The two gift baskets still sat in the trunk.
She leaned her head against the trunk lid, shut her eyes, and cursed herself thoroughly under her breath. She’d never been late with a delivery—never. And she’d missed this one twice. Along with being pissed at her, Rita Wilaby had probably heard about the murder by now.
Claire slammed the trunk shut and slid into the car. She drove directly to Rita’s office, only to find it closed, with a note tacked to the door that the real estate agent would be out showing homes to a customer all day.
EIGHT:
ON HER OWN
Wrapped in her thick purple bathrobe, Claire retrieved the Sunday morning newspaper from her driveway and entered the kitchen. She blew on her hands to warm them, then pulled the paper out of its blue plastic bag, threw it on the table, and turned to make coffee. She whirled back.
A large photo of Roger and her, blown up from a group shot at a charity function last month, stared out from the front page. She slumped into a chair to read the article accompanying the headline: MORE ON LOCAL MURDER. That Bradshaw reporter had not only listed their names, but named Roger’s firm, and had dug up information on their charity activities.
And the kids.
Claire closed her eyes and clutched her throbbing forehead. Why did he have to drag my children into it?
In morbid fascination, she read on. Bradshaw quoted unnamed neighbors, who said the typical things.
I can’t believe this happened in our neighborhood.
Can’t blame him, can you?
Roger Hanover seemed so quiet, maybe too quiet.
Claire tried to imagine who would have said each thing. The neighbors’ comments about her were worse.
I’m shocked, truly shocked.
This isn’t the Claire I know.
Couldn’t she have gone to a motel or something?
Claire’s stomach churned with anger. They all assumed the worst—that she’d cheated on Roger. How could they? But then she had put herself in a compromising position. If Enrique had lived, would she have gone further?
She tossed the paper aside. Maybe she deserved the negative comments. Claire Hanover, you are lower than dirt.
The phone rang.
She stared at it. Who was calling now? The reporter again? A nosy neighbor? She let the answering machine pick up.
After her greeting and the beep, she heard, “Mom? If you’re there, pick up.”
Claire grabbed the phone. “Hello, Michael.”
“I read the story from your paper on the Internet. What’s going on? Is Dad still in jail?”
“He’s out on bail.”
“Can I talk to him?”
She winced. “He’s not here. He’s at Dave Kessler’s house.”
“Is Dave representing him?”
“For now, but Dave’s a corporate lawyer. We’ll have to get a criminal lawyer soon.” Claire sighed. “To tell you the truth, your father’s not just meeting with Dave. He’s staying there.”
“Oh.” Michael cleared his throat as if he couldn’t decide what to say next.
“This is temporary. I love your father and hope to convince him to come home soon.” Her voice caught. “Right now, it’s hard for him.”
“How are you handling all this, Mom?”
Claire forced her voice to be even. “I’ll be all right. It’s your dad I’m worried about.”
Michael sounded unconvinced. “Maybe I should catch a flight home. I’ll ask for a couple of days off.”
“I don’t think now is the right time. Your father and I have to sort this out on our own. But he needs your support. Call him.” She gave Michael Dave’s number and her love then hung up.
Almost immediately the phone rang again. Claire reached for it, then stopped and waited for the machine to pick up. Maybe this time a reporter or nosy neighbor would be on the line.
Right the second time. Nosy neighbor.
Disgusted, Claire threw the front-page section of the paper in the recycling bag. She decided she needed to get her hands busy. Maybe tying bows on that unfinished baby basket would get her mind off her troubles. Trying to construct a pleasing, ordered arrangement out of a random pile of gift items often helped Claire organize her thoughts. And God knows, they’re in chaos now. She marched downstairs toward her workshop, rolling up her sleeves.
She flipped on the light as she entered the room and ran her hand across the scratched and marred surface of the large oak dining table she’d found at a church yard sale. It was well worn, like herself, but did its duty as a work surface. The basket she’d selected for the baby gift sat in the middle, with a pile of purchased infant clothes, teethers, receiving blankets, and diapering products next to it. Wide pink and blue ribbons had already been woven around the bottom.
Claire turned to the plastic shelves on two walls that contained baskets, packing and wrapping materials such as Spanish moss and colored cellophane, fabric remnants, and clear boxes labeled “Ribbons,” “Tags/cards,” “Plastic/dried flowers,” and “Trinkets.” She opened the box of ribbons, found thin ribbons that matched the colors of the wide ones, and set to work tying bows on the basket handle and around the edge.
When disturbing memories of Enrique’s body pushed into her mind, breaking her concentration, she pawed through the shoebox of Enya, Yanni, and other soothing CDs, and popped one in the boom box on the table. She finished the bows, but when she started arranging the gifts in the basket, using small empty boxes to give the items varying heights, she ran into trouble.
As she stacked and restacked gifts, attempting to make a coherent whole out of the pieces, she tried to fit together a story of Enrique’s murder that made sense.
If someone besides Roger had killed Enrique, like Condoleza or Travis, how did the killer know Enrique was at her house? Did Enrique call someone from the gym? Condoleza? Okay, maybe Condoleza knew, but how would she know where Roger worked, to call him and leave the message for him to come home? Enrique could have known where Roger worked from asking Ellen, maybe, but why would he tell Condoleza?
Then, even if Condoleza did leave the message for Roger, why would she come over and kill Enrique or, more likely, have Travis kill Enrique, knowing Roger could show up any minute? Wasn’t setting up an embarrassing discovery enough? And if Travis did it, how did he get in?
Duh. Claire tapped her forehead. She’d left the front door unlocked after picking up the package outside.
But if Travis left the same way, why didn’t Roger see him?
No scenario seemed to work, in either the basket or her mind. Frustrated, Claire pulled everything out of the basket and left the room to clear her mind.
The basement family room looked gloomy—too gloomy. Time to shed some light on things. She walked over to the sliding glass door then noticed the vertical blinds at the end were twisted. Curious. She reset the blinds and opened them. Bright winter sunlight blazed through the glass. Hungry for a breath of fresh air, she reached for the lock to open the door to the backyard.
Her hand froze.
The door was unlocked.
How did that happen? Sometimes when the kids were young and running in and out, they would forget to lock the door, but she and Roger never left it unlocked. She spun and looked at the steps behind her that led to the main hall, where Roger had said he found the gun.
She turned back to the door and stared at the lock. All it took to unlock the door was a simple flick of a finger. Anyone could do it, even someone who’d never set foot in the house before. If the killer had checked out the house from the outside, he would have seen there was an exit from the basement.
Her head buzzed. Roger was right. Here was the evidence that someone else was in the house and had escaped out the back door when he heard Roger coming. That would explain the twisted blinds, too. The killer shoved them aside while running out the door.
Why didn’t the police find this? Claire recalled how thoroughly they had searched the rooms, stairs, and hallway on the top
two floors where she, Roger, and Enrique had been. Then she remembered one cop asking Detective Wilson if they should look for evidence in the basement. He had said not to bother, that none of the “players” had been down there.
Claire rushed upstairs. She searched through her kitchen desk until she found Detective Wilson’s card and called the number. The man who answered said Detective Wilson was out, but he took Claire’s message to call her as soon as possible.
Too jittery to concentrate on arranging the basket, Claire walked into the laundry room. A pile of new, unwashed linens lay on the dryer. In a frenzy of shopping to keep her turbid emotions at bay, she had bought new bedding after visiting Condoleza the day before, then added matching throw pillows and a valance.
She threw the sheets in the washer and started the machine. Physical activity was the solution. She would keep busy with housework and ignore the phone, unless Roger or Detective Wilson called.
Claire spent the rest of the morning laundering the new linens and hanging valances in the master bedroom windows. She threw open the blinds and cracked the south-facing window to let the cleansing sun and crisp winter breeze wash the room of all remaining traces of Enrique’s death. To banish the jagged memories, she tuned the radio to an oldies station and cranked the volume up.
When she finished making the master bed, she stood back to survey her handiwork. A rich gold and jewel-tone bedspread in a floral scroll print covered the bed. The valance echoed the antique print, and striped and floral pillow shams and throw pillows sat artfully arranged on the thick spread.
Claire ran her fingertips along the pillows. Could she sleep here tonight? An involuntary shudder rippling across her shoulders made her grip her arms tight. Not alone. With Roger, maybe. She hoped he would accept the new décor—and her.
Roger. She checked her watch. She hadn’t called him the day before, though she’d been tempted many times. She wanted to give him the space he had said he needed, and she hoped he might call her. It was two o’clock. She couldn’t wait any longer.
When Dave Kessler answered his phone, she asked for Roger. Dave seemed hesitant but didn’t say no.
Moments later, Roger picked up the phone. “Hello, Claire.” His tone was flat, dead.
Her throat caught at the sound of him. God, she missed him. “Did Regina call?”
“Yeah. You sure got her spun up.”
“You know your sister. She does that all on her own. I had to tell her. You wouldn’t want her to find out from the newspapers or TV.”
He blew out a breath. “No, but she took a lot of calming down. And Michael called. He sounded upset, wanted to come home. Damn, I hate what this is doing to the kids.”
Oh, God. “What did you say to him?”
“I don’t want him to get mixed up in this. I told him to stay in Boston.”
At least they agreed on that. Anxious to keep Roger talking, Claire chose a topic she knew he would respond to. “How did the investors’ conference go?”
“Ned wouldn’t let me participate.”
“Oh, Roger, I’m sorry. You worked so hard on it.”
“Ned had me brief Joe so he could present the numbers instead.”
Claire winced. Joe was Roger’s deputy financial officer. Roger would view this step by Joe as a threat. “Why wouldn’t Ned let you make the presentation?”
Roger’s voice dripped sarcasm. “He said the CFO being accused of murder just might make the investors nervous.”
Ouch. She said the first dumb thing that popped into her mind. “I guess that makes sense.”
“Trouble is, someone already pulled the story off the newswire and asked Ned about it during the conference. That pissed him off. He told me he had to backpedal to cover for me. Didn’t like it one bit.”
“I’m sure you can get back in his good graces next week.”
“I won’t have that chance.” Roger’s voice dropped in tone. “He told me to take administrative leave for a week.”
Oh, dear. That was a major blow. No wonder Roger sounded angry and depressed. And it was her fault. “I’m sorry, honey.”
“I’m afraid that at the end of the week, he’ll put Joe in charge and tell me to take leave until the trial’s over. Even if I’m found innocent, which isn’t bloody likely, after being out of the loop so long, I might as well not come back at all.”
Claire gasped. “How can Ned do that? You’ve done everything he asked, and more.” Much more.
“He can do whatever the hell he wants to. It’s his company.”
“But if you’d been in the conference, you could have responded to the question by telling them the accusation is a mistake, that you’re innocent.”
“Ned doesn’t get that logic.” Roger paused, and his voice changed to a softer timbre. “Do you believe I’m innocent?”
Now was not the time for Claire to voice any lingering doubts. “Of course I do. And I discovered something that should help convince the police. The basement sliding glass door was unlocked. The killer probably escaped that way.”
“Are you sure you didn’t just leave it unlocked sometime?”
“You know how careful I am about that door. Besides, the vertical blinds were twisted, as if someone had shoved them aside.”
“But you have no proof the door was unlocked Thursday. The police will think you made up the story to help me.”
“I plan to tell Detective Wilson anyway. I left a message for him.”
“Did you make it up?”
“No!”
“But you would have, wouldn’t you, if you’d thought of it?”
“No. Yes. I don’t know.” She swept her hair back in exasperation. “If I did make it up, Detective Wilson would figure it out. You know what a bad liar I am.”
“The point is, you would have, and that’s what he’ll think.”
Claire refused to let his pessimism rub off on her. “Okay, even if that doesn’t help, I’ve got something else that should.”
She told Roger of her visit to Condoleza Martinez. “Enrique probably told her he was giving me a massage. Maybe she was furious with Enrique, thinking he was starting another affair, or she wanted to ditch him for this Travis. So she made that call to you, because she wanted you to discover us.”
“How the hell would she know where I work?”
“Ellen talked to Enrique about me. She could have told him where you work, and he could have told Condoleza.”
“Why would she tell him that? Besides, how does this information help me?” Roger sounded peeved. “That story still puts my finger on the trigger.”
“Condoleza could have done it. She didn’t seem heartbroken about his death. Or that Travis guy could have shot Enrique. Or someone else, someone in Enrique’s life we know nothing about.”
“You’re clutching at straws.”
Roger sounded like he was giving up, but she wasn’t, not on him or their marriage. “Tell Dave everything I told you. I intend to give this information to Detective Wilson, too. Maybe it will convince him to search further.”
“It won’t do any good. The police think they have their killer already. Me. Dave says their case is strong, even though they can’t use your statement that you saw me holding the gun. Damn, that was real helpful.” Roger’s tone dripped sarcasm.
“I told the truth. Did you expect me to lie? What if they caught me in the lie? Then it would look even worse for you.” Claire heard her voice rising and glanced at her clenched fist. She caught herself. Her anger wouldn’t get Roger back. She raced through a quick count to ten. “Honey, I’m trying to help.”
“Some help. Because of your little fling, my next career could be as a prison inmate.”
That hurt. She wanted to shout that she didn’t have a fling, that he was being too pessimistic, that . . . No, those words would not bring Roger home. “I want to talk to you, face-to-face. I want to fix what I broke. Please give me a chance.”
Roger groaned.
Claire plunged on. “I just
finished replacing all the linens in the master bedroom. Come see it. Tell me if you like it. Then we can talk.”
“How can you think of redecorating at a time like this?”
Claire gritted her teeth. “I had to. The police took the linens.”
She hadn’t found the nerve to sleep in the master bed yet. Maybe with Roger beside her, she would.
“Please come home.” Claire almost whispered it. “I love you.”
“I’ll think about it.” He hung up.
___
At eight-thirty Monday morning, Claire walked into the busy detective bullpen area of the downtown police station. She felt as if she was stepping onto hostile turf, even though Detective Wilson had been courteous to her last time. But the overwhelming evidence had convinced him he held the guilty party. She knew changing that conviction would be an uphill battle. She spied him and approached his desk.
He looked up in surprise. “Mrs. Hanover. You didn’t need to come to the station. I just saw your message and was going to call you soon.”
“I couldn’t wait.” Claire sat in the visitor’s chair next to the desk and unbuttoned her coat. After having fidgeted in her car for half an hour while mustering the courage to see him, she would not leave until she said her piece.
“Over the weekend I found the basement door unlocked. That’s why I called you. Roger and I are always very careful to lock it. I think the real killer heard Roger come in, dropped the gun in a panic, ran downstairs, and escaped out that door. The vertical blinds were twisted, too.” Hopeful he’d have to do something with this information, she leaned back and waited for his reaction.
“Nice try.” Wilson shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest. “How long did it take you to dream up that story?”
She made her voice firm. “I don’t dream up stories.”
“Can you prove one of you didn’t leave it unlocked, or that you’re not making up the whole thing?”
A Real Basket Case Page 8