Free Body Movers 4 - 4 Bodies and a Funeral by Stephanie Bond

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 cel phone on the slim chance
    she’d missed Wesley’s cal , 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 pil s.
    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 pul ed on her favorite ful -coverage chenil e
    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 cel 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 pul ed the phone out
    of her purse, but Peter’s name scrol ed across the cal er 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.”
    Jack reached forward to stroke her cheek with his thumb.
    “We both have other people in our lives. It has to be that
    way…for now at least.”
    “You mean, until you arrest my father?”
    “No, I mean until you make up your mind.”
    The charm of three hearts came to mind. The doorbel
    rang, startling her. She and Jack both turned and Carlotta
    inhaled sharply to see Peter Ashford standing on the
    stoop, holding