was disoriented.”
“So…you don’t have feelings for him.”
Carlotta rolled her shoulders. “I didn’t say that. I’m confused. Besides, I don’t think it’s appropriate to lust after a man who’s grieving for his wife.”
“Are you kidding? If he’s as rich as you say, there’ll be single women stacked up at this shindig to wipe his tears. If you want him, you’d better be prepared to claw your way to the top of the pussy pile.”
Carlotta frowned. “I have no intention to claw my way anywhere. Here’s the place,” she said, slowing and signaling to turn into the Motherwell Funeral Home, a stately white plantation-style home in front with some less attractive additions jutting off the back.
“Damn, look at the cars,” Hannah said.
Indeed, Carlotta felt self-conscious parking her muscle car next to the Beemers and Mercedes and Bentleys, but it couldn’t be helped. She climbed out, aware that their arrival had garnered a few stares from other attendees who glanced at her car—and Hannah—with faint distaste as they strolled by. Seriously suited men and severely coiffed women made their way toward the entrance of the funeral home.
Carlotta’s pulse pounded harder as they fell in with the crowd, still questioning her decision to attend but unable to deny the compulsion that had grown since her encounter with Jack Terry. Damn him, he was right about her guilt. Her conscience wouldn’t let her rest and no matter what she’d told the detective, or Hannah, for that matter, she wasn’t at peace with the M.E.’s ruling of the cause of death. She had convinced herself that attending the funeral might settle her mind, give her a sense of closure.
She dearly hoped so.
They were almost to the entrance when a man’s voice sounded. “Carlotta, hello.”
She turned her head to see Walt Tully and next to him, his daughter Tracey. Recalling that her last encounter with her estranged godfather had been during her accidental reunion with Peter, Carlotta almost panicked, but pulled a smile out of thin air. “Hello, Walt, Tracey.”
“Carlotta, it’s been just ages,” Tracey said, raising her left hand to her cheek in a way that sent the sun beaming off the knuckle-spanning cluster of diamonds. “Daddy said he ran into you the other night…with Peter, of all people.”
“That’s right.”
“I can’t believe Angela drowned in her own pool,” the woman said, her voice melodramatic. “And I can’t imagine a more horrific way to die.”
“Actually,” Hannah interjected, “I read on the Internet that the most painful way to die is in a garbage-truck compacter, but drowning ranks near the top.”
Tracey glowered at her, then turned her attention back to Carlotta. “Didn’t Peter used to date you?”
“We used to date each other,” Carlotta clarified quietly. “A long time ago.”
“Oh…right,” Tracey said, then looked puzzled. “So…are you here for Peter?”
To support him, or to nab him? The innocent question was loaded with catty suspicion. Carlotta pushed her tongue into her cheek. “Actually, I’m here because I know—knew Angela.”
“Really? That’s strange because Angela was a very good friend of mine and never mentioned you…in that way.”
Carlotta wondered in just what “way” Angela had mentioned her name—in tandem with the C word, no doubt.
While Carlotta cast about for an ambiguous response, Tracey changed tack. “What is it that you do again, Carlotta? Seems like I remember that you worked for Neiman’s years ago.”
“Still do,” Carlotta said cheerfully.
“Oh.”
Only her mother had been able to inject more disapproval into one word.
Hannah dug her elbow into Carlotta’s side. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends?”
“Uh, Hannah Kizer…Walt and Tracey Tully.”
“Lowenstein now,” Tracey gushed, flashing her ring again. “Mrs. Dr. Lowenstein.”
“Mrs. Dr.?” Hannah asked, feigning awe. “I’ll bet that looks great on your vanity license plate.”
Tracey’s eyes narrowed, then she huffed and tugged on her father’s arm. Walt gave Carlotta a suspicious, lingering look that unnerved her before he hurried away.
“Behave,” Carlotta hissed. “That’s my godfather.”
“Damn, I’d hate to see how they treat complete strangers.”
“Shh,” Carlotta said as they stepped into the crowded wood-paneled foyer of the funeral home. The sickeningly sweet smell of live flowers rode the air as they shuffled forward on industrial-grade beige carpet toward what appeared to be the main parlor. At the far end of the entryway, a tall man in a striking brown suit nodded to her over the heads of the crowd. Surprised, she smiled and nodded back.
“Who’s the deep dish?” Hannah said into her ear.
“It’s Wesley’s boss, Cooper Craft. I guess this is his family’s funeral home. I had no idea.”
“Yowza, he’s hot.”
“He’s a funeral director,” Carlotta reminded her friend, but she had to admit, the man knew how to wear a suit.
“So? What’s the saying—cold hands, big schlong?”
Carlotta shook her head in exasperation as they were swept up in the crowd and herded into the burgundy-and-hunter-green parlor where low organ music played. They seized two of the few remaining empty seats, and the walls were quickly lined with overflow guests.
Standing room only, Carlotta thought morosely. Angela would be thrilled, if only she weren’t dead.
But she was dead, lying, presumably, inside the gold-and-white casket on display at the top of three steps at the front of the long room, flanked on either side by countless baskets and wreaths of flowers, crammed into every square inch of space, each seemingly more huge than the next.
“Christ,” Hannah groused, “how many acres of hot-house flowers were depleted for this send-off?”
Carlotta ignored her and as discreetly as possible looked for Peter. She spotted him in the front row, head bent as he spoke to the tanned, older couple next to him—Angela’s parents, no doubt. On the other side of him sat his own parents, spines ramrod straight, the picture of propriety. The same propriety that had driven Peter to end their engagement ten years ago. How different things might have been if only…
A few rows in front of them, Tracey Tully bent her head to whisper into the ear of the woman sitting next to her, and the woman turned around to send a laser stare Carlotta’s way. She watched as Tracey’s companion then whispered to the next woman, who turned to gawk. One by one, the entire row of women turned to look, all of their noses identically chiseled, their mouths tattooed with permanent lip liner.
