Something in the tone of his voice made her wonder if he was talking about Wesley…or himself.
He stood and carried his empty plate to the sink.
“Leave it, I’ll get it. That’s our deal—Wesley cooks, and I clean up.”
“It’s okay,” he said, rinsing the plate, along with his coffee cup. “I live alone. I’m used to cleaning up after myself.”
Hmm—a bachelor. She wasn’t completely surprised. An undertaker wasn’t on the top of most girls’ list of desirable dates. Unbidden, she wondered if the saying about undertakers having cold hands was true.
“Thanks for the hospitality,” he said. “I hope you…feel better.”
An embarrassed flush climbed her neck. The man must think she was a simpering fool for some loser guy. Not that she cared what he thought of her—he worked with dead people, for Christ’s sake. “Thank you,” she mumbled.
“I’m ready,” Wesley said from the doorway.
Carlotta stared. “A tie, too?”
“Bye, sis. We’re going in Coop’s ride.”
She frowned. “What kind of ‘ride’ would that be?”
“A hearse,” Wesley said. “How cool is that?”
Her eyes went wide as she rushed to the window. Sure enough, a black hearse sat at the curb. “Mrs. Winningham will stroke out over this.”
“I usually drive a van,” Coop said, following her. “But the folks at the nursing home appreciate the classy extra touch.”
Carlotta pushed her tongue into her cheek. “Classy—that’s just what I was thinking.”
Wesley pushed open the front door and galloped out to the curb to check out his “ride.”
Coop laughed, then looked at her. “Nice meeting you.” He stuck out his hand.
She swallowed before taking it, expecting his fingers to be frigid. Instead, they were warm and firm and…nice, actually. “Same here,” she said, perplexed by the man’s contradictions.
He nodded toward the dilapidated silver-colored tree in the corner. “I like your tree—very retro. You must really get into Christmas.”
Carlotta gave him a flat smile. “Oh, yeah, it’s Christmas every day of the year around here.”
He grinned and walked to the door. “Guess I’ll be seeing you.”
She crossed her arms. “I have to be honest with you, Coop—I’m not sold on this idea of Wesley being a…a body mover.”
Coop gave a little laugh. “Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it.”
The door closed behind him and she frowned. Where had she heard that before?
She showered and dressed for work quickly, pushing away thoughts of Peter Ashford as soon as they entered her head. It was how she’d gotten over him before—by conditioning herself not to think about him and eventually the banished thoughts had diminished.
Although they had never quite disappeared.
When she walked out on the stoop, Mrs. Winningham was halfheartedly watering her yard, a ruse she promptly abandoned when she spotted Carlotta. “Why was there a hearse in front of your house this morning?”
Carlotta angled her head. “A hearse? I didn’t see a hearse, Mrs. Winningham. Are you sure you didn’t imagine it?”
The woman scowled. “If I did, I also imagined your brother getting in it.”
Carlotta lifted her arms in a shrug. “Have a nice day, Mrs. Winningham.”
She trotted to the garage, squeezing the remote control. The opener made a horrible grinding noise as it lifted the door—a sure sign it was ready to go out. She sighed, opened the car door and tossed her purse in the passenger seat. Just before she swung inside, she noticed a tennis-ball can on a shelf with old cans of spray paint and miscellaneous junk—Wesley’s admitted hiding place for the cash he was hoarding. She frowned. If he was still holding out on her…
She walked over and stretched high to reach the tennis-ball canister. She assuaged her guilt for snooping with the knowledge that her credit card company had already hit her account with a twenty-two percent finance charge for the cash advance she’d gotten to pay off that odious Tick fellow.
She popped off the lid, peered inside and frowned. Empty. Then she squinted…no, there was something rolled up and nearly hidden because it was pressed against the lining of the canister. She wiggled her hand down inside, grabbed an edge with her fingernails and pulled it out slowly. Immediately, her stomach began to churn.
It was a postcard from her parents dated six weeks ago. The photo was an Ansel Adams landscape, a nondescript mountain scene mirrored by a lake. The note on the back was short and cryptic, as always. “Thinking of you both.” It was her mother’s handwriting. The postmark was Miami, Florida. She inhaled sharply. They had been only one state away when they’d mailed it?
She shook her head, wondering why Wesley would have kept the postcard from her and felt the need to hide it. Then she smirked. Hadn’t she said the last time they’d gotten one—two years ago—that she hoped they didn’t receive any more postcards, and that if they did, she would turn them over to the police? Wesley must have taken her at her word.
Detective Terry’s question as to her parents’ whereabouts echoed in her head. Should she call him now while the lead might still be warm? Or would that result in unnecessary surveillance of their home, their mail, their phones? She worked her mouth back and forth, debating. One thing was certain—she couldn’t leave the postcard in case Wesley decided to hide it somewhere else. If he missed it and confronted her, she’d tell him the truth, which was more than she’d gotten from him. She returned the canister to the shelf, climbed inside her car, and, after studying the postcard again, stuck it inside her purse.
She’d hang on to the “evidence” until she decided what to do.
11
“This is too cool,” Wesley said, nodding his head as he surveyed the inside of the moving hearse.
Coop looked amused. “Buckle up. It’d be embarrassing to die in a hearse.”
Wesley clicked the seat belt home. “Where do you buy a hearse?”
“At a dealership, same as a regular car, or used from other funeral home operators. I only use it for funerals and pickups at the nursing home. Otherwise, I use the van.”
Wesley studied the serious profile of the man next to him and had a feeling that there was more to him than met the eye. “How did you get into the business?”
Coop’s mouth tightened and he looked away briefly. “The funeral home belongs to my uncle. I didn’t grow up dreaming of working there, if that’s what you’re asking. It just worked out that way.”
“And you like it?”
The man shrugged. “It’s okay.” He looked at Wesley. “It’s better than jail.” Coop’s cell phone rang and he clicked on the hands-free button. “Coop here.”
Wesley listened while the man talked to someone named Jim and arranged to pick up a body at the hospital, pondering Coop’s comment about jail. He’d been referring to Wesley’s predicament…hadn’t he?
“I’ve got a trainee on board,” Coop said into the mike and shot Wesley a smile. “This is his first call.”
“Does he have a strong stomach?” asked the man on the phone.
Coop