A Real Basket Case

by Beth Groundwater

  Claire leaned forward. “Detective Wilson, I wouldn’t be stupid enough to make this up, especially after our last meeting. This death threat is real. And there’s more.”

  Wilson rubbed his chin. “Go ahead.”

  Claire told him about Karla’s and Ellen’s affairs with Enrique, his rebuff of Jill, and Patti, the Hispanic cocaine buyer who limped. She felt as though she was unburdening herself, laying the evidence at Wilson’s feet. If he took over her lines of investigation, she could focus on taking care of Roger, stop taking risks, and leave the whole case in Wilson’s hands.

  He took notes and nodded thoughtfully during her tale. He pulled a plastic bag out of his desk drawer and put the death threat in the bag. As he sealed and labeled the bag, he asked, “Who’s touched this?”

  “Me, Ellen, and Jill,” Claire answered.

  Wilson looked at Deb. “And Miss Finger-licker here.”

  He wrote the four names on the bag. “It probably won’t do much good, with all of you handling this, but I’ll have the note analyzed for fingerprints. If whoever produced this has any brains, we won’t find any prints other than yours.”

  He peered at Deb. “What’s your occupation, Miss Burch?”

  Deb pulled out a card and handed it to him.

  Wilson read it, pursed his lips, then said to Claire, “So this is your P.I. friend.”

  Claire sank a little lower in her chair. “Yes.”

  “I told you, I don’t work with private investigators.” Glowering, he tossed the card on his desk.

  “I’m only here as Claire’s friend,” Deb said. “I won’t interfere in your case.”

  “Mrs. Hanover has done enough of that herself.”

  Simmering, Claire said, “Look. I came here even though I knew you’d be angry, because I thought this note was important. And, frankly, it scared me. Can we get back to discussing it instead of past history?”

  “As long as you two understand my position.”

  In a conciliatory tone, Deb said. “We understand. Now, can you reach any conclusions about the note?”

  Wilson leaned back in his chair. “I see at least four possibilities. First, that the note is a serious threat from someone ready to carry it out. It could have come from a person at the gym or one of Enrique Romero’s gang members.”

  “Leon’s already threatened you, right?” Deb glanced at Claire.

  “What’s this?” Wilson sat up. Surprise, then worry, crossed his features. “Have you been talking to Romero’s drug boss?”

  “His bodyguards kidnapped me right in front of the police station after you released me Wednesday night.”

  “What the hell! What did he do to you, and why don’t I know about it?”

  Claire told him the story, then finished with, “You said you never wanted to see or hear from me again.”

  Wilson gritted his teeth. “Maybe I deserved that. But the audacity, right in front of the station.” Ruefully, he shook his head.

  “I got the impression Leon was providing some service to the police,” Claire said. “You mentioned a drug interdiction operation. Leon alluded to it, too.”

  Agitated, Wilson rubbed his forehead. “That doesn’t excuse these kinds of actions. He’s gone too far, snatching you and leaving this.” He tapped the plastic bag.

  Claire shook her head. “Leaving a note isn’t his style.”

  “It’s a way of showing he can get to you, even in a women’s locker room.”

  “True,” Deb said, frowning at Claire. “Travis or Leon could have coerced one of their customers at the gym into leaving the note.”

  “Or Condoleza. I saw the back of a cleaning woman who looked like her in the pool area. At the time, I didn’t think she could possibly work there, but maybe she does. Or maybe the whole getup with the mop was a disguise.”

  “I’ll check on that.” Wilson jotted a note.

  “What about the two women who bought drugs?” Deb asked. “Did one of them follow you into class or leave before you?”

  Claire thought for a moment. “One came into the classroom after me, and just about everyone made it into the locker room before me.”

  “Two women?” Wilson glanced down at his notes. “You only mentioned one—”

  “I won’t name the other woman. Sorry, but I gave her my word. If you discover she’s the killer during your investigation, that’s not my fault.”

  “Claire—” Deb looked at Claire’s face, then shrugged.

  “You said there were four possibilities.” Claire said to Wilson. “What are the other three?”

  “One of these women on your list could have stashed the note in your locker. Not as a serious threat, but to keep you from coming to me and exposing her sordid relationship with Enrique.”

  Deb nodded. “Claire and I already discussed that.”

  “Then, as I already said, the third possibility is you constructed the note to try to save your husband’s skin.” He glanced at Deb. “Using some computer other than your own.”

  Claire opened her mouth to speak, but Deb squeezed her arm.

  “And fourth, your husband or one of your concerned friends is trying to convince you to stop your snooping.”

  “In the fourth case,” Deb added, “that concerned person would have to think Claire was putting herself in danger.”

  “But not necessarily from a killer on the loose,” Wilson said. “She’s been meeting with drug dealers, for Christ’s sake.” He turned to Claire. “Where’s your husband been this morning?”

  She winced. “I don’t know. Roger was at home, but he got a call to come in to the office over an hour ago. I haven’t been able to reach him.” She glanced at the cell phone in her hand. “I’m worried about him.”

  Wilson quirked an eyebrow. “Why?”

  “I told him to wait before talking to his boss. I wanted to find more evidence that someone else killed Enrique first, to prevent his boss from putting him on long-term leave, which is the same as firing him. But I’m afraid he may be talking to his boss right now. Or he’s already been told not to return to work.

  “I’m also afraid that whoever wrote the note could have gone to our house, looking for me, and . . .” Claire choked on the lump in her throat and couldn’t continue.

  Deb handed Claire a tissue. “Detective Wilson, I know Claire very well. We go all the way back to college, and I can swear on the Bible that she would not fabricate this note.”

  “I’ll decide that for myself.”

  Deb leaned toward Wilson. “Even if you keep open the possibility that her husband or a friend wrote the note, if Mr. Romero’s killer wrote it, then Claire’s life is in danger. She needs protection.” Deb pulled out her wallet, opened it, and handed Wilson a folded paper. “I’ve got a concealed weapons permit and training in defensive techniques. If you can’t assign anyone to protect Claire, I’ll do it.”

  Wilson whistled. “A baby Glock. I’m sure you paid a bundle for that.” He handed the permit to Deb then addressed Claire. “Where do you plan to go from here?”

  “Roger’s office.”

  “I’ll check out these women from the gym this afternoon, and contact you if I find out anything. In the meantime, you’ll cover her?” He looked at Deb.

  “That was my plan.”

  Wilson tapped his pencil on his notepad. “As we discussed, a lot of people could’ve planted the death threat, Mrs. Hanover. What I’m getting at is, you should tell no one, not even your husband, that you brought it to me.”

  “Okay.”

  “I suggest you go home and lock the doors. Don’t do anything stupid.”

  ___

  After Claire had unlocked her car, Deb plopped into the passenger seat. “That went well.”

  “C’mon. He nearly ripped my head off when we walked in, then he accused me or Roger of fabricating the death threat.”

  “Just what I expected him to do.” Deb smiled. “But he reopened the case, didn’t he? He’s going to investigate the women at the
gym. We couldn’t ask for more.”

  “I suppose.” Claire still felt like grumbling. “I didn’t like his last comment, though. Does he really expect me to do something stupid?”

  Deb laughed. “Last time he saw you, you’d just been pulled out from under a drug dealer’s bed.”

  Claire grinned sheepishly. “I’ve got to admit that was stupid.”

  She drove out of the lot, leaving Deb’s car there for the time being, and headed for Roger’s office building. After a short elevator ride, she strode through the subdued, gray-and-maroon lobby of the corporate suite with Deb in tow. Without hesitation Claire walked straight to the secretary’s desk outside Roger’s office. “Is Roger in?”

  “Oh, hello, Mrs. Hanover.” The secretary’s eyes widened in surprise. “Roger came in a while ago, met with Ned, then left.”

  Claire’s heart sank. “When did he leave?”

  “About an hour ago.”

  “Did he indicate how the meeting with Ned went?”

  The secretary shook her head. “Roger didn’t go back to his office after the meeting—he just left the building.”

  Claire took out her cell phone and tried calling Roger’s cell phone and their home phone, again with no luck. Desperately, she wracked her brain, trying to figure out where he might have gone, but an image of Roger’s agonized face clouded her thinking. She shook her head to clear it.

  “Is Ned in?” she asked the secretary.

  “He left for a lunch meeting right after he talked to Roger.”

  “So no one can tell me what went on during their meeting.”

  The secretary pursed her lips. “Sorry.”

  “I bet Roger’s on his way home,” Deb said. “Why don’t we head there ourselves?”

  Claire drove to her house, her stomach in a knot over what Roger must be going through. She felt even worse when she opened the garage door. His car wasn’t there. “Where is he?”

  “Let’s have some lunch while we wait for him,” Deb said. “But first, I’m going to check the perimeter.”

  Claire looked at her watch. One-fifteen. With her stomach in knots, she didn’t think she could eat anything, but realized Deb probably felt hungry.

  Deb returned. “Nothing. You have a security system, right?”

  Claire pointed to the box by the door into the house. The light showed it was still armed and untripped.

  “Good,” Deb said. “We can assume whoever threatened you isn’t here.”

  Claire disarmed the security system, pointed Deb toward the kitchen, and quickly changed out of her gym clothes into a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. When she returned, Deb had placed sandwich fixings on the counter.

  As Deb spread mayonnaise on a slice of rye bread, she said, “Let’s review the suspects from the gym. It’ll help keep your mind off Roger, and we might discover something useful.” She put down the bread and pulled a PDA out of her pocket. “Give me the names again.”

  “Sure. Brenda Johnston, Karla Deavers, Patti . . . I don’t know her last name . . . and my friends, Jill Edstrom and Ellen Kessler.”

  “Your evidence against Patti is pretty thin.” Deb’s rings flashed as she typed the names, then she put the PDA aside to stack ham and Swiss on the bread. “You just suspect she bought cocaine from Enrique, and she happens to be Hispanic.”

  “Karla said Patti had an affair with Enrique, but Ellen said she didn’t.”

  “We need confirmation of her buying drugs, and her affair.”

  Too anxious to sit, Claire paced the kitchen. “I planned to talk to Patti today, but then I found the death threat in my locker’s vent.”

  “We’ll get back to her.” Deb typed a note into the PDA. “Now, Brenda’s situation is interesting. I’ve never known a drug dealer to lend money to his clients before. Could Karla have made up the story?”

  “I could be wrong, but my impression is that she’d pass on gossip, maybe even embellish it a little, but she wouldn’t outright lie.”

  Deb bit into her sandwich and chewed slowly. “Karla’s an interesting character. Apparently she and Ellen had this competitive thing going.”

  “And they kept contradicting each other. Each said she ended her affair with Enrique and that Enrique ended it with the other one.” Claire held out her hands, palms up. “I don’t know who to believe.”

  Deb licked her fingers then tapped the PDA. “We need another source, someone who may know about Enrique’s affairs but doesn’t have a personal interest. Also, someone who can confirm this loan to Brenda. I’m thinking Leon.”

  Claire shook her head. “That’s not a good idea. Remember the warning he gave me last time we talked?”

  “If he’s an informant, maybe Wilson can ask him these questions. Let’s move on to Jill and Ellen. Since they’re your friends, you probably don’t think they’re capable of murder. Right?”

  “Right.” An image of Ellen, with feet planted in a wide stance and hands clutching a pistol, floated into her mind. No, no, it couldn’t be.

  Deb wiped her mouth with a napkin. “So you could’ve missed some clue about one of them. As I remember, Ellen gave you the coupon for the massage from Enrique, conveniently setting up the rendezvous. She also gave herself an alibi by claiming she and Jill were having lunch together when Enrique was killed. Did Jill confirm that?”

  Claire reviewed her recent conversations with Jill in her mind. “I don’t think she did.”

  Deb reached for the phone book. “Where did Ellen say they ate lunch?”

  “The Broadmoor Hotel.”

  “Which one of their restaurants?”

  “She didn’t say, but it wasn’t Charles Court, because it’s only open for dinner, and the Lake Terrace only serves breakfast and brunch. And they wouldn’t have gone in the Tavern or the Golden Bee Pub.”

  “What about the Golf Club dining rooms?”

  “Maybe, but Ellen likes Café Julie best for lunches. I bet they ate there.”

  “And with the Broadmoor being a fancy-schmancy five-star resort, I bet they made a reservation.” Deb flipped through the phone book then punched a number into the phone.

  She winked at Claire. “Hello, my name is Ellen Kessler. I need to verify a charge on my credit card, and my memory is getting so bad. Do you have a reservation for lunch at one of your restaurants on . . .” She gave the date Enrique had been shot. “It would be under my name or my friend, Jill Edstrom.”

  Deb waited a moment, then said, “Thank you very much. You’ve been so helpful. I’m sure I’ll be back again.” She hung up the phone and rubbed her hands together. “Interesting.”

  “What?”

  “They didn’t eat at Café Julie. They were at the Lake Terrace.”

  “But—”

  “Their reservation was at ten-thirty, for brunch, not lunch.”

  Claire stared at Deb as a sudden chill pimpled her arms. “Oh-mygod. That means—”

  “They weren’t lunching together when Enrique was murdered.” Deb crossed her arms and leaned back on her stool.

  Horrified, Claire tried to resist the possibility worming into her mind that one of her friends hated Enrique enough to kill him.

  “So one of them could have high-tailed it over here and shot Enrique,” Deb continued. “And with Ellen setting up the massage, she’s my number-one suspect.”

  Claire pictured the murder weapon. “But she would have to have known he carried a gun.”

  “Good thinking.” Deb swallowed the last bite of her sandwich. “If I was the killer, I’d bring my own gun to do the job. But if I saw Enrique’s gym bag in your hall and knew he kept his gun there, I’d use his instead. Then the cops couldn’t trace the ballistics to my gun and me.”

  Claire shuddered. “That’s cold-blooded.”

  “Just smart. Look, you’ve already talked to Ellen about the lunch meeting.” Deb stood. “I think a pow-wow with Jill is in order.”

  “But what about Roger?” Reluctantly, Claire rose to put away the lunch fixings. />
  “Leave him a note to call your cell phone when he gets home.” Deb shrugged on her coat.

  “I should phone Jill to tell her we’re coming.”

  “Surprising her is better. She won’t be able to prepare. She could very well have been in on the plot with Ellen.”

  TWENTY:

  NOTHING STUPID

  On the way to Jill’s house, Deb laid out a plan. Claire was to do most of the talking while Deb observed Jill’s body language. She briefed Claire on the questions to ask.

  Slick with sweat, Claire’s hands slipped on the steering wheel as she turned onto Jill’s street. “I’m really nervous.”

  “Don’t worry.” Deb patted the pistol hidden under her jacket. “I’m prepared if Jill comes after you.”

  That wasn’t exactly what Claire had been worrying about, but she added it to her growing list of anxieties.

  She pulled into Jill’s driveway under the ice-cold shadow of a towering blue spruce, and cut the engine.

  Deb gave her a thumbs-up. “Let’s go.”

  With Deb following, Claire walked to Jill’s porch and rang the doorbell. They waited, with their breaths puffing little clouds.

  The door opened, but the woman standing in the hallway wasn’t Jill.

  Claire clutched her chest and gasped. “Condoleza.”

  Condoleza’s eyes widened, then narrowed in fury. “You! Why are you here?”

  “I could ask you the same question.”

  “I work here.”

  Thoroughly confused, Claire blinked, hoping to clear her whirling brain. “Doing what?”

  “Mrs. Edstrom is one of my cleaning customers. Why did you follow me here? I thought Leon told you to buzz off.” She dismissed Claire and Deb with her hand.

  “We’re not going anywhere,” Deb said.

  Claire tried to make sense of the situation. “I didn’t follow you here. I’m a friend of Jill’s. I came to see her, not you.”

  Deb peered at Condoleza. “Is she Enrique’s—”

  “Shush.” Condoleza glanced over her shoulder. “Don’t say anything to Mrs. Edstrom about me and Enrique.”

  “How did you wind up working for Jill?” Claire asked.