Body Movers 4 - 4 Bodies and a Funeral (33 page)

She glanced at the door to her parents’ bedroom at the

end of the hall, then carried her folded clothes to her own

room to put away. While stowing bras and panties, she

removed the stack of Jack’s handkerchiefs she’d

accumulated and set them on top of her dresser. When

she started to close the drawer, her gaze landed on a

white leather box she hadn’t opened in a long time.

Remembering her promise to Jack from the night before,

she removed the box and carried it to her bed. She sat

cross-legged on the bedspread and lifted the lid.

A hundred memories suddenly assailed her. There was the

Cinderel a watch that she’d begged for at Walt Disney

World when she was ten years old. And strands of colored

glass beads that her mother had bought for her at a

roadside stand when they’d vacationed in Jamaica. The

purple wampum shel was from Martha’s Vineyard, and

her diaries for each year of high school stil sat in the

corner, each with a padlocked flap. One of them stil

contained the tiny tasseled skeleton key that would open

any of the locks. She set them aside to read later.

She picked up a pink satin box and opened the lid to reveal

a gold charm bracelet that her father had bought for her

when she was fourteen. Dangling from the links were

charms of teen girl things: purses and shoes, puppies and

kittens, flowers and pink lips. Her father had given her

additional charms for special occasions—cheerleading

pom-poms, a Sweet 16 charm, a little convertible for the

precious Miata he’d bought for her first car.

When her parents had left, she’d stopped wearing the

bracelet. For someone who’d had to grow up fast, it had

suddenly seemed childish. And she’d been so bitter

toward her father, she hadn’t wanted to wear anything

that once represented such a bond between them.

She snapped the box closed, reminding herself that

Randolph had broken that bond. He’d left her to cover for

him every time his name came up in police matters, like

now. The stink that he’d caused lingered stil , cloaking her

and Wesley. Frustration and anger plowed through her—

why didn’t her father just come home and face his

problems like a man? She didn’t think Randolph was

capable of murder, but if the accusation brought him out

of hiding, she wouldn’t mind. Maybe she and Wesley could

finally get some answers.

Her thoughts turned to Jack and she wondered if he’d

made it to bed yet. He and Maria were no doubt putting in

long hours over this serial kil er business. Carlotta

supposed all that togetherness would naturally make them

closer. She tried not to let it bother her. Jack had made it

clear that he wasn’t interested in more than an occasional

hook-up, and now she had Peter. In light of the phone call

Maria had taken the day she’d been at the town house, it

sounded as if the woman could use a strong shoulder to

lean on. It appeared that she’d left a bad situation in

Chicago.

Carlotta frowned when she recal ed the woman detective

“profiling” her—accusing Carlotta of dabbling in police

work because she was bored. Had it not occurred to the

woman that Carlotta helped out when she saw an

opportunity because she was good at it?

In a huff, Carlotta shoved the handkerchiefs and the

bracelet into a side compartment of her purse. In the

process, her hand brushed the file of photos that Rainie

Stephens had given her. She pul ed out the sheet of black-

and-white pictures, along with the photos that June had

given her and carried them to the kitchen to spread out on

the breakfast bar. Over a cup of coffee she looked for

inspiration on how to begin searching for the man who’d

stolen Eva McCoy’s bracelet.

And as she stared at the images, a forehead-thumping idea

occurred to her. She picked up the phone and dialed

Hannah’s number.

“I was fucking asleep,” Hannah answered.

“Wake up and focus. Can you tel where a local cake came

from just by looking at a picture?”

“I could probably narrow it down to a manageable number

of places. Why?”

“I need your help.”

Hannah sighed. “Okay, give me a few minutes to get the

cobwebs out of my eyes.”

Remembering what Maria had said about her not knowing

much about Hannah, Carlotta said, “I can come pick you

up—just give me the address.”

“Uh…no, that’s okay. I’m with a guy. See you in a few.”

“I’l have coffee.”

“I’l bring donuts.”

Carlotta ended the call and smiled. Hannah was always up

for a challenge, a no-nonsense, low-maintenance friend.

She poured coffee into two travel mugs and gathered up

the pictures, then stood by the living room window

waiting for Hannah to pul up. The mysterious black SUV

was nowhere to be seen this morning, thank goodness.

Carlotta wondered who else she could wake up to kil

some time. As she ticked through a mental to-do list, her

thoughts turned to someone she definitely wanted to

disturb.

She pul ed up the number on her phone and punched a

button to connect.

“Liz Fischer,” the woman said, her voice a croak.

“Liz—Carlotta Wren. I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“Uh, no. I think I’m coming down with some kind of bug.

What’s up, Carlotta?”

Besides your skirt? Swallowing her ire, she said, “I’ve been

thinking about my father a lot lately, and I was wondering

if you could send me a copy of his case file.”

Silence vibrated on the other end. “Can I ask why the

sudden interest?”

“No reason,” Carlotta lied. “It’s really just to satisfy my

curiosity.”

“Carlotta, my client files are confidential. You and Wesley

should both know that.”

Carlotta frowned. “Wesley asked for the files?”

“Actually, no. He stole them and I had to threaten him to

get them back. I understand that the two of you have a lot

of questions about your dad’s case, but I’m tel ing you this

for your own good, Carlotta—let it go.”

“You make it sound as if there’s something you don’t want

us to find out, Liz.”

“That’s not true. It’s just better for everyone involved.”

The woman made a retching sound. “I have to go. Bye,

Carlotta.”

“Feel better,” she sang, then disconnected the cal , her

mind racing. Why had Wesley stolen their father’s file?

Probably for the same reason she wanted it. But why

hadn’t he told her about it?

Probably for the same reason she hadn’t told him about

her snooping.

A horn sounded as Hannah pul ed her van into the

driveway. Carlotta waved, then walked outside, locking

the door to the town house behind her. She bounded

down the steps and across to the van, then climbed up

into the passenger seat, handing Hannah a mug of coffee.

“Cream fil ed,” Hannah said, pointing to a box of donuts on

the dashboard. She was dressed Goth Lite this morning,

having skimped on the black lipstick and going without her

usual dog col ar. “Let me see this cake.”

Carlotta passed her the pictures, then helped herself to a

donut. “The guy who crashed the event at Neiman’s with

this cake stole Eva McCoy’s charm bracelet. I’m thinking if

we can find out where the cake came from, maybe we can

find him.”

Hannah took a swig of coffee and studied the photos for a

few seconds. “The bad news is this is your chain grocery

variety cake.”

“Oh.”

“The good news is I know which grocery chain uses this

god-awful color of blue icing.”

“Great!”

“The bad news is I drove past at least four locations on the

way here. It could be one of forty or so locations in the

metro area.”

“So we’l start with the ones closest to the Lenox Square

mall and work our way out.”

Hannah made a face. “You’re assuming I had nothing else

to do today.”

“Do you?”

“Sadly, nothing more interesting. We’re going to need a

map of store locations.” Hannah leaned over, pul ed a

laptop from behind her seat and handed it to Carlotta. “I

know where we can get drive-by wi-fi not too far from

here.”

A few minutes later, armed with locations of the groceries,

they began to canvass each one, approaching the bakery

manager with a picture of the blue and yel ow “Let’s

Celebrate!” cake and asking if it came from their bakery.

The employees were helpful, no doubt responding to the

culinary smock that Hannah had donned, but none of the

first dozen or so recognized the cake from their stock

designs. Road traffic was terrible and before they knew it,

they’d eaten up the morning with nothing to show for it

but an empty box of cream-fil ed donuts. They stopped for

lunch at a Chick-fil-A and Carlotta fil ed Hannah in on what

she’d learned about the Eva McCoy situation.

“Do you know anything about food poisoning?” she asked

her friend.

Hannah gave a dry laugh and stuffed a waffle fry into her

mouth. “Food safety is dril ed into us at culinary school.

Small amounts of bacteria are introduced to most foods

either in the production process or in handling, but it

usually gets washed away or destroyed during heat

preparation. Either that, or it’s present in such tiny

amounts that it doesn’t affect the digestive system.”

“But?”

“But if the bacteria isn’t washed or cooked away, it can

multiply in warm temperatures, to the point that the

digestive system can’t fight it off.”

“So if foods are left out?”

“Right—or aren’t cooked to the right temperature in the

first place.”

“So uncooked foods are the most susceptible?”

“Right. That’s why you occasionally hear about E. coli

contamination in produce. E. coli is found in animal

intestines, so if produce is fertilized with manure…well,

you get the gist.”

“Apparently Eva ate at the Olympic Vil age cafeteria, along

with other athletes, but no one else got il .”

“That happens. Some people are simply more susceptible.

And even prepared ‘healthy’ foods have a higher incidence

of contamination because they contain fewer

preservatives, which can inhibit bacteria growth.”

“But is it possible to spike someone else’s food with

bacteria and make them sick?”

Hannah shrugged. “I guess so, but you’d need a petri dish,

and stil , it wouldn’t be an exact science. The better choice

would be to use some kind of poison that mimics food

poisoning.”

“Such as?”

“Lots of things. But if she was at the Olympics, her blood

was being tested for chemicals, right?”

“I think so, yes.”

“So, chances are, it would be something organic—like, I

don’t know—apple seeds.”

“Apple seeds are poisonous?”

“Not one or two, but in enough quantity. So are peach and

apricot and cherry pits. And lots of plants.”

“If you were going to poison someone with a food or plant,

what would you use?”

An employee of the fast-food place who was cleaning the

table next to them stopped and stared.

Hannah arched her eyebrows at the guy. “Do you mind?

This is a private murder conversation.”

He scurried off and Hannah considered the question. “To

kil the person, or just make them sick?”

“Just to make them sick—too sick to compete.”

“Ah, then I’d definitely go with an azalea. Every part of the

plant is poisonous to some degree, but it’s not fatal.”

“But wouldn’t carrying around an azalea plant draw

attention?”

“Yep. And it would have to be local because you can’t get

anything fresh like that past Customs.” Hannah chewed on

the straw in her fountain drink. “But really, would

someone have gone to that much trouble? Maybe the

woman just had a flu bug. It’s real y hard to tel the

difference.”

“I know,” Carlotta said. “Besides, how would you ever be

able to prove someone sabotaged her food?”

“You wouldn’t…unless you had a witness.”

Carlotta checked her watch. “We’re close to the Midtown

police precinct. Would you mind if I dropped something

off with Jack before we hit the rest of the bakeries?”

“Knock yourself out.”

At the precinct, Hannah parked the van and waited for

Carlotta. Once in the lobby, Carlotta made small talk with

her buddy Brooklyn.

“I met your brother yesterday,” Brooklyn said. “Cute little

thing.”

Carlotta frowned. “My brother, Wesley, was here

yesterday?”

“Yeah. He met with Detective Terry.”

“Oh…right,” Carlotta said, pretending she’d only forgotten.

“Is Detective Terry around? He asked me to drop off

something.”

“Yeah, go on back.”

Carlotta walked through the door the woman buzzed open

for her and fol owed a familiar trail to Jack’s office. Inside

he was sitting shoulder to shoulder with Maria Marquez,

poring over reports that were spread out in front of them,

their voices low and comfortable, the desk littered with

coffee cups. Carlotta squashed the tiny bubble of jealousy