Body Movers Books 1-3. Stephanie Bond

to the back of her throat; she thought she might be sick.

      “Maybe you should go,” Cooper suggested quietly, his mouth near her ear. “This isn’t something that everyone should see, especially if you have a connection to the deceased.”

      She nodded, breathing deeply, and turned to leave. She walked to the open door where Peter sat, staring off into the distance, his jaw clenched. He looked up and a desperate look came into his eyes. He lifted his hand to her. With her heart clicking, she stepped into the house, immediately assailed by a sense of grandeur—the scale of the woodlined ceilings alone was awe-inspiring.

      “Will you close the door?” he asked, turning his head away.

      She did, glad to shut out the sounds of hushed voices and staticky police radios. The vacuum of the door closing sealed her into a room where the air was surprisingly stale, as if the house was rarely used. Through the wide doorway in the back of the room Carlotta caught a glimpse of the maid bustling around in a large kitchen. Hallways and stairways that extended out of her line of vision spoke of the house’s spaciousness. The scent of strong coffee wafted on the air.

      The room she stood in was another designer feat, a den with a soaring brick fireplace, built-in cherry-wood cabinets jammed with expensive-looking bric-a-brac, over-stuffed leather couches and chairs, plus a long carved mahogany table and twelve matching chairs. Peter sat in the chair near the end of the table, his back to the pool, fingering the tip of a flower in what had to be the most hideously huge silk flower arrangement that Carlotta had ever seen.

      “We argued about this stupid flower arrangement,” he said, still staring straight ahead.

      She stood motionless, letting him talk.

      “It didn’t matter that it was ugly,” he said with a laugh. “What mattered was that some upscale florist came to our house and designed it especially for Angela. He even gave it some ridiculous name, and I’d be ashamed to tell you how much it cost. Do you believe that we had a party so that people in the neighborhood could come and look at the damn flower arrangement?”

      He looked up as he finished, the anger in his voice traveling to his startling blue eyes, hardening the drunken lines of his face until he looked almost…mean.

      Carlotta was glad when the maid appeared with a coffee tray and set it on the table. The woman filled a cup and slid it in front of Peter, then offered Carlotta a watery smile. “Coffee, miss?”

      Carlotta shook her head. “I don’t think—”

      “Please,” Peter implored. “Sit with me, just for a little while.”

      She hesitated, then took the chair opposite him. Too late, she realized it gave her a direct view of Angela’s body. The woman’s pale face was turned toward Carlotta, her eyes slightly open. It was as if she were determined to watch Peter and Carlotta, even in death.

      Just as the maid set a cup of steaming coffee in front of Carlotta, the glass door slid open, revealing Detective Terry. He stepped in without being asked, although he did make a perfunctory pass at wiping his feet on the doormat.

      He scowled at her briefly before addressing the maid. “I understand, ma’am, that you found the body?”

      The old woman’s eyes teared and she nodded.

      “What’s your name, please?”

      “Flaur Stanza.”

      He made a note on a palm-size notebook he carried. “Can you tell me what happened, Miss Stanza?”

      “I…come home from store,” she said in broken English. “I see Miss Angela’s purse, so I know she is here. I call her name to see if she want tea, and she no answer. I come out here to sweep, and…and—” She began to sob, her shoulders shaking.

      “Take your time, Miss Stanza,” Peter said, his voice strangely calm.

      “I see her…in deep end…floating facedown,” the woman said. “She fell in, I think.”

      “Had she been drinking?” Peter bit out.

      Detective Terry frowned. “Mr. Ashford, if you don’t mind, I’ll ask the questions. Miss Stanza, did you see anything else, any signs of where she might have fallen in?”

      She nodded and pointed to the far end of the pool. “A broken glass on the edge. I show policeman when he get here.”

      Detective Terry made another note. “Anything else?”

      “Black marks, I think from her boots.”

      The detective nodded. “And you called 911?”

      “Yes, sir. And Mr. Peter.” She shot a quick glance at Peter and her face crumpled again.

      “It’s okay,” Peter soothed, patting her arm. “It’s not your fault. I was afraid something like this was going to happen.”

      Detective Terry perked up. “Oh? Has something like this happened before?”

      Peter pursed his mouth. “You mean Angela drunk? Only all the time. And she was a poor swimmer.”

      Detective Terry told the maid that she could go. The woman looked to Peter for confirmation, and he nodded. “Go home, Miss Stanza. I’ll call you tomorrow.” When the woman left the room, Peter gestured to the tray. “Would you like some coffee, Detective?”

      “No, thank you.” Then Detective Terry looked at Carlotta. “Ms. Wren, will you excuse us for a moment?”

      Realizing that he was asking her to leave, she started to stand, but Peter’s hand on her arm stopped her.

      “Stay,” he said, his voice beseeching, then he turned to the detective. “I have no secrets. Ask me anything.”

      The detective looked back and forth between them until Carlotta averted her gaze. This was really beginning to feel…wrong.

      “Okay,” Detective Terry said with a sigh. “Mr. Ashford, was your marriage in trouble?”

      Next to her, she felt Peter stiffen. “No more so than any other marriage, I would suspect.”

      Outside, the medical examiner and the police had stepped away from the body. Cooper unfolded a white sheet, whipped it open and allowed it to float down over Angela’s body. Carlotta stared until the woman’s face was completely obscured by the sheet. Wesley lowered what resembled a long plastic tray with scooped sides and black handles. With care that impressed her, Coop rolled the covered body toward him until Wesley had slid the tray underneath. Then he gently lowered the body and situated it onto the carrier. Both men tucked the sheet around the body with respectful concentration. She felt a swell of pride for Wesley, that he was handling such a terrible job with professionalism and obvious detail.

      “Were the two of you discussing a divorce?”

      The question yanked her attention back to the conversation.

      “No,” Peter said defiantly.

      Carlotta shifted in the uncomfortable chair, the memory of their kiss now even more sordid. She closed her eyes briefly and when she opened them, found Detective Terry studying her before he turned his attention back to Peter.

      “Has your wife ever threatened to hurt herself?”

      “No, of course not.” Peter’s expression darkened. “You’re not thinking that she did this on purpose.”

      “Just covering all the bases, Mr. Ashford. Was she taking any medication?”

      Peter rubbed his eyes and sighed. “Sure, it was always something with Angela. She had insomnia and back trouble, and she took a ton of vitamins. You can check the medicine cabinet in her bathroom if you want the specifics.”

      Detective Terry cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should both go check, to see if Mrs. Ashford left a note.”

      Peter’s jaw clenched. “There’s no note.”