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, she watched as Detective Terry visibly tried to calm the man. They were about the same height, but the detective’s bulk gave him the advantage of leverage. He led the man to where they could look down upon the house. From the way the man bent over and gripped his knees, she presumed they could see the pool from where they stood—and the body. Then the husband turned, as though to gather himself, and lifted his head in Carlotta’s direction.
The breath froze in her chest as recognition slammed into her.
Peter Ashford, looking disheveled and inebriated.
She glanced at the monstrous house, eerily illuminated by uplights and headlights. This was Peter’s house?
Which meant, she realized with dawning horror, that the woman who was dead was…Angela Ashford.
14
The lost look on Peter’s face made Carlotta’s heart swell in agony. Before she had time to think, she was out of the car and moving toward him in the semidarkness. “Peter?”
He turned at the sound of her voice and when he saw her, his face creased in confusion. “Carlotta? What are you doing here?”
“I dropped off Wesley. He’s here…in an official capacity,” she said vaguely. “We had no idea this was your house…that Angela—” She broke off, at a loss for words.
He embraced her and she could feel desperation palpating through his heated skin. She could also smell the gin on his breath and on his shirt. He was drunk, and she wondered how much his clinging to her was to keep himself upright. Then he buried his face in her hair and pulled her body against his. She ached to give him the comfort he sought, but when she realized that Detective Terry was gaping at them, she reluctantly pulled away and cleared her throat.
Detective Terry’s eyebrows sat high on his forehead. “I take it you two know each other?”
“Old friends,” Carlotta supplied quickly, then her gaze caught on the pool about twenty yards below them, shrouded in the mist that rose from the surface of the heated water. Angela’s body, clad in black, lay on the pale background of the concrete pool surround, her limbs at awkward angles. Carlotta swallowed hard against the cold truth that Angela was dead.
Peter looked at the scene and dragged his hand down his face. “I have to go to her,” he said, and the detective relented with a nod, falling into step behind him.
Carlotta didn’t know whether to stay or to go, or to walk down with the men. She didn’t relish seeing the body up close, but she also didn’t want to just leave. She hugged herself, running her hands up and down her arms to ward off the damp chill that blanketed everything that didn’t move—which would include Angela’s body, she noted ruefully.
Peter turned back. “Carlotta…I could use a friend right now.”
She hesitated, darting a glance at the detective, who looked extremely irritated at the idea of her going with them.
“Try to stay out of the way,” Detective Terry said, then continued tromping down the incline.
She followed them, careful to stay behind while still in Peter’s peripheral vision. She couldn’t take her eyes off him. He seemed so…so…disconnected. She wondered if he was in shock. No tears, no prostrate hysterics. Maybe the alcohol had numbed his senses, but back when they had dated, alcohol had always made him more emotional.
He moved like an automaton, staring straight ahead, his hands hanging limply by his sides as he walked by the vehicles parked in the paved turnaround in front of the house, including a car with the medical examiner’s shield on the side and a plain white van that Carlotta assumed belonged to Cooper Craft. As they approached the tall wrought-iron fence that enclosed the pool, Carlotta glanced around nervously.
She took in the palatial lines of the brick house, the sweeping steps that led from the turnaround, the huge fountain, the two-story entryway and the soaring Palladian windows, eerily dark. The house looked cold, empty…dead. By contrast, the gated pool area adjacent to the house was blazing with lights, the deep water an unnatural blue. With steam rising from the surface, the water resembled a witch’s cauldron. Taking deep breaths against the turmoil in her stomach, she followed the men down a short lighted stone path to a gate that had been propped open. The scent of chlorine burned the air, which seemed swollen with humidity and sadness.
Wesley and Cooper stood off to the side of the pool next to a small waterfall, apparently waiting for the police to complete their investigation. A youngish man with Medical Examiner on his jacket stood over Angela’s body, taking photos. Carlotta made eye contact with Wesley, who looked confused at her appearance. Then his gaze went to Peter and back to her, wide-eyed. She nodded, trying to answer the questions that must be whirling through his mind, and walked over to where they stood.
“Isn’t that Peter Ashford?” Wesley whispered.
“Yes,” she murmured.
“And that’s his wife?”
“Yes.”
“Jesus,” Wesley said. “Nice place.”
“Wesley!”
He looked contrite and pressed his lips together.
“Do
