Body Movers Books 1-3. Stephanie Bond

for Christ’s sake, this is a funeral not a Halloween party!”

      “I’m wearing black,” Hannah said, unfazed as she buckled her seat belt.

      “When are you going to let me give you a makeover?”

      “Let me see…uh, never. Besides, what does it matter what a person wears to a funeral?” She snorted. “I can promise you the person in the casket doesn’t give a crispy crap.”

      Carlotta frowned. “Funerals are for the living, and I can promise you, everyone at this funeral will be dressed as if they were going to the Oscars.”

      “Do you think they’ll have food? I’m starving.”

      “No, they won’t have food, you idiot. It’s a funeral. Haven’t you ever been to a funeral?”

      “No,” Hannah said. “Have you?”

      “No,” Carlotta admitted. “But I’ve seen them on television, and there’s no buffet.”

      “I don’t know why you want to go to your ex-boyfriend’s wife’s funeral anyway. It’s like you’re rubbing it in that you’re still alive and she’s…not.”

      “That’s a terrible thing to say. I knew Angela—we went to school together, and I told you, she was a customer of mine.”

      Hannah gave her a sideways glance. “But what aren’t you telling me?”

      “Nothing.”

      “Huh?”

      “Nothing.”

      “Huh?”

      Carlotta sighed. “Okay…the other night when I ran into Peter at the party…”

      “Yeah?”

      “When I left, he followed me.”

      “And?”

      “And…we kissed.”

      Hannah whooped. “You kissed a married man? After all the shit you’ve given me over the years?”

      “It’s not something I’m proud of.”

      Hannah hooted. “This is great.” Then she stopped. “Oh, wait. You kissed the man and a couple of days later, his wife drowns in a pool. That’s not great, that’s…weirdly coincidental.”

      Carlotta wet her lips. “I know.”

      “Oh my God, do you think he killed her?”

      Her hands tightened on the steering wheel. “Of course not.”

      Hannah jumped up and down in her seat. “Maybe he killed her because he’s still in love with you! Oh my God, that’s so romantic!”

      Carlotta was starting to regret her decision to ask Hannah to attend the funeral with her, but she’d thought she’d stick out more if she went alone. Now with Hannah’s getup—and her oozing mouth—the only thing she needed to draw more attention to them was a flare.

      “Peter didn’t kill Angela,” Carlotta said carefully. “She was drunk and fell into the pool. The coroner’s office ruled her death an accidental drowning.”

      “Mighty convenient for you,” Hannah said slyly.

      “That’s not remotely funny.”

      “But it’s true. You must still have feelings for this guy, Carlotta. I saw how shaken up you were the night you ran into him. I’ve never seen you have anything more than disdain for men. In fact, I was beginning to think that you might prefer women.”

      “Also not funny. And my reaction to Peter, well, I was just so shocked seeing him after all these years, I was disoriented.”

      “So…you don’t have feelings for him.”

      Carlotta rolled her shoulders. “I didn’t say that. I’m confused. Besides, I don’t think it’s appropriate to lust after a man who’s grieving for his wife.”

      “Are you kidding? If he’s as rich as you say, there’ll be single women stacked up at this shindig to wipe his tears. If you want him, you’d better be prepared to claw your way to the top of the pussy pile.”

      Carlotta frowned. “I have no intention to claw my way anywhere. Here’s the place,” she said, slowing and signaling to turn into the Motherwell Funeral Home, a stately white plantation-style home in front with some less attractive additions jutting off the back.

      “Damn, look at the cars,” Hannah said.

      Indeed, Carlotta felt self-conscious parking her muscle car next to the Beemers and Mercedes and Bentleys, but it couldn’t be helped. She climbed out, aware that their arrival had garnered a few stares from other attendees who glanced at her car—and Hannah—with faint distaste as they strolled by. Seriously suited men and severely coiffed women made their way toward the entrance of the funeral home.

      Carlotta’s pulse pounded harder as they fell in with the crowd, still questioning her decision to attend but unable to deny the compulsion that had grown since her encounter with Jack Terry. Damn him, he was right about her guilt. Her conscience wouldn’t let her rest and no matter what she’d told the detective, or Hannah, for that matter, she wasn’t at peace with the M.E.’s ruling of the cause of death. She had convinced herself that attending the funeral might settle her mind, give her a sense of closure.

      She dearly hoped so.

      They were almost to the entrance when a man’s voice sounded. “Carlotta, hello.”

      She turned her head to see Walt Tully and next to him, his daughter Tracey. Recalling that her last encounter with her estranged godfather had been during her accidental reunion with Peter, Carlotta almost panicked, but pulled a smile out of thin air. “Hello, Walt, Tracey.”

      “Carlotta, it’s been just ages,” Tracey said, raising her left hand to her cheek in a way that sent the sun beaming off the knuckle-spanning cluster of diamonds. “Daddy said he ran into you the other night…with Peter, of all people.”

      “That’s right.”

      “I can’t believe Angela drowned in her own pool,” the woman said, her voice melodramatic. “And I can’t imagine a more horrific way to die.”

      “Actually,” Hannah interjected, “I read on the Internet that the most painful way to die is in a garbage-truck compacter, but drowning ranks near the top.”

      Tracey glowered at her, then turned her attention back to Carlotta. “Didn’t Peter used to date you?”

      “We used to date each other,” Carlotta clarified quietly. “A long time ago.”

      “Oh…right,” Tracey said, then looked puzzled. “So…are you here for Peter?”

      To support him, or to nab him? The innocent question was loaded with catty suspicion. Carlotta pushed her tongue into her cheek. “Actually, I’m here because I know—knew Angela.”

      “Really? That’s strange because Angela was a very good friend of mine and never mentioned you…in that way.”

      Carlotta wondered in just what “way” Angela had mentioned her name—in tandem with the C word, no doubt.

      While Carlotta cast about for an ambiguous response, Tracey changed tack. “What is it that you do again, Carlotta? Seems like I remember that you worked for Neiman’s years ago.”

      “Still do,” Carlotta said cheerfully.

      “Oh.”

      Only her mother had been able to inject more disapproval into one word.

      Hannah dug her elbow into Carlotta’s side. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends?”

      “Uh, Hannah Kizer…Walt and Tracey Tully.”

      “Lowenstein