Body Movers Books 1-3

She gasped, mortified. “Wesley!” She shot daggers at her brother while Cooper laughed, which only rankled her further. “I understand that my brother will be working for you, Mr. Craft,” she said in her best never-cried-over-anyone voice.

“Call me Coop,” he said, still smiling. “That’s right.”

“And what exactly is it that you do?”

“I work at a funeral home, but mostly I contract with the city morgue for body retrieval.” Another smile. “That’s where I need Wesley’s help.” He held up a newspaper. “I brought in your paper. Hope that’s okay.”

Carlotta nodded and took it, a little irritated that the man seemed to feel so at home in their home.

“Have a seat,” Wesley said, gesturing to the table, where he had set three plates. “What do you want to drink, Coop?”

“You got coffee? I’ll help myself,” the man said, walking over to the table where he pulled out a chair for Carlotta. Feeling ridiculous, she tucked her bulky robe around her and slid into the seat. Coop poured himself a cup of coffee and took the seat opposite her. Wesley carried platters of food to the table and arranged them carefully, then took the seat between the two of them.

“This is incredible,” Cooper said, unfolding the paper towel next to his plate and putting it in his lap as if it were linen. He looked at Carlotta. “Did you make all this?”

Wesley laughed. “Dude, Carlotta doesn’t cook. I made it.”

She bristled. “I cook…some things.”

“Macaroni and cheese from a box doesn’t count,” Wesley said, filling his plate.

“Sure it does,” Coop said, then winked at her.

Annoyed, Carlotta served herself then passed the tomatoes to Coop. “This body-moving business sounds very strange to me. Is it safe for Wesley to be around…dead bodies?”

Coop swallowed a mouthful of coffee. “We take precautions—gloves, masks, leak-proof body bags.”

Carlotta looked down at the sauce on the eggs Benedict and her stomach roiled. “How long have you been doing this?”

“Working with stiffs?” he asked between bites. “Pretty much all of my life.”

She picked at the food on her plate. “No offense, but it seems like an odd career choice.”

“Really? What do you do?”

“I work at Neiman Marcus at the Lenox Mall.”

He lifted his coffee cup. “Well, no offense, but to me that seems like an odd career choice.”

Wesley laughed, then covered his mouth. “Sorry, sis, but he’s got you there.”

She frowned at her brother and concentrated on eating and not thinking about what Cooper Craft did for a living. Under her lashes, she stared at his hands—long, shapely fingers, with immaculate nails, clean from all the chemicals he used, no doubt. She wondered if he had been a weird kid, the kind that gave little funerals for roadkill. He seemed normal—mannerly, well-spoken, educated. But what normal person was attracted to his line of work?

Then she looked at Wesley and stopped midchew. Was there something wrong with Wesley? He did seem to have a fixation on feeding live rodents to that killer snake of his. Was he attracted to this kind of job? Good God, having her for a parent had affected him more than she’d ever dreamed. Not only was he a delinquent, but he was…morbid.

Coop wiped his mouth and groaned in satisfaction. “That was great.”

“Thanks,” Wesley said, then gave Carlotta’s half-eaten breakfast a pointed look.

“Yes, it’s great,” she concurred weakly. “But I’m just not as hungry as I thought.” The world was missing out on the eat-with-a-mortician diet.

“Ready to go?” Coop asked Wesley, then glanced at his watch. “All the folks at the nursing home will be lined up, expecting us. It’s kind of a morning ritual. They have a send-off for their friends who have passed.”

Carlotta winced.

“Yeah, let me grab my backpack.”

“You got a shirt with a collar on it?” Coop asked.

Wesley frowned and looked at Carlotta, who smothered a smile behind her glass.

“Yeah,” Wesley said, his spirits considerably dampened.

“How about a jacket?”

Wesley’s face fell further. “Yeah.”

“Good. The families expect us to look decent when we arrive to load up their loved ones.”

Wesley nodded. “Give me a minute.” He headed toward his bedroom, leaving her alone with creepy Coop.

“All these years I’ve been trying to get him to dress better,” she said dryly, “and you accomplish it in five minutes.”

“Seems like a nice kid,” he said.

“He is…but he’s been in a little trouble.”

He nodded. “Wesley told me about the probation. I told him that everybody makes mistakes—it’s how a person handles their mistakes that sets them apart.”

Something in the tone of his voice made her wonder if he was talking about Wesley…or himself.

He stood and carried his empty plate to the sink.

“Leave it, I’ll get it. That’s our deal—Wesley cooks, and I clean up.”

“It’s okay,” he said, rinsing the plate, along with his coffee cup. “I live alone. I’m used to cleaning up after myself.”

Hmm—a bachelor. She wasn’t completely surprised. An undertaker wasn’t on the top of most girls’ list of desirable dates. Unbidden, she wondered if the saying about undertakers having cold hands was true.

“Thanks for the hospitality,” he said. “I hope you…feel better.”

An embarrassed flush climbed her neck. The man must think she was a simpering fool for some loser guy. Not that she cared what he thought of her—he worked with dead people, for Christ’s sake. “Thank you,” she mumbled.

“I’m ready,” Wesley said from the doorway.

Carlotta stared. “A tie, too?”

“Bye, sis. We’re going in Coop’s ride.”