Body Movers Books 1-3. Stephanie Bond

lifted his hands in a helpless gesture. “I didn’t know what to think, but it crossed my mind. You didn’t find one on…on her?”

      “No. The guesthouse was also checked, plus the sedan in the garage—I assume that’s Mrs. Ashford’s car?”

      “No, actually. Her Jag is at the dealership for regular maintenance. The sedan is a loaner.”

      “Mr. Ashford, where were you when Miss Stanza called to give you the bad news?”

      Peter’s mouth tightened. “If you must know, I was at a bar, Geary’s, not far from my office.”

      “Where do you work?”

      “Mashburn and Tully Investments. I’m a broker.”

      Recognition flashed in the detective’s eyes and his gaze flicked to her, then back. He’d made the connection that her father had once been a partner there. A harmless yet suspicious coincidence.

      “Were you alone at the bar, Mr. Ashford?”

      “Yes. What’s that got to do with anything?”

      Detective Terry shrugged his big shoulders. “I just wondered why I got here before you, that’s all.”

      “There was construction on the connector,” Peter said hotly.

      Warning bells sounded in Carlotta’s brain. Surely Detective Terry didn’t suspect that Peter had something to do with Angela’s death? She bit her lip, wondering whether to say that she’d seen Angela earlier that day and what her state of mind had been. But if she did, she’d have to admit that Angela thought that she and Peter were having an affair, and wouldn’t that only throw more suspicion on Peter?

      She clamped her mouth shut, telling herself that she was doing the right thing. Angela’s death was just a tragic accident, a result of a bad vice and bad balance. She felt the detective’s gaze on her and decided that her presence might be doing more harm than good. She pushed to her feet. “Peter…it’s time for me to leave.” Her throat convulsed. “I’m…so sorry for your loss.”

      “Before you go, Ms. Wren,” the detective said, holding up his hand, “I’d like to ask one more question.” Then he gave Peter a pointed look. “Were you, sir, having an affair?”

      Carlotta’s pulse skipped and she forgot to breathe. Peter put his hands on the table, then slowly pushed to his feet. “No, Detective, I wasn’t having an affair. My wife’s death was an accident, pure and simple. I’d think that the police have enough on their plate without trying to turn this tragedy into a crime.”

      Detective Terry closed his notebook, then looked contrite. “How right you are, Mr. Ashford. My sincere condolences.” Then he swung his gaze to her. “Ms. Wren, since I’m leaving, too, I’ll walk you out.”

      She couldn’t think of anything less appealing, but since she couldn’t think of a way to refuse, she simply nodded. “Peter, call me if…I can help.”

      He looked at her for a long while, then nodded. “Okay.”

      Aware that the detective was hanging on their every word, she quickly walked to the door, slid it open and stepped outside. Detective Terry was on her heels. She retraced her steps down the stone path back to the front of the house where Wesley and Coop were closing the door on the back of the van.

      “You okay, sis?” Wesley asked, his face contracted in concern.

      “I’m fine,” she said, slowing her pace. “Wesley, you remember Detective Terry.”

      “Hard to forget,” Wesley said wryly, then nodded. “How’s it going, man?”

      “Glad to see you got a job,” Detective Terry said.

      “This is my boss, Cooper Craft.”

      The detective nodded. “The doctor and I know each other.”

      Coop nodded, but his eyes were…wary? Carlotta wondered about the men’s history. And had the detective called him doctor?

      Detective Terry looked around. “I see the M.E. already left. Do you have the report?”

      Coop nodded and handed it to him.

      Detective Terry looked over the form, then glanced up. “Do you agree, Coop?”

      Coop hesitated. “It’s not my place to agree or disagree.”

      The detective’s mouth tightened. “I’m asking.”

      “Since you’re asking…no, I don’t agree with the report.”

      Carlotta pressed her lips together. This couldn’t be good.

      The detective grimaced in thought then said, “I want an autopsy. Take her to the morgue.”

      “But—” Coop began.

      “I’ll handle the paperwork,” the detective cut in.

      Coop gave a curt nod, then said, “Let’s go,” to Wesley.

      “We have another call after this one,” Wesley said to Carlotta. “Coop said he’d give me a ride home.”

      “Okay.” She turned to walk up the steep driveway, eager to be away from death and all this talk about the morgue.

      “Ms. Wren,” the detective said, catching up to her easily, “how exactly are you acquainted with Peter Ashford?”

      Her skin tingled as she pumped her arms to manage the climb in her high-heeled Mary Janes. “Peter and I used to date, ages ago, when we were kids. He’s older and when he went to college, we broke up, just like a million other teenagers.” She was proud of herself for how nonchalant her voice sounded.

      “He seemed pretty eager to rekindle your friendship. When was the last time you saw him?”

      In another few steps they were at the top of the incline in front of their vehicles. She stopped and turned to face him, breathing hard and blinking into the glare of a street-light. “I’ve seen him twice in the past ten years, Detective, once at the mall when he wasn’t aware of it, and once at a cocktail party.”

      “When?”

      “Three nights ago.”

      His eyebrows climbed. “Is that so?”

      “There’s nothing going on between me and Peter Ashford, Detective.”

      He studied her as if trying to determine whether she was telling the truth. Then suddenly he leaned forward and she had the insane notion that he was going to kiss her. She jerked back. “What are you doing?”

      “What happened to your neck?” he asked, squinting.

      She raised her hand to the welts on her skin that still felt raw and tender. Panic bolted through her chest that she bore marks left upon her by a woman who was now dead. “Nothing happened. I’m fine.” She turned and walked to her car, fumbling in her pockets for her keys before remembering she’d left them in the ignition.

      He followed her, wearing a dubious expression. She fisted her hand that hid the marks from his prying eyes. “Detective, would you please stop staring at my chest?”

      He lifted his gaze, but took his time. “Yes, ma’am. Good night, Ms. Wren. I’ll be seeing you.”

      “Stop spying on us. You’re making my neighbor paranoid.”

      “Wouldn’t have to if you’d cooperate.”

      She glanced at the purse that she’d left on the car seat and thought of the postcard from her parents tucked inside. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

      “Right,” he said, then turned and walked toward his own car.

      Carlotta stuck her tongue out at his back, then glanced down at the house just as Coop turned the white van around. When he pulled