up, ran her fingers over their smiling faces, hoping she had been as happy that day as she looked. She was wearing Vera Wang, of course, a brilliant white halter dress with a full skirt, a long crystal-studded veil. Peter was meticulous in a black tuxedo. They were as perfect as any picture in a bridal magazine. They had so much history and so much in common, by all rights, they should have a perfect marriage.

She turned over the frame and found what she was looking for—the date of their wedding. In a few days, they would be married for seven years.

The Seven Year Itch.

So had all of the love flowed out of their relationship, or had they simply grown bored with each other?

A thought struck her that had her returning the framed picture and crossing the hall. When she’d stayed with Peter during the time her life had been in danger, he’d put her in the guest bedroom across from his. She’d realized that Angela had slept in the room, that Peter and his wife had maintained separate bedrooms, at least at the end of their marriage before the woman’s life had been taken.

Carlotta opened the door and her heart sank to see signs she occupied the lighter, airier room. On the nightstand sat some of her favorite beauty products, and a desk in the corner was cluttered with things that probably belonged to her. She opened the door to the walk-in closet/dressing room and confirmed its vast space was jammed full of clothes and shoes in her style and size.

She walked in and ran her hands over the lavish outfits, pulling out a few gowns to hold in front of her in the three-way mirror, wondering to what event she’d worn the dresses. She and Peter must have an active social life.

Then she frowned at her reflection… at what point had she moved into her own bedroom? After rehanging the dresses, she made her way to the maple desk, hoping to glean more information about herself and the state of her marriage.

It was a beautiful, large piece of furniture, with numerous drawers and cubby holes. Her desk at the townhome was

crammed with overdue bills and correspondence. But she suspected Peter took care of their household bills… a fact that did not make her proud. Tracey’s comment today about neither one of them having a schedule plucked at her. If she was a vapid do-little woman who served as a society placeholder, no wonder Peter was bored with her… she’d lived here for one day and was bored with herself.

Okay, so she was a drag… but was she a murderer? Had Tracey been telling the truth about a how-to list for offing

Angela? If so, where did she keep it? She flipped through notepads and notebooks, scanning every piece of paper and scrap she found, alert for something incriminating. She found a pack of cigarettes and a lighter jammed into a cubbyhole, proof she was still smoking on the sly. And to her delight she found her pink leather-bound celebrity autograph book, the one that had been ruined from a dip in a swimming pool in her world. But this one was still intact. She flipped through, curious to see if she’d added any interesting names. To her amazement, she had autographs from big name rock stars and world-renowned

entertainers, politicians and sports figures who were household names, even a member of the royal family. And she had a feeling she hadn’t had to resort to crashing parties to get these high-profile signatures. Her lifestyle with Peter had obviously afforded her remarkable access.

A bottom desk drawer was locked, but she couldn’t find the key in any of the little containers that held paperclips and other odd items. She checked her key ring and found a small key that fit. Her heartbeat sped up when she saw a stack of journals inside. She opened the first one and saw it contained entries for recent dates. Her skin tingled to see words in her own handwriting she had no memory of putting to paper.

From the entries, it seemed clear she was concerned about her relationship with Peter, that he had become more distant of late, and his normal easy-going patience had been replaced with a short fuse. She skimmed in reverse, going back four journals until she found the first hint of real problems in their marriage starting over a year ago. Peter had become consumed with work, leaving early and working late. It was he who had suggested she’d be more comfortable in her own bedroom, so he wouldn’t disturb her sleep with his erratic schedule.

Carlotta was gratified to see his suggestion had hurt her deeply at the time—it indicated she loved her husband and mourned what she saw as a loss of intimacy. She had moved across the hall to spite him—no surprise there—certain he would miss her lying next to him and would insist she move back.

And he had.

But she’d refused, still bruised from his rejection, determined to make him suffer. It was, apparently, the beginning of a standoff that had morphed into polite coolness as each of them had retreated to their own corners of the house. Still mired in gloom, she’d begun to suspect Peter was having an affair, although she hadn’t been able to catch him in any lies. There had been times, however, when he’d ended phone calls abruptly when she entered the room, or excused himself to his home office and closed the door.

She had pondered the list of possible mistresses—coworkers, clients, friends. But during an encounter with Angela

Keener at a club function, she thought she’d detected something more than friendship emanating from the woman when she looked at Peter. Angela was still single and working as a salesperson at a luxury car dealership, although racy rumors persisted about her personal life.

Carlotta bit down on the inside of her cheek. In the other place, Angela had led a double life: Angela Ashford, well-heeled socialite, and Kay, high class call girl. Had Angela’s life followed a similar trajectory here?

She continued to read and gathered that in the last few weeks, she’d become convinced Peter was having an affair with Angela, and had begun to wonder how long it could’ve been going on. Carlotta’s pulse climbed higher as the entries began to increase in intensity and anger toward Angela. She wrote if she couldn’t be Mrs. Peter Ashford, she didn’t know what she’d do with her life. The last entry of four days ago read,
I will kill that woman before I let her take my husband.

Carlotta set down the journal with a shaking hand, although she was relieved not to find any mention of a list. Had she made one and if so, where would she have put it?

Her mind went to the iPad in her purse. She retrieved it and puffed out an exhale—obviously she was more technically inclined in this world. But remembering how Tracey had turned on the device, she pressed the sleep/wake button and was rewarded with a screen full of icons. Calling on her inner Wesley, she fumbled around and was able to find the file manager.

The tablet must be new because there were very few files to scan, and none of them referred to a list. Still, she opened each document to check.

She sat back, relieved.

Although admittedly, the absence of a to-do murder list on her iPad might indicate she knew enough not to commit such a list to a digital file.

She stood and glanced around the room for possible hiding places. She checked the nightstand, her closet drawers, even under her mattress, but came up empty. Turning back to the desk, she looked for anything she might have placed a list inside—a book or a magazine. In the back of a drawer, her hand closed around a long, thin cardboard tube. When she pulled it out, she noticed the Vanderbilt University Commencement sticker and recalled Wesley’s mocking question about whether the tube she’d received that day had contained an actual diploma.

Her throat convulsed as she popped off one end of the tube and removed the piece of rolled paper inside. Moisture

gathered in her eyes as she read the letter informing her unfortunately, she would not be receiving her diploma that day because she was deficient in the six classes listed.

She bit her lip—did anyone else know? Tracey’s comment about neither one of them using their pricey college degrees came back to her. Obviously she thought Carlotta had graduated. Is that why she didn’t work, because she couldn’t rightfully list a college degree on her résumé?

Her mind raced with helplessness over the embarrassment of riches she’d been given in this life, and how she’d

squandered them. But as she churned over what to do and if she could do anything that would affect this life going forward, she noticed another piece of paper inside the tube. Hoping it was documentation proving she’d finished her degree, she pulled out the sheet.

But at the sight of hand-written words on the paper, her hopes fell… and her lungs squeezed as if they were held in a vise.

At the top of the sheet she’d written the words
How to Kill a Mistress
.

Chapter 11

Carlotta fought to breathe as she scanned the list she’d made to off the person she suspected was having an affair with Peter, aka Angela Keener.

Learn her schedule. Set up an alibi. Make it look like an accident.
Beneath the bulleted points were details about trailing Angela and using the upcoming police benefit as a cover when the “deed” happened. The notes were cryptic but she got the feeling she was planning some kind of carjacking or ambush… and that she intended to carry it out with a gun or a knife, although thank goodness it appeared she hadn’t yet procured a weapon. She’d written notes to herself including “stay off the Internet when doing research.” Carlotta pursed her mouth, wondering why she hadn’t reminded herself not to share the existence of the list with a frenemy like Tracey.

She was an idiot. A murderess and an idiot.

Her mind replayed a conversation she’d once had with Jack where he’d commented everyone had the capacity for murder.

Apparently, he was right.

She hugged herself, horrified to learn she could go to such a dark place. Even if Angela was sleeping with Peter, she didn’t deserve to die for it. Peter was the one who’d taken vows with her, not Angela. And if he wanted to be with the woman, Carlotta would give him his freedom.

Meanwhile, she had to get rid of this incriminating list.

She returned to the desk and retrieved the cigarette lighter, panicked now she would somehow be sucked back through the time vortex before she could undo this horrible plan. She carried the paper into the spa-sized bathroom and held it over the commode while she set fire to the corner. Flames blackened, then dissolved the paper as they climbed upward. She held on to the paper until the last possible moment, then dropped it into the toilet bowl and flushed it away, heaving a sigh of relief.

But she was still trembling as she backtracked to the bedroom and sat down at her desk. She selected a pen, then opened the journal and began with
Dear Carlotta, this is a letter from yourself, from another place…