LITMIR.BIZ

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nobody.

      “You’re welcome,” she said, then pulled her hand away and followed the crowd out into the parlor where people were pouring out the front door, moving toward their cars, already discussing where they might have lunch. On the other side of the foyer, Cooper Craft stood erect with his hands folded in front of him, a serene expression on his face, the picture of poise and comfort.

      “There won’t be a graveside service?” an older woman was demanding to know.

      “Um, no, ma’am.”

      “Why not?” the woman pressed, clearly affronted.

      “Mrs. Ashford requested that her body be cremated, ma’am, rather than be buried.”

      “Cremated? Burned alive?”

      He wiped his hand across his mouth, but to his credit, kept a straight face. “It’s a very respectful procedure, ma’am, and good for the environment.”

      The woman hmphed and walked away, shaking her head. Coop smiled in Carlotta’s direction, and Hannah nudged her from behind. “Introduce us.”

      Carlotta threw Hannah a withering look, then stepped toward him. “Hello,” she said as they walked up.

      “Hi,” Coop said, his light brown eyes crinkling in a smile. The man had nice eyes, she conceded, and wondered what he looked like without his glasses.

      Hannah bumped her from behind. “Oh, um, Cooper Craft, this is my friend Hannah Kizer.”

      Coop stuck out his hand. “How do you do?”

      “Thoroughly,” Hannah cooed, practically licking her lips as she clung to his hand.

      Carlotta laughed nervously. “I didn’t realize that Motherwell’s was your family’s funeral home.”

      “My uncle’s,” he clarified. “I just help out. By the way, that was nice, what you said in there.”

      She smiled weakly, then looked behind her to see that the main parlor had almost emptied. The family would be coming out soon. “Hannah,” she said, pressing her keys into her friend’s wayward hand, “would you mind waiting for me in the car?”

      Hannah scowled. “Yes, I would.”

      “Hannah.”

      “Okay,” Hannah said, then turned a wry smile to Coop. “Guess she wants to keep you to herself.”

      “Hannah, go.”

      Carlotta watched her friend stomp away in her black combat boots, then looked back to Coop. “Sorry about that. Can I…talk to you?”

      He lifted his eyebrows. “Isn’t that what we’re doing?”

      “I mean about Angela Ashford.”

      He frowned. “What about?”

      She leaned forward. “I overheard what you said the night that…it happened. You told Detective Terry that you thought the body should be autopsied. Why?”

      He shrugged slowly. “Because it would be easy to tell if she drowned accidentally…or not.” Then he angled his head. “Why are you asking?”

      Carlotta squirmed and told him what she’d told the detective, about the men’s jacket that Angela had bought and returned, and that Peter had denied knowing anything about it.

      “You think that Angela had a man on the side?”

      She lifted her chin, prepared to be laughed at again. “I have no idea, but I had to tell someone.”

      “You should be talking to the police.”

      “I did. Detective Terry blew me off.”

      “Why?”

      She sighed. “Because I have history with Peter Ashford.”

      “Yeah, Wesley told me.”

      Carlotta frowned. “My brother talks too much.” She glanced over her shoulder, then back to Coop. “Look…I guess I’m asking if you saw anything peculiar about the, um, body when you…did whatever you do to bodies to get them ready for viewing.”

      He pursed his mouth and appeared to be chewing on her words. “Maybe.”

      Her pulse ratcheted higher. “You did?”

      “That doesn’t mean I can do anything about it.”

      “Jack Terry said you used to be a medical examiner.”

      Coop frowned. “Jack Terry talks too much, too.”

      “Is it too late to check?” she asked, her heart thudding against her breastbone.

      “No,” he murmured. “Not until the body is cremated.” Then he folded his arms. “Carlotta, you must have been close to Angela Ashford.”

      “Not really,” Carlotta admitted. “Like I said in there—friends, a lifetime ago. But no matter what’s happened since, I can’t just let her be overlooked.”

      Coop glanced in the direction of the parlor, then back. “Not even if it means your former boyfriend might somehow be involved?”

      Carlotta swallowed hard, battling a bout of vertigo, as if she were balanced on a precipice, rocking back and forth between the past and the future. “N-not even.”

      She said goodbye and walked out the front door, staring straight ahead and ignoring the people and things in her peripheral vision. Hannah stood leaning against the car, smoking a cigarette.

      “Got another one of those?” Carlotta asked, opening the driver’s-side door.

      “You betcha.”

      Carlotta swung into the driver’s seat and accepted a cigarette that Hannah offered but her hand was shaking so badly, Hannah had to light it for her.

      “Jeez, what did you and the delectable undertaker have to talk about that’s got you so hot and bothered?”

      “Nothing important,” Carlotta said, then took a deep drag on the cigarette and exhaled in blessed release. She looked at the cigarette. “God, this is good. Why did I stop smoking?”

      “Because it’ll kill you?”

      “Oh, yeah,” Carlotta said, then thought of Angela and the fact that there were lots of things that would kill a person faster than smoking. “If I start up again, I can’t let Wesley know—he’ll start up, too.” Thoughts of her brother sent pangs of anxiety to her stomach. Tomorrow, and every Tuesday into the foreseeable future, was pay-up day. There was no way her brother would have a grand pulled together to pay that brute, Tick. Her gaze went to her Coach bag with the Cartier ring box stowed inside.

      “Hannah, do you know a reputable pawnshop?”

      “Sure. What do you want to sell?”

      Carlotta took another drag on the cigarette and exhaled slowly. “My soul.”

      19

      The woman behind the counter sucked her teeth. “Name?”

      “Wesley Wren. I’m here to see—” He checked the slip of paper he held. “E. Jones.”

      The woman tapped on a computer keyboard. “Spell the name.”

      “J-O-N-E-S.”

      Eye roll. “I meant your name, hotshot.”

      “Oh. W-R-E-N.”

      “Date of birth?”

      He told her. More tapping ensued, then the woman jerked her thumb to the left. “Down the hall, second door on the right. Knock before you go in.”

      He did as he was told, but dread cramped his intestines. With his luck, his probation officer would be one of those hard-ass military types

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