Body Movers Books 1-3. Stephanie Bond

reverie as she nodded to her boss. “Fine, thanks.”

      “Glad to hear it,” Lindy said. “You’ve seemed preoccupied of late. Last week’s sales reports just crossed my desk and for the first time that I can remember, your name wasn’t at the top.”

      A flush burned its way up Carlotta’s face. “Um, I guess I’m going through a little slump.”

      “It happens,” Lindy said. “I just hope it doesn’t last too long. There are lots of sales associates who’d love to have a crack at your department.”

      Carlotta’s stomach did a little flip and she dipped her chin. The fact that Neiman’s prided itself on having the best, sharpest employees was what had attracted her to the company in the first place—next to the employee discount, of course. “I understand, Lindy. Don’t worry, things are…back to normal.”

      “Good,” Lindy said. “Carry on.”

      Watching her boss stride away, Carlotta gave herself a mental shake. She had to get her mind back on her job and off the preoccupations that threatened to drive her insane, namely, Angela’s death, and Peter’s possible involvement.

      Oh, and then there was everything else that was wrong in her life.

      It had been three days since Angela’s funeral, three days since she’d spoken with Coop about the men’s jacket and her suspicions concerning Angela’s death, and the more time that passed, the more she wished she’d kept her big mouth shut.

      Detective Terry was right—her deep-seated guilt over her feelings for Peter were driving her to make preposterous assumptions about the jacket issue, which could’ve been innocent and completely unrelated to Angela’s marriage and drowning.

      Scowling at her own stupidity and determined to be rid of the jacket, she went to the dressing-room area and searched through a long rack of items tagged to be returned to the floor or to the manufacturer. She located the jacket and decided the best place for it was the trash—it was paid for, and no one was going to claim it. And with the heavy scent of smoke clinging to it, clearly it couldn’t be returned to the floor.

      She took the jacket from the hanger and wadded it up, cursing herself for even getting involved, and felt something unyielding in the inside breast pocket. Curious, she reached inside and pulled out a cigar encased in a small plastic bag with a zip top. Peter had an aversion to smoke—surely the cigar wasn’t his. She held up the jacket and checked the size. When Angela had purchased the jacket, Carlotta had assumed that Peter had filled out in the past ten years, but now that she’d seen him, this jacket was way too big for Peter. She squinted, recalling the thin frame of Angela’s father. This jacket was way too big for him as well.

      The hair on the back of her neck tingled as she considered the jacket and the cigar. She carefully rehung the jacket and covered it with a garment bag. There was no way she could smuggle it out and take it home—employees’ bags were checked when they left the store.

      But the cigar…

      She studied the eight-inch brown cylinder, wondering if it could help her locate the person who had purchased it. On the back of the plastic zip bag was a gold seal. She squinted to make out the letters: Moody’s Cigar Bar, Atlanta, Georgia.

      She considered calling Detective Terry and telling him about this new development, but the thought of his sarcastic reaction stopped her short. She had enough trouble with the man as it was. Besides, the cigar might lead to nothing at all, and it would be easy enough for her to locate Moody’s and ask a few discreet questions herself. A quick check of the phone book at the checkout counter gave her a street address—on the fringes of downtown Atlanta in an unpredictable part of town.

      Despite her promise to Lindy and to herself to get her mind back on her job, she was distracted and jumpy until her shift ended, then blew off Michael in the employee locker room in her rush to get to her car. Traffic was horrible, as usual, the roads choked with commuters vying to get home and tourists flocking to the aquarium. She craved a cigarette in the worst way—God, it didn’t take long to fall back into a bad habit.

      Like Peter, for instance.

      Toying with the radio buttons and tapping on the steering wheel helped to keep her hands busy, but her mind continued to rehash the events of the past couple of weeks. She had hoped that selling his engagement ring would help her to sever the bond she had foolishly maintained with Peter’s life. Yet with this little field trip, would she open yet another can of worms? Insinuate herself further into his affairs? She kept telling herself that she should just let it go, but something compelled her to keep moving.

      She got lost twice trying to find the address, but finally spotted the small neon sign—Moody’s—in a dark window, and darted in front of another car to nab a lone parking space. The area was on the verge of gentrification, but Moody’s, sandwiched between a new trendy-looking coffee shop and an adult video store, appeared to be part of the old neighborhood.

      She climbed out, dropped a few coins in the parking meter and made her way inside. A brass bell tinkled when she opened the big, solid door with a leaded glass insert. The shop was what the name implied—a dark, atmospheric space housed in a deep, narrow storefront with tall ceilings, art deco light fixtures and original black-and-red checkerboard linoleum tile floors. The lazy swirl of low-hanging ceiling fans did little to dispel the acrid odor of tobacco that permeated the air, tickling her nose and throat, making her want a cigarette even more.

      A horseshoe-shaped black lacquered counter dominated the center of the store. The walls were lined with glass cabinets housing boxes of cigars and clear canisters filled with fragrant blends of loose tobacco. A scratchy recording of big band music sounded from an unseen source. The crammed, quaint space gave her the feeling that she’d stepped back in time, back to when pompadours and polka-dot dresses were in style, when men wore sock suspenders and hats with their suits.

      She liked it instantly.

      The sound of footsteps drew her attention to a stairway near the back of the room that she hadn’t noticed. A pair of shapely legs preceded a gray pencil skirt hugging slim hips, a prim white blouse straining over generous breasts and a nice double strand of pearls. The woman’s face appeared, and the words steel magnolia sprang to Carlotta’s mind. The pink-lipstick smile was welcoming, but beneath the teased pouf of bleach-blond hair, the kohl-lined eyes were piercing.

      “Hello,” the woman said as she made her way down the stairs, her drawl low and smooth. She was well into her fifties, and looked as if she’d kicked some ass in her day—and could still cause some serious harm if the situation called for it. In her elegantly manicured hand she held a half-smoked cigar, its smoke plume wafting behind her. At the bottom of the stairs a sign with an arrow pointed to a martini and wine bar on the upper level and Carlotta realized suddenly why the parking places were full and the store empty.

      “Hello.”

      “Can I help you, darlin’?”

      “Maybe,” Carlotta said, suddenly nervous as she reached into her purse and withdrew the cigar. She walked deeper into the store and could hear the buzz of a crowd overhead. “I’m looking for the person who purchased this cigar from your store.”

      The woman stepped forward with a little frown between her eyebrows. She set her cigar in one of the dozen colored glass ashtrays lining the massive black bar, then reached for the plastic bag. A young man wearing a waiter’s waist apron came clopping down the stairs and, referring to a notepad, moved from case to case, selecting cigars, obviously filling orders.

      A knot of customers came down, businessmen all of them, ties loosened and voices raised. “See you next time, June,” they said to the woman, and she called them each by name when she said goodbye.

      When the door closed behind them, the woman handed the plastic bag back to Carlotta, then picked up the cigar she’d been smoking and took a hearty puff. “That is a very expensive cigar, Miss—?”

      “Um, Carlotta. Carlotta Wren.”

      “I’m June Moody,” the woman