Body Movers Books 1-3. Stephanie Bond

don’t you load up a few things and we’ll take them in,” Hannah suggested.

      Carlotta narrowed her eyes. “You despise designer clothes. How do you know about this place?”

      “It’s next door to a place I shop, and the same people own it. Stop stalling.” She grimaced at the overflowing closet. “Good grief, Amelia Earhart could be in there.”

      Carlotta emptied the contents of the Coach bag on her bed, then went through her closet, choosing purses that she’d grown tired of but that were still in great shape, many of them protected by dust bags. Hannah began pulling out clothes in clumps. “How long has it been since you wore this?”

      Carlotta studied the fitted orange tweed jacket. “I can’t remember.”

      Hannah tossed it on the bed. “It goes.”

      “Wait a minute!”

      “Jesus, Carlotta, the closet rods are bowed. You couldn’t wear all this stuff in ten years!”

      With a sigh, Carlotta relented and thirty minutes later, they were piling clothes and shopping bags of accessories into Hannah’s retro refrigerated catering van that was covered in graffiti.

      “When are you going to get this thing painted?” Carlotta asked.

      “It is painted,” Hannah said, clearly annoyed. “Some of the best graffiti artists in Atlanta live in my neighborhood and have left their mark on my ride.” She stepped back and gestured to the words Do yourself written in stylized white lettering, highlighted to look three-dimensional. “See the signature—Zemo. He’s huge. This van is going to be in the Smithsonian one day.”

      “Right,” Carlotta said as she rearranged the bags stuffed full of clothes. She sniffed and wrinkled her nose. “It smells like garlic in here.”

      “Last night’s gig,” Hannah said, closing the rear halfdoors. “I made so many garlic rolls I swear this morning I crapped a clove.”

      “You really should write poetry.”

      “I just might someday.”

      Carlotta climbed up and swung into the cracked blue vinyl bench seat and slammed the door hard to get it to stick. When Hannah pulled away from the curb, Carlotta waved at a frowning Mrs. Winningham, then rolled down the window and lit the cigarette she’d been playing with for an hour.

      It was a breezy, cloudless spring day and she couldn’t stave off the pang of sadness that Angela had been dead for mere days and the world had marched on, with hardly a pause. She wondered what Peter was doing—if he’d returned to work yet, sold Angela’s car, spread her ashes, ordered her grave marker. Would he order a double headstone, with thoughts of someday being buried next to his young wife, or was he already thinking ahead to inviting another woman into his life?

      Like her.

      “Why can’t you let it go?” Hannah asked, wrestling with the huge steering wheel with one hand, holding her cigarette in the other.

      “What?”

      “You know what—Angela Ashford’s death. Everyone but you thinks it was an accident. And if it was an accident,” she said lightly, “doesn’t that sort of clear the way for you to get back with the love of your life?”

      Carlotta flicked ash out of the window. “I suppose so.”

      “Well, I’m no shrink, but either you think Peter killed her or you’re conflicted about your feelings for him and are going to some pretty extreme lengths to avoid the situation altogether.”

      Carlotta studied the cigarette she held, asking herself why people did things that they knew would hurt them eventually, and if she had a particular propensity for self-destruction. She took a long draw, then exhaled. “Well, like you said, you’re no shrink.”

      Hannah frowned and replied by leaning forward and turning up the volume on the radio, blasting Marilyn Manson into the cab for the short ride south into Little Five Points.

      Carlotta felt torn over shutting out her friend, but she was already so confused about Peter, she was afraid that talking about him, that putting words to half-baked feelings, might send her into an emotional abyss. What if she did give in to years of pent-up longing and allow Peter into her life…and into her heart? Would he tire of her after he felt he’d paid penance for abandoning her? After all, how much did they really have in common now?

      She slid her gaze sideways at Hannah, the tongue-pierced, stripe-haired, smoking and cursing bondage queen…with a heart of gold. Her best friend, but would Peter accept her and her eccentricities? And how would he feel when he discovered that she herself had had a couple of, er, misunderstandings with the law? And she doubted that Peter’s boss, Walt Tully, would look kindly upon him taking up with the daughter of the man who had stolen hundreds of thousands of dollars from their clients, the man responsible for an embarrassing asterisk on the company records.

      So what could she really ever be to Peter—a pastime…closeted?

      “This is it,” Hannah said, throwing the van into park.

      Carlotta looked up and took in their eclectic surroundings. The people and shop owners in Little Five Points prided themselves on their individuality. Antique book-shops, organic restaurants, futon stores, bike shops, alternative-music stores, hip T-shirt shops. The theaters and playhouses and trendy eateries had caught on with the younger Buckhead crowd determined to prove that they were get-real cool despite their black American Express cards, so the clientele was slowly changing from students with pocket change to young professionals with loads of disposable income. Ergo, next door to a retro used-clothing store called Rebound Rags sat Designer Consigner.

      They loaded up armfuls of bags and clothing and headed for the door. Carlotta felt a little sheepish to be taking her personal items in to hock—it smacked of desperation. Her mother, she thought, would be appalled at the notion of Carlotta selling her clothes—consignment stores and yard sales were too pedestrian for the Wrens.

      Embezzlement, bail skipping and child abandonment, on the other hand, were acceptable.

      She followed Hannah into the store that was remarkably well merchandised for a consignment shop. A petite Asian woman with a sleek bob and wearing a Chanel suit as well as anyone Carlotta had ever seen looked up from a table where she sorted items that, presumably, the two women standing in front of her had just brought in.

      “I’ll be right with you,” the Asian woman said in a clear, cultured voice.

      The two customers turned and Carlotta blinked in surprise—one was Tracey Tully…er, Lowenstein. Mrs. Dr.

      “Carlotta,” Tracey said, her voice chilly. “How utterly bizarre to see you again so soon.”

      “Hello, Tracey.” A flush blazed its way up Carlotta’s neck as she saw Tracey take in the bulging shopping bags she and Hannah held. Humiliation washed over her.

      Tracey gestured to the dry-cleaner bags of clothing stacked on the table. “My friend Courtney and I were just dropping off some items for the Women Helping Women clothing drive.”

      The other woman smiled tightly without making eye contact, as if Carlotta and Hannah might qualify as some of the women who needed help.

      “Well…what a coincidence,” Carlotta said, lifting her chin. “So are we.”

      She ignored Hannah’s strangled noise as she lifted the shopping bags to the table. After she jerked her head meaningfully, Hannah did the same with the bounty she’d carried in.

      From the top of one of Carlotta’s bags, Tracey plucked a nearly mint Kate Spade leather hobo bag from two seasons ago. “Yes, underprivileged women will appreciate these items, even if they are hopelessly dated.” Then Tracey made a face. “This stuff smells like garlic.”

      Carlotta smiled through clenched teeth as the woman carelessly tossed the expensive purse back into the bag.

      “You’re