LITMIR.BIZ

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on,” Wesley said from the doorway of her bedroom. “You’re dropping me off. You don’t need lipstick.”

      “It’s lip balm.”

      “Whatever, come on already.”

      She swung her purse to her shoulder. “You owe me for this.”

      “Yeah, well, add it to the list.”

      They blew by Mrs. Winningham who was weeding her flower bed. “Wait! I want to talk to you two!”

      “Some other time, Mrs. Winningham!” Carlotta promised the woman as they ran for the garage.

      “But someone has been parking on the street and watching our houses! Don’t you care?”

      “No!” they yelled in unison, ducking under the opening garage door and bolting for the Monte Carlo.

      “Christ,” Carlotta muttered under her breath. “It’s probably that Detective Terry snooping around.”

      “Yeah, probably,” Wesley said in a noncommittal voice.

      Or any one of several other undesirables, she conceded miserably. “Do you have the address?” she asked as she backed out.

      “Yeah, it’s in Buckhead.” He read off the street name and number and Carlotta frowned. “Hmm, that’s a nice area. Did he mention the neighborhood?”

      “Yeah, it’s Martinique Estates. Know it?”

      She frowned. “Maybe. It sounds familiar, but I can’t place it.” She’d probably crashed a party there sometime, but didn’t want to say so in front of her brother. Besides, those days were behind her—no more party-crashing. She’d made an exception the other night and it had put her in the path of Peter Ashford, a scene which may have caused the humiliating takedown today at work. Her skin crawled at the memory and she touched the tender place on her throat. Thank God Lindy hadn’t called the police or the situation could have spiraled into something much more messy.

      “Did someone have a heart attack in their home?” she asked.

      “Coop didn’t say, but that’s a good guess.”

      Unbidden, her parents came to mind. They would be in their mid-fifties now. If her mother was still drinking, she couldn’t be in good health. And her father had smoked like a chimney and enjoyed his bourbon. Occasionally she wondered if she and Wesley would even be notified if they were sick…or worse. But according to the postcard that Wesley had kept hidden, they were still kicking.

      She glanced sideways at her brother in the dark cab of the car, unspoken words simmering on her tongue. But his face was a mask of concentration. It wasn’t an appropriate time or place to bring up their parents’ latest communication.

      Ten minutes later they were winding through the community of Buckhead, Atlanta’s premier address, featuring enormous tree-laden lots and even more enormous amenity-laden houses. Old money met new money behind the soaring gates of the private communities where residents lifted a collective nose at the rest of Atlanta. Carlotta knew, because she’d grown up in just such a neighborhood.

      “You missed the turn,” Wesley said, exasperated.

      She frowned and looked in her rearview mirror. “I’m doing the best I can. It’s so dark out here!”

      “Turn around!”

      “Shut up and put on your seat belt!”

      They bickered until they pulled up to the wrought-iron gates of Martinique Estates. A squad car with a silent, flashing light sat next to the gatehouse.

      “Lot of commotion for a heart attack victim,” she said, impressed.

      A security guard accompanied by a uniformed police office approached the car as she rolled down the window. Wesley leaned forward and flashed an official-looking badge with his photo and something about the medical examiner’s office. The policeman looked at it, then handed it back and signaled for the gatekeeper to let them in.

      Recalling all the tickets that Wesley had counterfeited for her, she frowned. “Is that a fake badge?”

      “What? No. Coop gave me this. I’m official. Turn here.”

      She did and again had the feeling that the street name was familiar for some reason. She stared up at the monstrous brick houses that looked more like compounds than homes and, God help her, she felt a stab of envy. Money didn’t buy happiness, but it made certain aspects of life a whole hell of a lot easier. She’d lived on both sides of that wrought-iron gate, so she knew.

      Wesley was craning for house numbers, but that became a moot point when they both caught sight of a squad car and an ambulance, lights flashing, and various other official-looking vehicles parked at angles on the curb and in the downward-sloping driveway. The megamansion sat below curb level, judging by the way the land fell away and by the downward gaze of the onlookers. “I think we found the right house.” She guided the car closer, picking up an approaching cop in her headlights, then stopped and zoomed down the window.

      “You need to keep moving, ma’am.”

      “We’re here to help transport the body,” Wesley said, sounding amazingly mature. He handed the badge to the cop, who, after scrutinizing it, handed it back. “Okay, but you’ll have to park here and walk onto the property. The pool is down there.”

      “Pool?” Wesley asked.

      “The woman drowned,” the cop said curtly.

      Carlotta shuddered, then looked at Wesley. “Do you see your boss’s vehicle?”

      “No, but he’s probably parked near the house.”

      “I’ll pull over and wait a few minutes. If you don’t come back or call my cell, I’ll know you found him and I’ll go.”

      He sighed. “You worry too much.”

      “I know. Go.”

      He scrambled out of the vehicle and disappeared down the driveway. Carlotta pulled over to the curb and put the car into Park, giving the cop a little wave. Headlights shone in her rearview mirror, and then a car parked behind her. A suited man climbed out and walked by her car, his destination obviously the house. With a shock she realized it was Detective Jack Terry, just as he turned and recognized her. He stopped and tapped on her window. Reluctantly, she zoomed it down.

      “Ms. Wren, what are you doing here?”

      “Just dropping off my brother, Detective. He got a job with a local funeral home operator who contracts with the morgue to…uh…move bodies.”

      He pursed his mouth. “Did he now? Well, that explains why a hearse was parked in front of your place a couple of days ago.”

      She glared. “Stop spying on us.”

      His gaze raked over the Monte Carlo and one side of his mouth lifted. “I like the car—not exactly what I thought you’d be driving, though.”

      She put her hand on the gearshift to keep from swinging at him. “Good night, Detective.”

      Suddenly another set of headlights shone in her rearview mirror, these from a smaller car approaching very fast. Detective Terry flattened himself against the Monte Carlo as the little car careened past and screeched to a halt at a haphazard angle, leaving the smell of burnt rubber in the air. It was a dark Porsche, but she couldn’t discern the model.

      “Looks like the husband is home,” the detective said, his voice rueful. “This is always the hard part.”

      Carlotta felt an unexpected stab of compassion for the detective as he walked toward the man who flung himself out of the car. How horrible it must be to work with angry, distraught, and sometimes violent people, day in and day out.

      And based on the body language of the man who was trying to push past the detective, those were just the survivors.

      Riveted,

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