A Real Basket Case

by Beth Groundwater

  The driver opened her car door. “Get out.”

  Claire cringed. She told herself to remain calm. They wouldn’t shoot her in broad daylight. Would they? With sweaty palms, she eased out of the BMW.

  The driver said, “Hands on the car.”

  “What are you going to do?” Claire swallowed the lump of fear clogging her throat.

  The driver shrugged. “You wanna talk to the boss, you gotta be patted down.”

  Claire looked at his companion, who stared at her from behind his shades. Neither man budged. Claire realized she could back out now, and maybe nothing would happen. But she wouldn’t learn anything, either. She faced the car and placed her hands on the roof.

  The driver was quick but thorough. He checked each pocket of her winter coat then unzipped it. He ran his hands down her sides and back then along each leg. When Claire flinched as his hand grazed her crotch, he didn’t seem to notice, continuing his search.

  The driver stepped back. “Now the purse.”

  She handed him her red leather Aigner bag.

  He opened the purse and rummaged around, then closed it and returned it to her. He nodded at his companion. Signaling her to follow him, he said, “You can see the boss now.”

  When Claire followed the driver, the other man fell in step behind her. A cold drop of sweat trickled down the back of her neck.

  The driver opened the rear door of the limousine and motioned for her to get in.

  Taking a step back, Claire said, “I’d rather talk out here.”

  “Not gonna happen,” the driver replied.

  Claire glanced in the gloomy interior, but could make out little in the dim light allowed in by the dark-tinted windows. A man sat in the middle of the far rear seat, but his face was cloaked in shadow.

  Claire climbed in and sat in the rear-facing seat by the door. She started when the driver slammed the door shut behind her. She looked out the window and saw him and his companion take up sentry positions on both sides of the car.

  A deep chuckle sounded from the rear seat, followed by a ring of cigarette smoke blown toward the ceiling.

  The acrid smell made Claire cough.

  “You sure ain’t no friend of Enrique’s with that fancy-pants car. And you ain’t no cop, neither. You’re too jumpy.”

  The large black man across from her looked older than his underlings and sported a hefty paunch. As Claire’s eyes adjusted, she could make out more details. He wore a large gold ring on both ring fingers and a heavy gold chain that hung halfway down his chest. He stretched his legs, exposing black cowboy boots, finely tooled.

  And Claire recognized a Rolex watch when she saw one. His was pure gold. Obviously, peddling cocaine was more lucrative than she’d ever imagined, not that she’d ever imagined herself “dealing” with a cocaine dealer.

  He blew out another smoke ring, apparently waiting for her to speak.

  She stifled a cough. “Are you Leon?”

  “Who else? Who are you?”

  “I met Enrique at the gym.”

  He chuckled again. “Ah, one of his lady friends.”

  Claire squirmed in her seat. “Not exactly.”

  “Customer, then. You need some blow? Travis is handling Enrique’s ladies now. Most days, he’s in the auto shop next to the gym around noon. I pay them off to let him hang around.”

  Travis. The guy with Condoleza. Claire’s thoughts whirled, but she didn’t have time to fully digest this new tidbit. “I don’t need some blow. I want information.”

  Leon leaned forward and squinted at her. “What’s your name?”

  She considered lying but realized he probably already knew her name from the photo in the paper, and was testing her. He looked a lot more astute than Condoleza. Claire could already feel her cheeks blazing with embarrassment. “Claire. Claire Hanover.”

  Leon’s eyes opened wide, his curiosity plainly aroused. “So why’s the wife of the man who killed Enrique asking to see me?”

  “Because Roger didn’t kill Enrique, and I need to find out who did. The police won’t help me. They’re sure they’ve got their man.”

  Leon leaned back and blew out another smoke ring. “What makes you think they don’t?”

  “It’s not just because I love Roger. It’s because I know him. He’s not a killer. He found Enrique’s gun lying in the hall and picked it up. That’s why he was holding it.”

  “Enrique was offed with his own gun?”

  “That’s what Detective Wilson says. He traced it.”

  “Interesting. I heard Wilson caught the case. What else did he say?”

  “That I should stop snooping around and let the professionals do their job.” Claire bristled at the memory.

  Leon laughed. “And here you are, still snooping. You’ve got guts, lady.”

  This was a vital juncture. Now that she’d cracked the ice, Claire had to convince Leon that helping her was in his own best interests. She clutched the edge of her seat. “If Roger didn’t kill Enrique, that means his killer is still at large. What if Enrique was killed for business reasons, instead?”

  Leon raised an eyebrow. “Business reasons?”

  “Did Enrique sell cocaine for you?”

  “All I’ll say is that he worked for me.”

  “Then the killer could be after you next.”

  “Maybe.” Leon leaned forward. “Now, this is important. Did Wilson tell you he was gonna check out Enrique’s contacts, you know, friends and neighbors?”

  “He only said he’d talked to Condoleza, Enrique’s girlfriend.”

  “Good. I don’t want Wilson nosing around my business. I can handle Condoleza.” Leon gazed out the window and smoked his cigarette, apparently plotting his next move.

  Claire saw her opening and jumped in. “You’ve been asking most of the questions so far. I think it’s my turn.”

  Leon bowed his head slightly. “Ask away.”

  She swallowed, hard. “Did Enrique do his job well? Were you disappointed in him in any way?”

  Throwing his head back, Leon laughed. “Lady, you’ve sure got balls. You accusing me of knocking him off?”

  Claire decided to be brave, since Leon admired bravery and seemed to be in a jovial mood. “If the shoe fits.”

  “Don’t fit me any better than your husband. Enrique never disappointed me, as you put it.”

  He didn’t appear to be lying, but Claire couldn’t trust her instincts. “What about Travis? I saw him with Condoleza after Enrique’s death.”

  Leon’s eyes widened. “You get around. Yeah, Enrique and Travis were banging the same girl. Now that Enrique’s gone, Travis has moved in with her. That Condoleza’s one hot number.”

  So Travis was more than a friend. Remembering Condoleza’s expression of regret at the apartment, Claire wondered if the young woman was a willing partner to both men. Or was she being passed around among gang members?

  Leon took another pull on his cigarette. “But Travis is smart. Too smart to be killing anyone. He bides his time. He knows waiting is the way to get what you want sometimes.”

  “Like Enrique’s business. You said Travis was handling that now. Was he anxious to take over?”

  Leon shook his head. “Nah. As I said, he’s cool. He knows not to act without my say-so.”

  Oh, God. “Your say-so? You order killings?”

  Leon’s wide grin displayed even white teeth. “Who said that? I’m just running an honest business here.”

  Plunging ahead before fear could freeze her resolve, Claire asked, “What about someone else? You know, competition. Could a rival of yours have killed Enrique?”

  “I’ll do some of my own snooping, but I doubt it. I got a rep’, you see. No one messes with my business.” He stared down his long nose at her. “No one.”

  Claire shuddered. She’d caught the implication of what would happen to anyone who did mess with his business—including her.

  Leon checked his watch. “Speaking of business, I’m a busy ma
n.” He rapped on the window. “You know, of course, we never met.”

  “Of course.”

  “Wouldn’t want nothing to happen to you or that husband you’re so fond of.”

  Aghast, Claire stared at the man, but she couldn’t read his expression.

  The driver opened the limousine door. Claire had no recourse but to leave. She climbed out and watched Leon and his henchmen drive off, her thoughts churning. The meeting had unnerved her. On the drive home, visions of how it could have ended differently wormed their way into her mind. Her body, shot in the chest, dumped in Fountain Creek.

  She shook her head. She was blowing things out of proportion. Leon, in his own way, seemed to be a reasonable man, though she knew getting on his bad side would be a terrible mistake. Unfortunately, she hadn’t learned much from the meeting. The most likely suspect so far seemed to be Travis, but she had to figure out how to prove it.

  TEN:

  DRUG-BUY TRAINING

  Claire’s turkey-vegetable soup cooled as she stared unseeing at yet another trite Monday night sitcom. Wilson’s technician had left an hour ago, after spending forty-five minutes in the basement. When Claire had asked her if she’d found anything useful, she’d shrugged and suggested Claire “call Detective Wilson in a couple of days.” Unwilling to wait idly, Claire’s mind kept rehashing her meeting with Leon.

  The telephone rang. After the answering machine’s greeting, Rita Wilaby’s voice came from the speaker. “Claire, I’m getting impatient. Where are those baskets? I went to closing with one of those two clients today and had nothing to give her.”

  Claire winced. The baskets were still in the trunk of her car, totally forgotten after the encounters with Detective Wilson, Leon, and her whole exercise class. The real estate agent was a new client Claire had hoped would become a regular. But now, her first order probably would be her last.

  With trepidation, Claire picked up the phone. “Rita, I’m so sorry. I tried to deliver them Saturday, but—”

  “Saturday? What happened to Friday? And Thursday?”

  Claire could almost feel the hot steam of Rita’s anger radiating from the receiver. Or was that her own guilt boiling to the surface? “Roger’s hearing was Friday, and I—”

  “Hearing? What hearing?”

  How could the woman have missed the story? “An aerobics instructor was murdered at our—”

  “Ohmygod. Was that you?”

  “Yes.” The woman couldn’t interrupt that sentence at least. Claire waited. Rita seemed to be speechless for the moment. “As you can imagine, I’ve had a lot on my mind,” Claire continued, “but I promise I’ll bring them to you first thing tomorrow. Nine o’clock okay?”

  “Sure. Yes. Okay.”

  “Thanks for your patience. I’ll see you then.” With a sigh of relief, Claire hung up.

  When the phone rang again a moment later, she picked it up. “Rita?”

  “No, Deb. Disappointed?”

  Claire smiled. “On the contrary. I’m glad you called. Are you back from L.A.?”

  “Sorry, I’m still stuck out here. How’d your visit with Romero’s girlfriend go?”

  Claire told Deb about her meetings with Condoleza Martinez, Detective Wilson, Brenda, and Leon.

  “Whoo-ie. I’m amazed. You’ve grown yourself some guts, girl. I don’t think I would have gotten in that limo with Leon.”

  Claire peered at her stomach. Grown a gut, maybe, but not guts. “I didn’t feel brave at the time, just anxious to find something to help Roger.”

  “Maybe you should come work for me. I could use someone with your chutzpah.”

  Claire laughed. “I didn’t know Utes knew about chutzpah.”

  “Sure we do. We just call it something else unintelligible.”

  “Does this Travis guy make a good suspect?”

  “He’s a definite possibility, with two motives, the drugs and the girl. Too bad I’m stuck here on the coast, or I’d chat him up for you.”

  Claire took a deep breath. “I could talk to him.”

  “You? Talk to a drug dealer? You already took a huge risk meeting with his boss. Remember, somebody has killed once and won’t hesitate to kill again if you get too close. You’re not trained for this sort of thing.”

  “Then train me, like you did before I talked to Condoleza.”

  “Are you loco?”

  “No. Desperate. Roger’s staying at his lawyer’s house. I called last night and practically begged him to come home. He refused.”

  “That sucks big time. I feel for you, Claire.”

  “That’s not all. The president of Roger’s company told him to take administrative leave this week. Roger’s afraid he’ll be told not to come back. He blames me, and rightfully so.” She gripped the phone, panic tightening her throat. “I’ve got to prove he’s innocent.”

  “All right. Let’s see what we can do. Leon told you Travis hung out at the auto shop around noon most days, right?”

  “Right. And I bet Brenda has already visited him.”

  “Do you know her well enough to ask her to go with you?”

  “She doesn’t even know that I know she uses cocaine.”

  “Your first step should be to buddy-up to her. Let it drop that you bought from Enrique, too, and need another source.”

  Claire’s spirits sagged. “You know I’m no good at lying. I get red in the face and stutter. I lucked out with Condoleza because she was barely awake. I didn’t dare lie to Leon.”

  “You’re no good at lying because you haven’t practiced. So practice. Start with me tonight. We’ll map out your whole conversation with Brenda, then do the same with Travis.”

  Claire shuddered. “Lying to a woman at the gym is one thing, but lying to a drug dealer is totally different. He’s more likely to do something violent if he decides he can’t trust me. And I don’t want to wind up with any cocaine. What would I do with it?”

  “Got dandruff? Cocaine used to be sold as a scalp tonic. Seriously, tell him you don’t need any yet or you don’t have the money on you. Say you want to meet him first because you’re nervous, which you are.”

  “I guess I can say that. It’s the truth.”

  “The good news is, you should be safe in the auto shop. He won’t try anything with people around. Whatever you do, don’t go anywhere with him. And don’t get in his car, like you did with Leon.”

  Claire felt like a child being scolded. “Yes, mom.”

  She spent an hour on the phone as Deb coached her through the two conversations. She spent another hour in front of the mirror, practicing her lies.

  Exhausted, she finally fell into her daughter’s bed. Her sleep was disturbed by hot flashes and menacing dreams of being discovered, forced into cars, and killed in an assortment of ways—shot, stabbed, beaten. She tossed and fought the sheets all night.

  ___

  The next morning, promptly at nine, Claire walked into Rita Wilaby’s real estate office. Lugging one of the heavy gift baskets, she managed to wave at Rita, who was on the phone. Then Claire fetched the other basket. When she returned, she sat in a visitor’s chair to catch her breath and wait for the agent to finish her call.

  The woman’s hair was so starched with hairspray that it didn’t move when she turned her head, and she wore enough makeup to be labeled “scary” by Roger. Her bright red lips were outlined in maroon lip pencil. Claire wondered who had come up with the idea of having two-color lips. It wasn’t natural. And Claire never used mascara in the daytime. If she did, she’d never have used as much as Rita had caked on her eyelashes.

  In fact, at a makeup party Claire had attended, when the presenter said mascara should be replaced every six months, Claire had blurted out, “That’s a single-use applicator for me, then.” All the women had laughed, but many, including the presenter, had looked at her funny. She’d never accepted a makeup party invitation again.

  Rita hung up the phone and rose to inspect the baskets. “Nice, very nice, though late. I
have one of the closings today, but I’ll have to make an extra trip to deliver the other basket.” Her two-tone lips pursed in dissatisfaction as she jammed her hands on her hips.

  Claire realized she was close to losing this valuable client. She would have to make a generous appeasement offer and eat the expenditure. “I’ll be happy to give you one of these for no cost, to compensate you for your trouble.”

  Rita harrumphed, but walked around her desk and pulled out her checkbook. As she wrote out the check, she said, “Let me give you some advice, Claire, from a woman who’s been the proprietor of her own business for over twenty years. If you want to be successful, you have to deliver on time, regardless of your personal troubles.”

  Claire bit her cheek to keep her temper in check. “I’m terribly sorry. It won’t happen again.” The likelihood of Roger being accused of murdering a man in their bedroom again was damn slim.

  Rita held out the check. “Though I grant you, your troubles are severe.”

  Claire reached for the check, but Rita wasn’t ready to release it. “Do you plan to move?”

  Floored, Claire stared at the woman. “What?”

  Rita shrugged. “After a murder, many homeowners decide to move. I’d be happy to list the house for you. Though it would have to be at a considerable discount, given the circumstances.” Almost as an afterthought, the woman smiled.

  Face flushed, Claire stammered as a dozen angry retorts fought for control of her tongue. Finally, reason won out. She stood, took the check, and walked to the door. With her hand on the knob, she turned. “No, I don’t plan to move.”

  Claire pulled the door behind her. And I don’t plan to ever, ever associate with you again.

  ___

  Sometime later, Claire sat nervously fingering her purse in the reception area of the gym. For the third time since she’d arrived, she glanced at her watch. Five after eleven. Brenda’s class had ended twenty minutes ago. Where was she?

  Just then Jill left the juice bar with a carryout cup. When she saw Claire, she walked over. The navy A-line dress she wore slimmed her generous figure.

  Claire tried to figure out some way to get rid of Jill before Brenda appeared. Stumped, Claire said the first thing that came to mind. “Hi, Jill. That dress looks good on you.”