A Real Basket Case

by Beth Groundwater

“I remember.”

  “When you yelled ‘Oh, God,’ I thought you were in trouble. I grabbed the gun and ran upstairs.”

  Claire stared at him with her mouth hanging open.

  Roger stared right back. “Imagine my surprise to find a strange man bleeding all over my bed and you cowering in the corner. I assumed he assaulted you, and you somehow killed him.”

  “You thought I killed him?”

  He nodded. “Then you screamed.”

  “I was afraid you were going to shoot me next.”

  “What? Oh, Claire.”

  “That’s why I screamed. God, I’ve never been so scared.”

  “You should know I’d never hurt you,” he whispered.

  From his crestfallen expression, Claire realized Roger spoke the truth, and felt deeply hurt she would think otherwise. She unclenched her hands. If they released him on bail, she’d be safe.

  “And I didn’t kill that guy, either.” Roger combed the fingers of one hand through his hair, while the handcuffs dragged the other hand along.

  The clumsy attempt at a familiar habit made Claire’s gut lurch.

  “From the way the police manhandled me when they hauled me off, they obviously thought differently. That scared me. I refused to talk to them and called Dave.”

  Claire peered at him. His story made sense, but she had trouble accepting it. Her mind whirled with questions. She pointed her chin at the uniformed officer, then leaned forward to whisper, “You’re not lying to me because of him, are you?”

  Roger slammed his hands on the glass again. “Dammit. I’m not lying.” He slumped against his arm, defeat lining his face. “What have you gotten me into?”

  FIVE:

  PHONE MESSAGES

  As Claire pulled her car into her driveway, she saw Ellen’s red Volvo parked in the pullout to the side. She checked her watch while she waited for the garage door to open. Eight o’clock. Ellen was still there, and she’d worked all day, too. What a friend.

  After climbing out of the car, Claire trudged to the door leading from the garage into the kitchen. She felt bone-tired, and her heart was as dead and cold as the icy wind that blasted under the lowering garage door. When Ellen opened the door to the house, flooding Claire with warmth and light, Claire fell into her open arms. She had never needed a hug more.

  Ellen patted her back. “You’ve had a horrible day. Go ahead and cry if you want.”

  Claire drew back. “That’s all I’ve done today. I’m all cried out. Or just numb.”

  Ellen led her to a stool. “Sit here. I’ll warm some soup for you. Tomato okay?”

  An image of blood-red soup formed in Claire’s mind. She grimaced and shook her head.

  Ellen gasped. “Oops. Bad choice. Chicken, that’ll do. Let’s see, rice or noodle?”

  As Ellen rummaged in the pantry, Claire noticed her friend had her sleeves rolled up and hair tied back. She remembered why Ellen was there and shuddered. “Did you, I mean, what about . . .” Claire’s voice trailed off as she glanced at the ceiling.

  “You wanted to redecorate that room anyway, didn’t you? The police took the linens, and I had the cleaning company throw out the mattress pad. I remade your bed with some sheets I found in your linen closet.”

  Shocked, Claire stared at Ellen. How could she talk about mattress pads and sheets so banally when someone they both knew had just been killed?

  Ellen wrinkled her nose while she dumped a single serving can of soup into a bowl. “Good thing your pad was extra thick. The mattress is okay. The cleaners also managed to get the stains out of the carpet. They finished about half an hour ago. Not a spot left.” She waved her hand cheerily in the air, as if belittling the enormity of the favor she had performed.

  Artificially so, Claire thought. Maybe Ellen was trying to comfort her by making the horrific seem commonplace. “How could you stand it?”

  A clouded look passed over Ellen’s face before she frowned. “When I showed them upstairs, I blocked out any thought of it being Enrique’s blood.” She shivered, then punched buttons on the microwave.

  Claire studied her friend. Ellen looked as if she’d survived the ordeal all right, better than Claire would have by far. When Ellen placed the steaming chicken noodle soup in front of her, Claire realized she was famished. She took off her coat, grabbed a spoon and began to eat.

  Ellen sat and watched Claire until she’d finished. “Did you see Roger?”

  “Yes. He said he didn’t shoot Enrique.”

  Ellen’s eyebrows rose. “Really?”

  “He said he found the gun in the hall and picked it up before coming upstairs. That’s why he was holding it when I saw him.”

  “Sorry, but that sounds awfully lame.”

  Claire toyed with her spoon. “I know. I know.”

  “What do you think?”

  Claire replayed the scene with Roger in her mind. “He seemed sincere, but . . . I’m not sure what to think.”

  Ellen laid a hand on Claire’s arm. “Maybe you need to think about whether you two still belong together.”

  “We’ve been through so much. I’d feel lost without him.”

  “I hope you’re not going to give me that schmaltz that he ‘completes’ you.”

  “No. Instead of compensating for some lack in me, because of his support I’m stronger than I ever dreamed I could be. And I think I did the same for him. Whenever one of us felt overwhelmed, the other would provide the right encouragement to push on.”

  She remembered Roger holding her while she wept on his shoulder and raged that life wasn’t fair. She was in the throes of postpartum sleep-deprivation six weeks after Judy was born and dealing with three-year-old Michael’s jealous tantrums. Roger volunteered to do night feedings for a week so she could catch up on her rest, even though she was an at-home mom and he was working ten-hour days.

  “You made a great couple years ago, but you’ve grown apart,” Ellen said. “And now this. Why hold on just for old times’ sake?”

  A dried bouquet of roses hanging above the kitchen cabinets caught Claire’s eye. Her gaze was drawn to first one rose, then the next one, then the next—twenty-six in all, one for each wedding anniversary and all in pink, the sweetheart color. Roger never forgot. How could she abandon her Rock of Gibraltar when he needed her most? When she needed him the most.

  “It’s more than old times’ sake, Ellen. It’s life itself. I’m sticking by him, if he’ll have me.” A stifling yawn overtook her.

  “Okay, I can see you’re tired. I’ll stop, but I need to tell you one last thing. A reporter called while you were gone. I told him you couldn’t come to the phone and hung up.”

  Claire dropped her head in her hands. Her stomach flopped, and she glanced at Ellen. “Reporters. I didn’t think about them. This will be in the morning papers, won’t it?”

  Ellen nodded solemnly. “And on TV. They already reported it on the evening news, though they didn’t have any names yet.”

  “Everyone will know Enrique was killed in my bedroom. What will my friends think? Oh, God, what will the kids think? I haven’t called them yet.” She shook with the horror of it all.

  “Call them now. All you can tell them is the truth. That a man was murdered in your home and the police accused Roger, but he says he didn’t do it.”

  Claire reached for the phone. She felt lower than dirt. She ground her teeth as she dialed Judy’s number. Her dry mouth felt like it was already full of the gritty grains of black soil she wanted to bury her head in. She woke her daughter from a sound sleep eight hours ahead in France and had to keep repeating herself because Judy couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

  Twenty tissues and an hour later, Claire put down the phone, worn out from explaining everything again to Michael. Her children’s shock and disapproval was palpable, even over the long-distance lines. Both insisted on coming home, but she told them to wait until she knew when their father would be released.

  Ellen brought a glass of water
and rubbed Claire’s shoulders while she drank. “Any other relatives you need to call tonight?”

  Claire thought about her mother, ensconced in the Liberty Heights retirement facility ever since her father had passed away a few years ago. In the semi-twilight of mid-stage Alzheimer’s, her mother rarely read the newspaper and only watched soap operas and game shows on TV. Telling her could wait, maybe forever. She’d just forget it all the next day anyway.

  Lately, it seemed when Claire visited that her mother often didn’t recognize her. Oh, she hid it well. She’d make polite conversation with the unknown visitor until Claire dropped broad hints to help her mother make the connection. The probability that she had inherited her mother’s susceptibility to the disease terrified Claire every time she misplaced her car keys.

  Claire’s brother and his wife were on their annual winter getaway in Mexico for another two weeks, so she could put off calling them. Roger’s parents had passed away years ago, thank God. But not his sister.

  Claire groaned. “Roger’s sister, Regina, in Iowa.”

  She dialed the number, but no one picked up. She left a message on the answering machine asking Regina to call back, then turned to Ellen. “She belongs to a quilting group. I think they meet on Thursdays. If she gets home late, I may not hear from her until tomorrow.”

  “You probably shouldn’t be alone tonight. Want to sleep at my house?”

  Claire shook her head.

  “How about if I spend the night here, then?”

  “No, you have to work tomorrow. And I’m so exhausted, I’m sure I’ll fall asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow—the one on Judy’s bed, that is. I can’t go in my bedroom yet.”

  “You sure you don’t want me to stay?”

  “I’m sure.”

  Hesitantly, Ellen picked up her coat. “Call me if you need me. Even if it’s the middle of the night.”

  Claire hugged her friend. “Thanks. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” She stood in the doorway and watched Ellen walk to her car and drive away.

  As Claire slipped between the cool sheets of her daughter’s narrow single bed, she reviewed her conversation with her husband. Something nagged at the edges of her sleepy consciousness—the phone message that was supposedly from her. I’ll have to call Roger’s secretary tomorrow.

  Claire sat bolt upright. That thought meant she believed he was innocent. And the killer was still on the loose! What if he thought she saw him? She clambered out of bed to check the door locks, then returned to the room and stood transfixed, shivering in the dark.

  If Roger didn’t kill Enrique, who did? And why?

  ___

  The next morning, Claire hunched over the newspaper spread on the kitchen table, her temples throbbing as if she’d overindulged in cheap red wine the night before. She stared at the headline: LOCAL BUSINESSMAN CHARGED WITH MURDER. Below the story was a picture of her house, apparently taken with a telephoto lens from the street.

  She pushed aside her breakfast—grapefruit with brown sugar and a soft fried egg on whole-wheat toast. She had hoped the routine of making her typical morning repast would provide some comfort, but one glance at the paper took her appetite away.

  She reread the story, wincing when Roger’s name appeared as the suspect. She still felt an eerie sense of unreality, as if she was caught up in a horrible nightmare where she had no control over the events swirling around her. But she couldn’t deny it. She was wide-awake.

  Enrique’s name hadn’t been released, pending notification of next-of-kin. Claire felt a pang of sympathy for whomever that next-of-kin might be, especially if it was his mother, assuming she was still alive. Claire tried to imagine how she would feel if her son Michael was killed. Her throat closed up. God, what that woman would go through. Claire massaged her head.

  The Gazette reporter, Marvin Bradshaw, had labeled her Coyote Hills neighborhood “exclusive” and quoted the median price of homes. Claire envisioned the reporter rubbing his hands, itching to ferret out and divulge more sordid details.

  She gulped extra-strong coffee and stared out her kitchen window. With no apparent awareness of the excitement the day before, ground squirrels foraged in the drifts of dried scrub oak leaves. The whirling lights of the police cruisers and people tromping through the yard hadn’t bothered the creatures. She, however, had barely slept a wink.

  The phone rang.

  Claire let the answering machine, which already held nine messages, take the call. The thin, reedy voice of nosy Mrs. Saunders drifted from the machine, asking what was going on and if Claire needed anything.

  Yeah, right. Mrs. Saunders would have to get her answers from the morning paper. Claire would not give satisfaction to the old snoop today. Dreading what she’d find, Claire punched the replay button on the answering machine. The first two were from Marvin Bradshaw.

  Fat chance he’d get a call back. The next was Mrs. Saunders again, followed by two other neighbors, then an ominous single word message, “Bitch,” followed by a hang-up. And another hang-up. Ouch. The last message played.

  “Claire, this is Rita Wilaby calling. Weren’t you supposed to deliver my two gift baskets yesterday? Anyway, I’ll be in my office doing paperwork most of today, so you can just bring them by without calling first.”

  Claire smacked her hand against her forehead, causing it to throb even more. Damn. At least, it sounded as if the real estate agent hadn’t heard about the murder. Claire carried the heavy baskets from the bench into the garage and stuffed them into the trunk of her car, so she wouldn’t leave the house without them.

  As she reentered the kitchen, the phone rang again. I’ve got to get out of here.

  Claire threw on some sweats, athletic shoes, and a jacket, and drove to the north parking lot of the Garden of the Gods Park. She got out, pocketed her cell phone, and took a deep breath of the cool, crisp air. A walk among the towering sandstone slabs of the park, uplifted and tilted on their sides, never failed to clear her head. The weather would help, too—piercing blue skies without a wisp of a cloud, the rising sun shooting spear points of light between the rocks, and a temperature in the high thirties. A perfect Colorado February day.

  She stopped at Jaycee Plaza, where a plaque explained how Charles Perkins, head of the Burlington Railroad, had donated the land to the city founded by his good friend General Palmer. Palmer had urged Perkins to build a home in the garden, similar to his own castle in picturesque Glen Eyrie canyon, but Perkins had kept the estate natural. Like most of Colorado Springs’ residents and visitors, Claire was grateful he had.

  She watched cliff swallows flitting in and out of their nests in tiny holes high in the cliffs and remembered them doing the same during a friend’s second wedding ceremony here. But weddings were the last thing she needed to be reminded of when her own marriage was in jeopardy. She left the plaza and struck out on the Central Loop trail.

  After maintaining a brisk pace for a while, she paused in front of the several-hundred-foot-high South Gateway rock to catch her breath. A trio of climbers roped together inched their way up the steep face. Claire felt a woozy tingle in her legs, as if she was there with them. How can that possibly be fun?

  She checked her watch. Nine o’clock. Time to call Roger’s office. She took out her cell phone and dialed his private line. After three rings, his secretary picked up.

  “This is Claire. I called to explain why Roger missed the dry run of the investors’ briefing yesterday.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Hanover, Roger’s lawyer called Mr. Peters last night. Mr. Peters told me when I came in this morning that the police arrested Roger for murder. How awful!”

  Claire remembered Ned Peters as a tough, no-nonsense manager. Although president of the firm, he worked long hours and expected his staff to be just as dedicated. Their personal lives weren’t supposed to interfere with deadlines—ever. She blanched as she imagined what his reaction might be. “Did Ned sound upset?”

  The secretary paused. “He looked
angry, said he had some major damage control to perform with the investors. He told me to find the briefing Roger prepared.”

  “Did you?” Claire watched the middle climber, who seemed to be less experienced and more tentative than the other two, search for a handhold.

  “Yes, but I still can’t believe Roger could have killed someone. What happened?”

  Claire sighed in dismay. The woman’s morbid curiosity undoubtedly would be echoed countless times over the next few days. “He’s innocent. This all will be cleared up soon.”

  The climber’s hand slipped and threw him off balance. He fell.

  Claire gasped.

  “What! What’s the matter?” the secretary asked.

  Frozen in terror, Claire watched the man plunge down, until the rope attached to his harness yanked him short. He swung from a piton anchored to the cliff between him and his mate below him. Stunned, he didn’t move until the other two climbers shouted instructions at him.

  Then he swung back and forth until he could scrabble a handhold. He pulled himself to the rock, found footholds, and clung to the cliff like a squashed spider, his chest heaving.

  Claire refocused on the phone in her hands. “Sorry I scared you. I’m at the Garden of the Gods and just saw a climber fall.”

  “Is he hurt?”

  “No, he was smart. His rope saved him. He was climbing in a group and had gear.” Unlike the handful of tourists who managed to kill themselves each summer scrambling up the rock with no ropes, hardware, or brains. “Back to what we were talking about. Tell Mr. Peters that Roger’s arraignment is this morning, so he should be released on bail today. I’m sure Roger will contact him right away.”

  “But—”

  “Roger said you gave him a message that I called yesterday. Do you have a record of it?”

  “It should be in my message book, on the carbon copy.” The phone carried the sound of pages flipping. “It’s not here. Oh, I remember. Our new receptionist took the message and gave it to me.”

  “Could you transfer me to her?” Claire sat down on the knee-high rock wall next to the trail.