A Real Basket Case

by Beth Groundwater

Below the first scrawl, in a different color ink, written with a different handwriting, it said: “I kicked yours first. T.”

  Was the second message written at the same time, in the spirit of friendly rivalry, or was it written after Travis killed Enrique? She pocketed the photo. Maybe the police could make something of it. But how would she explain having it in her possession? She shook her head. She’d figure that out later.

  The remaining photos held nothing of interest. She replaced the shoebox and scanned the rest of the bookcase. No papers, only Spanish-language scandal magazines, a worn Spanish-English dictionary, and a few TV program guides.

  She moved on to the kitchen. A stack of mail yielded only unpaid bills. Opening drawers, she found one stuffed with receipts. She rifled through them and saw one with a sizeable amount for a nine-millimeter handgun from a gun emporium in Woodland Park, Colorado. Dated approximately a year ago, the receipt was probably for Enrique’s gun—the gun that had been used to kill him. Condoleza must have known Enrique owned it, maybe even where he kept it.

  Claire lifted the lid of a cookie jar shaped like a sad-eyed bulldog. Inside, a stack of small plasticine envelopes filled with white powder lay partially covered by a handful of gingersnaps. Cocaine? She slammed the lid on the jar. No way was she going to touch that stuff.

  Down the hall, she swept the flashlight’s narrow beam across a disheveled bedroom. A dresser, end table, and queen-sized bed comprised the furnishings. A musty odor of sour sweat and dirty laundry hung in the air. Clothes, shoes, and newspapers littered the floor. Resisting the motherly urge to pick up the damp towel on the floor, she stepped over a few piles and made her way to the dresser.

  She opened the top drawer. A thin journal peeked out from under a pile of women’s thong panties. Claire pulled the book out and opened it. Tiny, cursive writing in Spanish covered its lined pages. A woman’s handwriting, different from the men’s scrawls on the back of the photos, so unless another woman occupied the apartment, virtually impossible, this was Condoleza’s diary.

  A date was written in the top left corner of the first page. Claire translated the date into October second, over four months ago.

  She hoped her rusty high-school Spanish would be enough to translate the entries. She flipped through the pages until she found an entry for the current month, February, and sat on the edge of the bed to study the text. The names of Enrique, Leon, and Travis appeared on the next few pages.

  On one page, Enrique and Travis were mentioned in the same sentence. She studied the words. Travis tiene envidia de Enrique. Envidia looked a lot like “envious.” Maybe Travis was envious of Enrique, of his success. Or jealous. She thought the same word could be used for either envy or jealousy in Spanish. Travis could be jealous of Enrique’s relationship with Condoleza. Claire rubbed her aching forehead. If only she could remember more Spanish.

  A rustling at the front door made her head jerk up. Glancing at her watch, she saw an hour had passed since Condoleza and Travis had left. They couldn’t be home already. Oh God!

  With her heart doing a clog dance against her chest wall, Claire shoved the journal in the dresser drawer. She ran to the window, opened it, and looked out. The drop to the alley below was straight down, with nothing to break her fall but metal trash cans. The familiar woozy tingle that signaled her fear of heights crept up her legs. Claire grabbed the window frame and closed her eyes. No, can’t do that. She shut the window.

  The front door creaked open. Condoleza said, “But I’m sure I locked it when we left.”

  “Be double damn sure next time. We got an investment to protect,” Travis replied. “Get me some ice. My eye hurts.”

  “Imbécil. Why’d you have to pick a fight with that hombre?” Condoleza’s heels clicked on the kitchen floor.

  “The bastard was dissin’ me. He asked for it.”

  An ice tray cracked, and ice clattered into the kitchen sink.

  Frantically, Claire searched the bedroom for a hiding place. She tiptoed to the small closet. Damn. Crammed full.

  “Here’s your ice,” Condoleza said. “So much for dancing. I’m going to bed.”

  Claire’s gaze lit on the bed. She dropped to the floor, on the side away from the bedroom door, and looked under. The bed frame stood high enough off the floor for her to squeeze under. The light from the hallway exposed wadded-up tissues, dust balls, used condoms, and spider webs.

  Condoleza’s heels clicked down the hallway.

  Claire had no choice. She scooted under the springs.

  Condoleza flipped the switch, and light flooded the room.

  Claire held her breath but could have sworn her heart thundered loud enough to be heard next door. The wood slats that held the springs above her grazed her breasts and nose. A jagged piece of the slat that should have been over her knees lay next to her legs. Her skin tingled as she imagined spiders crawling over her. She clenched her teeth.

  Shoes hit the floor, then the bathroom door closed.

  With a shudder, Claire swiped a spider web from her face and hoped the occupant had scurried away. God, I hate spiders.

  The toilet flushed. Condoleza sat on the foot of the bed. The box springs sagged onto Claire’s knees.

  Travis walked into the room. “Hey, Leza, you ain’t mad at me, are you?”

  Claire turned her head toward his voice and caught a glimpse of two large bare feet stepping out of a pair of trousers dropped on the floor. The feet walked to where Condoleza’s feet were being stripped of their stockings.

  Condoleza sighed. “I was just starting to groove, and you had to pick a fight.”

  “Sorry, baby.” His feet spread wider.

  “Go away.” Condoleza’s tone was firm, tinged with anger.

  Travis stumbled back then stepped forward again. “C’mon, I said I’m sorry. I’ll take you out again. Let’s kiss and make up.”

  After a moment, a faint smack signaled the end of a long kiss. “I’m still mad.” But Condoleza’s voice showed she was softening.

  “I’ll make it up to you. Love ya’ real good, baby.” The smacks and moans of serious necking followed.

  Claire cringed. How am I going to get out of here?

  A zipper slowly unzipped. His voice dropped lower. “Let’s make our own music. Stand up and come to papa.”

  The springs lifted, and a slinky red dress pooled on the floor at the end of the bed. Condoleza’s feet stepped out of the dress and kicked it aside. Then with toes curled, one foot caressed Travis’s ankle.

  Condoleza moaned.

  A black lace bra fell on top of the dress.

  Claire rolled her eyes. Oh, God.

  The amorous couple toppled onto the bed.

  The springs slammed onto Claire’s chest, forcing the air out of her lungs with a loud “Ooof.”

  “What was that?” Condoleza asked.

  The pressure lifted off Claire’s chest. A second later, she stared straight into a pair of furious brown eyes.

  Travis grabbed Claire’s arm and yanked hard, pulling her halfway out from under the bed.

  Condoleza screamed.

  The bed frame scraped Claire’s cheek as her face emerged, but she barely felt it, frantically wondering if Travis would hurt her more—a lot more.

  He kicked her. “Get out, bitch!”

  She wormed the rest of her body out onto the floor then scrambled to her hands and knees. Blood roared in her ears, and stars whirled in front of her eyes.

  Travis grabbed a handful of her hair and yanked her head up.

  Her eyes focused. She stared as a switchblade snicked open an inch from her nose. Warm blood from her scratch trickled down her cheek. Cold sweat trickled down her back.

  Travis forced her to a shaky stand and then tilted her chin up with the cold steel blade. His nostrils dilated like a raging bull’s.

  Claire trembled. Is this it? Am I going to die here?

  “What the fuck were you doing under our bed? Who are you?” His eyes focused on her face. �
��Wait. I’ve seen you before. You’re the bitch from the auto shop.”

  Condoleza shrieked again. She threw on a robe and yanked its belt tight. “She was here. She’s the lady who brought Enrique’s jacket.” She lapsed into a frantic stream of Spanish, interspersed with hand-waving, finger-pointing, and more shrieks.

  Claire stared at Travis, not daring to swallow with the knife under her chin. Her tongue was too thick to speak.

  He stepped closer. Baring his teeth, he pressed the blade against her throat.

  A drop of blood trickled down Claire’s neck. A wave of nausea passed through her gut.

  He waved the blade in front of her face. “What’s your game? Talk or I’ll slice you.”

  Claire gulped. “I’m sorry.”

  The room swayed and tilted. She groped backward with her hand for the bed and plopped down on it. She tried to focus on something. Travis’s black satin boxers swam in her vision before she clamped her eyes shut and dropped her head between her knees.

  He laughed. “Damn lady’s gonna faint.”

  Condoleza finally stopped shouting.

  Travis clamped an iron grip on Claire’s shoulder and shook her violently. “Don’t you fade out on me. You got questions to answer.”

  Claire sucked in two deep breaths and opened her eyes. The room stopped swaying. Slowly, she raised her head and faced the young man glaring at her.

  “I’m sorry,” she repeated, her dry mouth making her speech hoarse. “I meant to be long gone before you came home. But you came back early, so I hid. I didn’t mean to spy on or listen to . . . you know.”

  “So you’re saying you ain’t no pervert.” Travis squinted at her.

  Claire rubbed her damp hands on her jeans. “Yes.”

  “You’re a thief. You’re after our coke.”

  Claire shook her head. “I don’t use it.”

  “But at the shop you talked like you wanted to buy some.” Travis glanced at Condoleza. “This bitch don’t make sense.”

  Condoleza came around to their side of the bed to study Claire’s face. “Why’d you break into our apartment?”

  “To look for—”

  “Un momento.” Condoleza shuffled through some newspapers on the floor. “I know who you are. Here.”

  She pulled out a section, showed it to Travis, and tapped the front-page photo. “She’s the wife of the man who shot Enrique.”

  “Roger didn’t kill Enrique,” Claire said.

  Condoleza stabbed a finger in Claire’s face. “You’re one of Enrique’s whores, those old ladies from the gym who couldn’t keep their hands off him. I hate you. I hate all of you.”

  “Hey, you could make a man jealous with talk like that.” Travis swelled his chest, causing his nipple ring to poke out.

  Condoleza sniffed and swiped at a tear. “The bitches all thought they were better than him, but he was too good for them.” She glanced at Travis. “So are you.”

  “That’s better.” He read from the paper. “Claire Hanover. Well, well, well.” He tossed the paper aside and frowned at Claire. “What’re you looking for?”

  Claire’s mind whirled. What could she tell him that wouldn’t make him angry? He’d probably kill her if he knew she believed he might be the murderer. “I . . . I . . .”

  “You a narc?”

  Condoleza punched his arm. “Imbécil. She won’t accept that her jealous husband killed Enrique and thinks one of us did it. Right?” Her face livid with rage, she poked Claire.

  Claire nodded miserably.

  Travis threw back his head and laughed. “Imbécil? She’s the imbécil. Hiding under the bed of someone she thinks is a killer.”

  He leaned down and leered in her face. “Maybe I should prove you’re right. Maybe I should slice you right now and toss you out the window into the garbage where you belong.” He swung the knife under her nose in a slow, mesmerizing cobra death dance.

  Frozen with fear, Claire stared at the knife.

  Condoleza put a hand on his arm. “Wait. We don’t need trouble. Leon will be angry if the cops find a body and start searching his building.”

  Rubbing her forehead, she paced the floor, then paused. A sly grin bloomed on her lips. “We are good American citizens, right? We should turn in this crook.”

  “Call the cops?” Travis’s eyes flew open.

  Claire felt equally puzzled.

  “Sure.” Condoleza stood with hands on her hips. “Listen to me. She broke into our apartment. This is a crime. If we turn her over to the cops, they will throw her in jail, where she cannot bother us.”

  Claire caught on. Jail was much better than death at the end of Travis’s knife. She’d play Brer Rabbit and beg to stay out of the briar patch. “Please don’t turn me in to the police. They’re already mad at me for interfering in the investigation.”

  Detective Wilson’s face, contorted with anger, loomed in her mind.

  “Sweet.” Travis leered at Claire. “Mrs. High Society gets her face in the paper again, but this time as a crook.”

  Maybe getting turned in to the police isn’t such a good idea. “Or you could let me go. I’ll pay you for your trouble, and I won’t tell anyone what I found here.”

  His eyes narrowed. “What did you find?”

  That was a mistake. Claire mentally kicked herself.

  “Search her pockets,” Travis said to Condoleza.

  Condoleza found the photo and showed it to him.

  Travis snorted, grabbed the photo by the corner, and threw it across the room. The photo twirled into a pile of trash heaped around a mostly empty trash can. “Damn. Missed again. Anyway, that picture don’t mean nothing. Anything else?”

  Condoleza shook her head.

  Claire shook hers, too.

  Travis stuck the knife under Claire’s chin and spoke slowly. “Find anything interesting in the kitchen?”

  If there was ever a situation where Claire needed to lie and lie well, this was it. She had to hide the fact that she’d seen the cocaine. Digging her fingernails into her palms, she told a half-truth. “A gun receipt.”

  “For Enrique’s gun!” Condoleza shook Travis’s arm. “The one her husband used to shoot him.”

  “Roger didn’t—”

  “Shut up!” Condoleza slapped Claire.

  Claire accepted the pain gratefully because Condoleza’s outburst had distracted Travis.

  He motioned for Claire to stand. “Go to the front door. We don’t want the pigs in here searching the place.”

  As they walked down the hall, he snickered. “Can’t wait to see their faces.” He called over his shoulder. “Get dressed, Leza, and call the cops. Tell ’em we nabbed a burglar.”

  FOURTEEN:

  THE CROOK

  Claire hunched on the end of a narrow metal bunk with a thin, soiled mattress. The bunk was bolted to the floor of the women’s holding cell at the Gold Hill police station. She glanced at her watch—past midnight. But with the harsh, unshielded bulbs burning overhead, getting any rest was impossible.

  She wasn’t thinking about sleep, anyway. Her mind churned over what she should do next. Who she should call. She’d been too embarrassed to call Roger when she was brought in. Whatever made her think she could get away with breaking into Condoleza’s apartment?

  I’m an idiot, and now I’m a criminal to boot.

  She faced the bars fronting the cell, leaned her chin on her hands, and stared at the gray-green stains on the floor. Wrinkling her nose in disgust, she wondered what had made those stains. The strong odor of industrial-strength cleanser that permeated the place was somehow reassuring.

  Her head throbbed, and her cheek burned, although the scrape had stopped bleeding. She eased her fingers across her cheek and felt bumps of clotted blood. Her clothes were a mess, too. She picked a glob of dusty spider web off her pants leg. She itched to get home and shower, but she had no idea when that would be possible.

  She refused to acknowledge the curious glances of the cell’s other oc
cupants, two surly looking, stringy-haired teenage girls in patched and tattered jeans and jean jackets. The girls sat on a back bunk and whispered furtively to each other. They needn’t have bothered. Claire had no interest in their conversation.

  A loud clang announced the closing of a metal door. Heavy footsteps rang in the hallway. Claire glanced up as the footsteps stopped in front of her. A massive belly met her gaze. A uniform shirt gapped open between strained buttons, revealing a hairy belly button at Claire’s eye level.

  She looked up.

  The guard’s thick-lipped mouth sneered above two fat chins. He barked, “Claire Hanover.”

  Claire said, “Yes?”

  “Stand two steps away from the door.” The guard waited for her to comply, then opened the cell door. He waved her through. After locking the door, he walked her to the end of the hall.

  They passed through a maze of locked doors and narrow hallways until the guard stopped in front of a scratched wooden door. He opened it, pushed her inside, and closed the door behind her.

  The institutional gray room was bare except for a table and two chairs—and Detective Wilson. Wearing a rumpled trench coat and sitting slumped in his chair, he looked exhausted and angry.

  Claire’s heart sank. Oh, God.

  He gestured at the other chair.

  She slipped into the seat and sat stiffly, hands clasped in her lap.

  “Imagine my surprise”—Wilson’s voice dripped with sarcasm—“to be awakened close to midnight and told that the wife of my murder suspect had been arrested for breaking and entering.”

  Claire stared at her hands.

  Wilson’s voice rose. “And the apartment she broke into was leased by the man killed by her husband.”

  She had to say it. “Roger didn’t kill Enrique.”

  Wilson slapped the table. “Your belief in your husband’s innocence does not, I repeat, does not give you the right to break the law.”

  Claire flinched. “I understand. All I can say in my defense is that I was desperate.”

  “You better have been desperate to break into a drug dealer’s apartment. You could’ve been killed! And we couldn’t have done anything about it, because of the Make My Day law.”