“That’s okay,” he said. “I trust you.”
At his offhand comment, she pasted on a smile and assuaged her guilt by letting the threat of making him shop for new shoes slide. Passing a table of ties, she scooped up a gorgeous black and deep purple tie that would complement Jack’s dark coloring.
“My treat,” she said, stuffing it into a jacket pocket. “You’ll look stunning when you accept your award. When is the ceremony?”
“Two weeks from today,” he said, then shifted from foot to foot. “Listen, Carlotta … about this awards dinner …”
She looked up. “Uh-huh?”
The detective pulled his finger around his collar, further loosening his hideous tie. “I know I mentioned before that I’d thought about asking you if you wanted to go with me.”
She froze. He was on the verge of asking her—something he’d never do if he knew what she was keeping from him. Her stomach churned with the sudden realization that despite everything looming over her and Jack Terry, she wanted very much to go on his arm and see him accept his award.
The color rose in his cheeks. “Well—”
“Carlotta Wren?”
She turned to find a man standing in front of her, holding a clipboard in one hand and a vase of at least two dozen red long-stem roses in the other hand. “I was told I could find you here. These are for you, ma’am.”
Her eyes widened. “For me?”
“Yep. Sign here.”
She signed her name, still perplexed when the man handed her the hulking bouquet. “I wonder who they’re from.”
“I can guess,” Jack offered wryly.
Carlotta realized he was referring to Peter. Although it was just the kind of grand gesture he would make, she was surprised and a little disappointed that he was pushing her so soon after their conversation about taking it slow.
“Thanks for helping me pick out the suit.” Jack swung the garment bag over his shoulder as if it contained a sixty-dollar rental instead of a thousand-dollar tux. “I’ll see you around.”
“Okay,” she said to his rapidly retreating back, craning to watch him leave. She wondered why she felt so let down when spending an evening with Jack Terry was just a bad idea all the way around.
With a sigh, she ferreted out the card in the roses.
Carlotta, thanks for a great time. Mason
Carlotta glanced over the brimming arrangement that had easily cost a couple of hundred dollars, then bit her lip. Who the heck was Mason?
8
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but we don’t reveal the names of our customers,” declared a hurried-sounding man on the other end of the phone.
“But I think the flower delivery might have been a mistake,” Carlotta protested. “I don’t know anyone by the name of the person on the card.”
“Nice try. Look, sweetie, if you want to find out if your boyfriend is sending flowers to someone else, you’re going to have to ask him.”
Carlotta blinked. “But I—” She stopped because the man had hung up.
“Omigod,” Michael exclaimed as he walked into the break room. “Who sent you the to-die-for roses?”
Carlotta hung up the phone and studied the bewildering bouquet she’d set on the corner of the stained lunch table. “I have no idea.” She showed him the card. “I don’t know anyone named Mason. Does it ring a bell for you?”
Michael shook his head. “Some guy you met in a bar maybe?”
“No, I’m sure of it.” Her nerves were unraveling. Had her father sent the flowers? Was it some kind of message? Or was it simply a misdelivery?
“Then you must have a secret admirer. Someone dropped a mint on these American beauties.”
Her expression must have reflected her dour mood, because he shook his head with a sigh, then produced a business card. “Here. Dr. Delray said he could squeeze you in Wednesday afternoon at six, but only for thirty minutes, so you’ll have to talk fast.”
“Thank you.” She folded the card into her pocket.
Michael fingered a perfect bloodred rose and sighed. “Meanwhile, if you don’t want this guy, send him my way, okay? Buh-bye.”
“Bye.” She carefully removed one long-stem rose and stroked the velvety petals. Had her mother liked roses? Her father? She couldn’t recall. And Mason wasn’t a family name that she knew of, nor a place they’d been, nor a pet they’d owned. If the roses were from her father, the message was lost on her. She tightened her grip on the stem in frustration and was rewarded with a zing of pain as a thorn pierced her palm, drawing blood.
“Dammit!” Carlotta put her mouth to the tiny wound, feeling the return of tears that were too common lately. She wondered if Michael’s shrink would be able to help her, or would her life scare even a trained professional?
Pushing aside the troubling thoughts, she picked up the pay phone and dialed the number to the auto body shop. Carlotta hated the blue muscle car that she’d gotten stuck with after taking it on a twenty-four hour test drive that had gone wrong, but since she owed more for the car than it was worth, she was resigned to driving it until it was paid for or until the wheels fell off.
She had hoped the wheels would have fallen off by now, but no such luck.
The repair shop was recommended by Wesley via his odious friend Chance, so even though it had taken in her car immediately and promised a quick turnaround, she was leery. After several rings, a man answered with a half-grunt, told her to hold, then told her that the Monte Carlo wasn’t ready yet. “Wednesday,” he promised.
She pinched the bridge of her nose. “What time Wednesday?”
“After noon?”
“Okay,” she said wearily, then hung up.
Carlotta turned and eyed the enormous bouquet, weighing the hassle of getting the flowers home on Marta versus the cost of a cab in rush hour. With a sigh, she slung the strap of her bag over her shoulder and scooped up the vase. During the trip through the mall and the half-block walk to the train station, she garnered lots of enviable stares. On the packed train however, the stares became murderous as she inadvertently poked an eye here, snagged someone’s clothing there.
“Sorry,” she mumbled to no one and to everyone standing near her in the shoulder to shoulder crowd. To save space, she brought the bouquet closer to her face but the sickeningly sweet scent of the roses reminded her of death—of the scent that permeated the funeral home that Cooper Craft ran.
She wondered if he’d called Hannah yet for a “body run” or if he and Wesley were working together today. Body moving wasn’t the sort of job she’d hoped Wesley would get, but with his recent arrest record and probation, she couldn’t complain. At least he was bringing in money legitimately, making his weekly payments to the thugs he owed and staying away from the card tables. And Coop seemed to be a good influence on Wesley, which was a relief. After raising Wesley, she had enormous respect for single mothers; the pressure was relentless. So was the guilt.
Things should have been so different for Wesley. For her. The thought only fueled her frustration and confusion over her father’s cryptic phone calls. What should she do? Report it? Wait? Report it, then wait?
“Lindbergh,” the conductor announced. “Lindbergh is your next station.”
The train slowed to a swaying