Body Movers Books 1-3

She turned her head to see Walt Tully and next to him, his daughter Tracey. Recalling that her last encounter with her estranged godfather had been during her accidental reunion with Peter, Carlotta almost panicked, but pulled a smile out of thin air. “Hello, Walt, Tracey.”

“Carlotta, it’s been just ages,” Tracey said, raising her left hand to her cheek in a way that sent the sun beaming off the knuckle-spanning cluster of diamonds. “Daddy said he ran into you the other night…with Peter, of all people.”

“That’s right.”

“I can’t believe Angela drowned in her own pool,” the woman said, her voice melodramatic. “And I can’t imagine a more horrific way to die.”

“Actually,” Hannah interjected, “I read on the Internet that the most painful way to die is in a garbage-truck compacter, but drowning ranks near the top.”

Tracey glowered at her, then turned her attention back to Carlotta. “Didn’t Peter used to date you?”

“We used to date each other,” Carlotta clarified quietly. “A long time ago.”

“Oh…right,” Tracey said, then looked puzzled. “So…are you here for Peter?”

To support him, or to nab him? The innocent question was loaded with catty suspicion. Carlotta pushed her tongue into her cheek. “Actually, I’m here because I know—knew Angela.”

“Really? That’s strange because Angela was a very good friend of mine and never mentioned you…in that way.”

Carlotta wondered in just what “way” Angela had mentioned her name—in tandem with the C word, no doubt.

While Carlotta cast about for an ambiguous response, Tracey changed tack. “What is it that you do again, Carlotta? Seems like I remember that you worked for Neiman’s years ago.”

“Still do,” Carlotta said cheerfully.

“Oh.”

Only her mother had been able to inject more disapproval into one word.

Hannah dug her elbow into Carlotta’s side. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends?”

“Uh, Hannah Kizer…Walt and Tracey Tully.”

“Lowenstein now,” Tracey gushed, flashing her ring again. “Mrs. Dr. Lowenstein.”

“Mrs. Dr.?” Hannah asked, feigning awe. “I’ll bet that looks great on your vanity license plate.”

Tracey’s eyes narrowed, then she huffed and tugged on her father’s arm. Walt gave Carlotta a suspicious, lingering look that unnerved her before he hurried away.

“Behave,” Carlotta hissed. “That’s my godfather.”

“Damn, I’d hate to see how they treat complete strangers.”

“Shh,” Carlotta said as they stepped into the crowded wood-paneled foyer of the funeral home. The sickeningly sweet smell of live flowers rode the air as they shuffled forward on industrial-grade beige carpet toward what appeared to be the main parlor. At the far end of the entryway, a tall man in a striking brown suit nodded to her over the heads of the crowd. Surprised, she smiled and nodded back.

“Who’s the deep dish?” Hannah said into her ear.

“It’s Wesley’s boss, Cooper Craft. I guess this is his family’s funeral home. I had no idea.”

“Yowza, he’s hot.”

“He’s a funeral director,” Carlotta reminded her friend, but she had to admit, the man knew how to wear a suit.

“So? What’s the saying—cold hands, big schlong?”

Carlotta shook her head in exasperation as they were swept up in the crowd and herded into the burgundy-and-hunter-green parlor where low organ music played. They seized two of the few remaining empty seats, and the walls were quickly lined with overflow guests.

Standing room only, Carlotta thought morosely. Angela would be thrilled, if only she weren’t dead.

But she was dead, lying, presumably, inside the gold-and-white casket on display at the top of three steps at the front of the long room, flanked on either side by countless baskets and wreaths of flowers, crammed into every square inch of space, each seemingly more huge than the next.

“Christ,” Hannah groused, “how many acres of hot-house flowers were depleted for this send-off?”

Carlotta ignored her and as discreetly as possible looked for Peter. She spotted him in the front row, head bent as he spoke to the tanned, older couple next to him—Angela’s parents, no doubt. On the other side of him sat his own parents, spines ramrod straight, the picture of propriety. The same propriety that had driven Peter to end their engagement ten years ago. How different things might have been if only…

A few rows in front of them, Tracey Tully bent her head to whisper into the ear of the woman sitting next to her, and the woman turned around to send a laser stare Carlotta’s way. She watched as Tracey’s companion then whispered to the next woman, who turned to gawk. One by one, the entire row of women turned to look, all of their noses identically chiseled, their mouths tattooed with permanent lip liner.

“Are the clones friends of yours?” Hannah asked dryly.

“Hardly,” Carlotta murmured, “although I’m sure I went to school with some of them.”

The rise of organ music signaled that the service was about to begin. A minister strode down the aisle and stopped to shake hands with Peter and with Angela’s parents before ascending to the podium. He read a short, dry eulogy in a detached monotone and as he droned on, Carlotta realized that the man had probably never met Angela Ashford or, if he had, that he didn’t know her. He divulged no personal details, nothing to conjure up images of Angela as a living, breathing human being.

The same was true for the three women (all of them with names ending in “i”), who had apparently requested or had been asked by the family to talk about Angela.

“She loved Peter more than anything,” Staci gushed into the microphone. “The day they were married was the happiest day of her life.”

“She worked out and took care of herself,” Lori said. “Everyone on the tennis team is really going to miss her.”

“Her house was her pride and joy,” Tami said, “down to the last flower arrangement.”

“Egad,” Hannah whispered behind her hand. “If that was her life, she’s probably glad she’s dead.”

Helplessness tightened Carlotta’s chest as she remembered the two sentences the radio announcer had used to sum up Angela’s life and death. The indifference was heartbreaking, but Carlotta had expected more out of the woman’s friends.

“Would anyone else like to share their memories of Angela?” the minister asked, giving the audience a cursory glance.

Stand up, Carlotta willed Peter. If you had any feelings for this woman, don’t let people leave here thinking that the sum of her existence was being your wife, going to the gym and living in a big house.

“Very well,” the minister said.

“Wait,” Carlotta said, lurching to her feet. She felt everyone’s heads turn toward her and the weight of their attention fall on her.

“Yes?” the minister said. “You’d like to say something?”

Now what? her racing mind screamed. Her gaze flitted over the expectant crowd and to the bewildered expression on Peter’s face.

“Go ahead,” the minister urged.