4 Bodies and a Funeral. Stephanie Bond
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garage door opener made a loud, grating sound as the door raised. It was just a matter of time before it stopped altogether or, more their luck, caught on fire and burned the house down. In the car she saw Jack shake his head. He was no doubt wondering how she and Wesley had made it this long.
He pulled his sedan up to the nose of her car, the dark blue Monte Carlo Super Sport that she’d accidentally bought—yet another long story of her bad luck and ill timing—and turned off his engine.
“This is your car?” Maria asked. “I figured you’d be driving something like that little convertible sitting over there.”
Carlotta gazed at her crippled white Miata longingly. “Those were the days.” Coop had promised to come over and take a look under the hood of the convertible, but after Wesley’s betrayal and after her and Coop’s near-miss at romance, she doubted if he’d still offer free car maintenance to the Wren family.
Jack got out and removed jumper cables from the sedan’s trunk. To Carlotta’s chagrin, Maria opened the door to the Monte Carlo and popped the hood, then lifted it to study the offending battery. “Your battery terminals are corroded.”
Carlotta peered inside and pretended she knew what the woman was talking about.
“Hang on,” Maria said, then returned to the sedan and emerged with an open can of Coke.
“Hey, I was drinking that,” Jack said.
Maria ignored him and emptied the can over the battery. It fizzed and bubbled and ran off the sides, leaving the battery clean enough to eat off of.
“Better,” Maria said.
Carlotta stared at her in dismay. Was there anything the woman couldn’t do?
Jack lifted the hood on the sedan and clamped the cable ends to his car battery. Without missing a beat, he handed the other end of the cables to Maria, who attached them to the Monte Carlo’s battery, then opened the driver’s side door and slid behind the wheel.
Carlotta crossed her arms, wondering if the couple would notice if she left.
Jack reached into the sedan to turn over the ignition, then Maria turned over the engine to the Monte Carlo. It caught and started, much to Carlotta’s relief. The lady detective emerged from the car, then she and Jack removed the cables.
“You should pull your car outside and let it run for about twenty minutes to allow the alternator to recharge the battery,” Maria said, clapping her hands to dust them off.
For some reason, getting advice from the luscious Maria almost brought tears to Carlotta’s eyes. She felt so … useless.
“Why don’t you go on inside and shower?” Jack suggested. “I’ll babysit the car and bring you your keys.”
She nodded, then looked to his tall and talented partner. “Thank you, Maria, for your help.”
“No problem,” Maria said, as if it were of no consequence, making Carlotta feel even smaller.
She trudged toward the house and groaned inwardly to see her neighbor, Mrs. Winningham, standing next to the fence between their houses. Not only was she the nosiest woman alive, but she was convinced that the Wrens were single-handedly eroding the property values on the street.
“Hello, Mrs. Winningham,” she said cheerfully.
“What on earth happened to you?” the middle-aged woman asked, eyeing Carlotta’s appearance.
“Food fight,” Carlotta offered, deadpan.
The woman squinted at her, then nodded toward Jack and Maria. “Who are those people?”
“Friends of mine. My car battery is dead, so they gave me a boost.”
Her neighbor’s expression turned leery. “Speaking of cars, do you know anything about a black SUV parked across the street off and on the past couple of weeks? I’ve never seen anyone get in or out of it.”
“No,” Carlotta said, but her heart skipped a beat. So the vehicle that Jack had noticed wasn’t simply passing by. “I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about. Excuse me, but I need to go inside and get cleaned up.”
“Speaking of cleaning up,” the woman called behind her, “your house could use a good pressure washing!”
Carlotta bit down on the inside of her cheek. “Thank you, Mrs. Winningham.”
She climbed the steps to the town house and unlocked the door. When she pushed it open, the air in the living room was stale and confining. She didn’t stop to consider the room—the small television with its warped picture tube, the worn furniture, the pathetic little aluminum Christmas tree in the corner, a carryover from the short time her parents had lived there. The fact that Wesley wouldn’t let her take it down after ten years spoke volumes about how much their desertion had affected him.
She turned left from the living room and walked down the hallway to her bedroom, shedding shoes and clothes as she walked across the carpet. She stepped into the bathroom and turned on the water for the shower. While it warmed, she checked her cell phone on the slim chance she’d missed Wesley’s call, but there were no messages.
Mindful of the few minutes she had before Jack returned her keys, she removed the flexible arm cast and climbed in to wash away the remnants of the cake and icing. Her arm was aching again. She’d overdone it and now she was out of pain pills.
Which made her think of Wesley.
Which made her think of how messed up their lives were.
Which made her think of her absent parents.
As always, all roads led back to Randolph and Valerie Wren.
She turned off the water and toweled dry, then wrapped her hair. She pulled on her favorite full-coverage chenille robe and was walking back through the house when a rap sounded on the front door. She wasn’t surprised when Jack opened the door and stuck his head inside. He was familiar enough with her home.
“Carlotta?”
“Come in,” she said, walking into the living room.
He held up her keys and remote control, then looked her up and down and gave her a wicked smile. “I remember that robe—or rather, I remember what’s under it.”
Her bare toes curled in the pile of the carpet. Jack had that effect on her. “Gee, Jack, I thought your tastes were running toward a Spanish flavor these days.”
He came over to stand in front of her and lifted her chin. “Are you jealous of Maria?”
“Of course not,” she said, trying to scoff. Too bad it came out sounding like a cough.
“Oh, my good God,” he said, bringing his mouth close to hers. “You are jealous.”
“I am not,” she insisted.
“It’s okay,” he murmured. “I think it’s kind of sexy. By the way, you looked pretty tasty all covered in cake.”
She let him kiss her, a hot, probing kiss that pushed all her worries from her mind …
Until her cell phone rang from her purse on the chair.
She reluctantly broke the kiss. “Sorry—I need to get it. I haven’t heard from Wesley yet.” She pulled the phone out of her purse, but Peter’s name scrolled across the caller ID screen. “It’s not him.” She sent the call to voice mail and sighed in disappointment.
Jack scratched the back of his neck. “Uh, the D.A. reduced the charges to a misdemeanor and added hours to Wesley’s community service.”
She looked up, her mouth parting in elation. “He did? That’s great! That’s wonderful! That’s … wait—how did you know?”
“I, um, got a call.”
Her good mood dimmed. “Ah, from Liz. Of course.”