Carlotta’s alarm went off the next morning, she slapped at it blindly, her eyes crusted shut from a river of salty tears. As she lay there rubbing her fists against her lids, last night came back to her in a horrible rush. She groaned. What had she been thinking? As soon as she saw Peter Ashford, she should’ve turned on her heel and run. Now she had fresh sensory details to torment herself with.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” she lamented, hitting her forehead for emphasis. She wondered what Lindy would say if she called in to take a “mental health” day, meaning she was feeling more crazy than usual.
Knowing the answer, she pushed herself up on her elbows, hoping to motivate the rest of her body to get moving.
At the sound of muffled noise coming from the kitchen, she pursed her mouth. Wesley was never up this early. She raised her nose and sniffed the air. Hmm—bacon. She hoped he’d made enough for two. Throwing back the covers, she reached for her yellow chenille bathrobe and pulled it over her red Betty Boop pajamas, then padded barefoot toward the kitchen and the good smells.
Wesley, dressed in jeans and T-shirt, stood at the stove, stirring and flipping and…whistling?
“Good morning,” she said warily.
He turned and grinned. “Mornin’. You look like hell.”
She smirked. “Thanks.”
“Are you sick? I got in kinda early last night and your door was closed—I thought that maybe you’d brought a guy home with you.” He pointed an egg turner at her pajamas. “But I can see that isn’t the case based on your godawful sleepwear.”
“Shut up,” she said playfully, then went to the fridge for orange juice. “I’m not sick.”
“What then?”
She sighed. “I ran into Peter Ashford last night.”
“Peter Ashford? What’s the asshole up to?”
She frowned. “Never mind.”
“I thought he was married.”
“He is. And it’s not like I’m mooning for him. I guess seeing him just brought back bad memories. What are you making?” she asked to change the subject.
“Eggs Benedict with fresh sliced red and green tomatoes.”
“Wow, what’s the occasion?”
“I got a job.” He took a bow, then waited for her reaction.
She squealed with joy, then jumped up and down, sloshing orange juice on her robe. “Oh, Wesley, that’s wonderful. Doing what?”
He pressed his lips together and her joy dissipated.
“Wesley?”
“It’s a great job,” he said in a rush. “Flexible hours, good money, benefits, and I don’t need a car.”
“Good,” she said, feeling somewhat cheered. “Doing what?”
“Uh…moving bodies.”
She choked on her orange juice. “What?”
“Okay, don’t freak out—it’s a perfectly legitimate job. We pick up bodies and move them to the morgue.”
“Pick up bodies from where?”
He shrugged. “Houses, hospitals…crime scenes.”
“Crime scenes? And who is ‘we’?”
The doorbell rang and Wesley smiled. “That would be my boss.”
Her eyes widened as she looked down at her pj ensemble. “At this hour?”
“Coop is picking me up for a morning run to a nursing home,” he said over his shoulder. “I told him to come early and have breakfast with us.”
“Coop?” She only had time to tighten the belt on her robe and run her fingers through her tangled hair before Wesley reappeared with a tall man dressed in overlong jeans, black Converse Chuck Taylor tennis shoes and a black sport coat over a dress shirt and tie.
A nice tie.
He appeared to be about thirty-five, with light brown hair, long sideburns and funky dark-rimmed glasses. He looked more like a philosophy teacher who hung out in coffee shops than a…body mover.
“This is Cooper Craft, my boss,” Wesley said. “And this is my sister, Carlotta. She usually looks better than this, but she’s been crying all night over an old boyfriend.”
She gasped, mortified. “Wesley!” She shot daggers at her brother while Cooper laughed, which only rankled her further. “I understand that my brother will be working for you, Mr. Craft,” she said in her best never-cried-over-anyone voice.
“Call me Coop,” he said, still smiling. “That’s right.”
“And what exactly is it that you do?”
“I work at a funeral home, but mostly I contract with the city morgue for body retrieval.” Another smile. “That’s where I need Wesley’s help.” He held up a newspaper. “I brought in your paper. Hope that’s okay.”
Carlotta nodded and took it, a little irritated that the man seemed to feel so at home in their home.
“Have a seat,” Wesley said, gesturing to the table, where he had set three plates. “What do you want to drink, Coop?”
“You got coffee? I’ll help myself,” the man said, walking over to the table where he pulled out a chair for Carlotta. Feeling ridiculous, she tucked her bulky robe around her and slid into the seat. Coop poured himself a cup of coffee and took the seat opposite her. Wesley carried platters of food to the table and arranged them carefully, then took the seat between the two of them.
“This is incredible,” Cooper said, unfolding the paper towel next to his plate and putting it in his lap as if it were linen. He looked at Carlotta. “Did you make all this?”
Wesley laughed. “Dude, Carlotta doesn’t cook. I made it.”
She bristled. “I cook…some things.”
“Macaroni and cheese from a box doesn’t count,” Wesley said, filling his plate.
“Sure it does,” Coop said, then winked at her.
Annoyed, Carlotta served herself then passed the tomatoes to Coop. “This body-moving business sounds very strange to me. Is it safe for Wesley to be around…dead bodies?”
Coop swallowed a mouthful of coffee. “We take precautions—gloves, masks, leak-proof body bags.”
Carlotta looked down at the sauce on the eggs Benedict and her stomach roiled. “How long have you been doing this?”
“Working with stiffs?” he asked between bites. “Pretty much all of my life.”
She
