LITMIR.BIZ

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Coop admitted. “There’s decent money in contracting body retrieval with the morgue, but to be honest, it also helps my uncle’s business. People get to know us. If they haven’t already selected a funeral home, nine times out of ten, they’ll go with us.”

      A shrewd businessman, Wesley decided, and wondered how much Coop was worth. Death was probably a pretty lucrative business, since it never let up.

      “So when do I get paid?”

      Coop’s eyebrows rose and he laughed. “Jumping the gun a little, aren’t you? We haven’t even officially delivered the body to the morgue.”

      Wesley gave an embarrassed little laugh. “I have a fine to pay off, man.” Not entirely the reason he needed the cash so soon, but it would do.

      Coop nodded. “I hear you. I’ll pay you every Friday, twenty-five bucks for every body you help me move.”

      Wesley nodded. “Sounds fair.” His internal calculator kicked in. Even if they moved only four bodies a day, that was a hundred bucks, seven hundred per week, and with the crime rate and traffic fatalities in Atlanta, he was probably being conservative. Business would probably be even better on weekends and holidays.

      Wesley’s pulse began to drum with excitement. For the first time in his life, he was earning real money.

      “You have to get that fine taken care of so you can clear your record and move on,” Coop said.

      “Right,” Wesley said, half listening. With the kind of money Coop would pay him, he could eventually afford to buy into a high-stakes poker game. One big win would put him in the clear with everyone, and help him build a local reputation at the tables.

      His promise to Carlotta that he would stop gambling rang in his head. Something akin to guilt stabbed him, but he shrugged it off as the familiar excitement of an impending card game began to build. He hated to go back on his word, but all he needed was one big win.

      Just one.

      12

      “Well, at least Wesley’s working,” Hannah said.

      Carlotta sighed into her cell phone. “But he’s moving dead people.”

      “Somebody’s gotta do it. I mean, when you think about it, it’s really kind of cool.”

      “Christ, you sound like Wesley. All he talks about is how cool it is to ride around in the hearse, and how cool his undertaker boss is.”

      “Is his boss creepy?”

      Carlotta thought of the long-legged, funky-looking man who had seemed so comfortable at their breakfast table. “He’s not as creepy as you are.”

      “Funny.”

      “But how normal can the man be if he works around dead bodies all the time?”

      “I don’t know,” Hannah said dryly, “some days it sounds preferable to working with live ones. Fridays suck, don’t they?”

      “Let me guess—trouble with your pastry-instructor lover?”

      “Since we got back from Chicago, he’s cooled way down.”

      “Do you think it might have something to do with the fact that he goes home to his wife every night?”

      “Maybe.”

      Carlotta bit her tongue to keep from scolding Hannah for taking up with yet another married man—the memory of kissing Peter Ashford two nights ago was still too fresh for comfort. What a hypocrite she was.

      She looked up and nearly dropped her cell phone to see Angela Ashford charging toward her counter. Had she somehow conjured up the woman with her illicit musings of Peter? “Oh, shit.”

      “What’s wrong?” Hannah asked.

      “Gotta go,” Carlotta whispered, then disconnected the call.

      Angela bore down on her, wearing the expensive black knee boots Carlotta had sold to her, black trench coat flapping. A paralyzing thought struck Carlotta: what if Peter had developed a guilty conscience and confessed the kiss to Angela? That vengeful-wife ass-kicking that she had been warning Hannah about for years might just be coming her way.

      She swallowed and straightened her shoulders, and although her heart threatened to pound through her breastbone, she managed a shaky smile when Angela stopped in front of the counter. “Angela…hi.”

      “I’m glad you’re here,” the woman slurred, her expression dark.

      Carlotta drew back slightly at the woman’s flammable breath—another head start on her martini lunch, apparently. “What…what can I do for you?”

      “Take it back,” she said, leaning into the counter.

      A sharp inhale tightened Carlotta’s chest. “T-take what back?”

      Angela swung a shopping bag onto the counter with a thud. “The man’s jacket you talked me into buying. It was all wrong.”

      Carlotta was so giddy with relief that she decided to allow the gibe to slide. “It didn’t fit?” she asked, reaching for the bag to hide her guilty flush.

      “Hmm?” Angela asked, seeming preoccupied. “Oh…right.”

      Automatically, Carlotta’s sales expertise kicked in. “Would you like to exchange the jacket for something else? Another size?”

      “No—I need the cash.”

      Carlotta looked up, surprised. “Oh.”

      Angela recovered unconvincingly. “I mean, I’d rather have a refund.”

      Carlotta reached into the shopping bag and withdrew the charcoal-gray jacket that she had thought would look so handsome on Peter—the same jacket that she had inquired about at the cocktail party and that Peter seemed to have no knowledge of. Had Angela given it to him since? Had it spawned an argument? Had Peter admitted running into her and that she’d spilled the beans about the jacket just before allowing Peter to put his tongue in her mouth?

      She glanced at Angela beneath her lashes and the fact that the woman was studying her with unveiled loathing did not put her at ease. She had the feeling that the woman knew something…or was it simply her own guilt getting the best of her?

      Unnerved, Carlotta gave the jacket a shake. When the stench of cigarette—no, cigar—smoke reached her nose, she frowned. The jacket’s tags had been removed, and it appeared a bit disheveled. She bit her lip. Exchanges and returns under her employee ID were being closely scrutinized since the trouble she’d gotten into over returning clothing that she’d bought and worn for a special occasion (or three). Since Peter had obviously worn the jacket, there was no way she could take it back without getting into trouble. “It, um, it looks like the jacket has been worn, Angela. I can’t give you a refund, but I can give you a store credit.”

      Angela’s head snapped up. “No way, I want cash.”

      “But—”

      “Do you know how much money I spend in this store?”

      “Yes, but—”

      “And that I could buy and sell you if I wanted to?”

      That stung. It was true, but the woman didn’t have to remind her. People were beginning to stare. Moisture gathered on her neck and she cast about for something soothing to say. She put her hand out. “Angela, this isn’t personal—”

      “Personal?” Angela’s eyes turned murderous. “Everything between us is personal, Carlotta, considering my husband is still in love with you.”

      Carlotta’s throat convulsed. Did she know about the kiss? “Th-that’s…not true, Angela.”

      “Yes, it is!” Angela shouted, her eyes watering.

      She

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