know what—Angela Ashford’s death. Everyone but you thinks it was an accident. And if it was an accident,” she said lightly, “doesn’t that sort of clear the way for you to get back with the love of your life?”
Carlotta flicked ash out of the window. “I suppose so.”
“Well, I’m no shrink, but either you think Peter killed her or you’re conflicted about your feelings for him and are going to some pretty extreme lengths to avoid the situation altogether.”
Carlotta studied the cigarette she held, asking herself why people did things that they knew would hurt them eventually, and if she had a particular propensity for self-destruction. She took a long draw, then exhaled. “Well, like you said, you’re no shrink.”
Hannah frowned and replied by leaning forward and turning up the volume on the radio, blasting Marilyn Manson into the cab for the short ride south into Little Five Points.
Carlotta felt torn over shutting out her friend, but she was already so confused about Peter, she was afraid that talking about him, that putting words to half-baked feelings, might send her into an emotional abyss. What if she did give in to years of pent-up longing and allow Peter into her life…and into her heart? Would he tire of her after he felt he’d paid penance for abandoning her? After all, how much did they really have in common now?
She slid her gaze sideways at Hannah, the tongue-pierced, stripe-haired, smoking and cursing bondage queen…with a heart of gold. Her best friend, but would Peter accept her and her eccentricities? And how would he feel when he discovered that she herself had had a couple of, er, misunderstandings with the law? And she doubted that Peter’s boss, Walt Tully, would look kindly upon him taking up with the daughter of the man who had stolen hundreds of thousands of dollars from their clients, the man responsible for an embarrassing asterisk on the company records.
So what could she really ever be to Peter—a pastime…closeted?
“This is it,” Hannah said, throwing the van into park.
Carlotta looked up and took in their eclectic surroundings. The people and shop owners in Little Five Points prided themselves on their individuality. Antique book-shops, organic restaurants, futon stores, bike shops, alternative-music stores, hip T-shirt shops. The theaters and playhouses and trendy eateries had caught on with the younger Buckhead crowd determined to prove that they were get-real cool despite their black American Express cards, so the clientele was slowly changing from students with pocket change to young professionals with loads of disposable income. Ergo, next door to a retro used-clothing store called Rebound Rags sat Designer Consigner.
They loaded up armfuls of bags and clothing and headed for the door. Carlotta felt a little sheepish to be taking her personal items in to hock—it smacked of desperation. Her mother, she thought, would be appalled at the notion of Carlotta selling her clothes—consignment stores and yard sales were too pedestrian for the Wrens.
Embezzlement, bail skipping and child abandonment, on the other hand, were acceptable.
She followed Hannah into the store that was remarkably well merchandised for a consignment shop. A petite Asian woman with a sleek bob and wearing a Chanel suit as well as anyone Carlotta had ever seen looked up from a table where she sorted items that, presumably, the two women standing in front of her had just brought in.
“I’ll be right with you,” the Asian woman said in a clear, cultured voice.
The two customers turned and Carlotta blinked in surprise—one was Tracey Tully…er, Lowenstein. Mrs. Dr.
“Carlotta,” Tracey said, her voice chilly. “How utterly bizarre to see you again so soon.”
“Hello, Tracey.” A flush blazed its way up Carlotta’s neck as she saw Tracey take in the bulging shopping bags she and Hannah held. Humiliation washed over her.
Tracey gestured to the dry-cleaner bags of clothing stacked on the table. “My friend Courtney and I were just dropping off some items for the Women Helping Women clothing drive.”
The other woman smiled tightly without making eye contact, as if Carlotta and Hannah might qualify as some of the women who needed help.
“Well…what a coincidence,” Carlotta said, lifting her chin. “So are we.”
She ignored Hannah’s strangled noise as she lifted the shopping bags to the table. After she jerked her head meaningfully, Hannah did the same with the bounty she’d carried in.
From the top of one of Carlotta’s bags, Tracey plucked a nearly mint Kate Spade leather hobo bag from two seasons ago. “Yes, underprivileged women will appreciate these items, even if they are hopelessly dated.” Then Tracey made a face. “This stuff smells like garlic.”
Carlotta smiled through clenched teeth as the woman carelessly tossed the expensive purse back into the bag.
“You’re very generous, ma’am,” the salesclerk murmured to Carlotta.
Carlotta tried to keep smiling as the woman gathered up the bags and disappeared with them in a back room. There went the extra cash she’d hoped to have.
When the salesclerk returned, Tracey snapped her fingers, as if she were talking to a servant. “I’ll be needing a receipt so I can deduct this from my income taxes. I’m a doctor’s wife and in our tax bracket we need all the deductions we can get.”
Hannah coughed, disguised her muttered “bitch” as a wheeze.
“Yes, ma’am,” the salesclerk said, then she smiled at Carlotta. “If you’ll write down your name and phone number, I’ll give you one as well.”
Not that it mattered in her tax bracket, Carlotta thought miserably.
Tracey snatched the receipt from the woman’s hand, then turned to Carlotta. “Now that Angela is gone, I guess I’ll be seeing you at the club.”
Carlotta frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Tracey tossed her hair. “I mean, it’s pretty clear that you and Peter Ashford are going to pick up where you left off…if you ever stopped.” She gestured toward the back room where the salesclerk had taken the shopping bags. “You’re probably giving away all your old things because you think that Peter is going to buy you whatever you want now. Poor Angela, not even cold in her grave.”
Anger flared in Carlotta’s chest and she struggled to keep her voice steady. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, it’s not just me talking,” Tracey assured her with a cocked hip. “After you made a spectacle of yourself at the funeral and the way that Peter fawned over you afterward in front of everyone, trust me, everyone is talking.” Then Tracey smiled meanly. “But considering the way you were raised, no one is surprised.”
Carlotta flinched as if she’d been slapped, but Hannah apparently wasn’t nearly so traumatized. “Mrs. Dr., how’d you like my pointy-toed boot up your charitable ass?”
“We’re leaving,” Tracey said, looking them up and down with contempt as she and her friend made their way toward the entrance—but not without a parting shot. “Really, Carlotta, you’ve gone to the dogs.”
Hannah
