A Real Basket Case (3 page)

The image of him leaning over her while she lay on the bed she shared with Roger made Claire’s throat tighten.

Enrique pointed at the compact stereo system on the headboard. “May I play my CD? The music will help you relax.”

The freight train pushing her down the track of least resistance roared in her ears. “Sure.”

“Now, bring some towels. While I prepare, you may change out of your clothes.”

“Out of my clothes?” Claire instinctively clasped her arms across her chest, as if already covering her nakedness.

Enrique laughed and raised the bottle of massage oil. “You cannot receive a massage wearing jeans and a sweater. Leave your underthings on if you wish.”

She gulped. She would definitely leave them on.

He waved his hands toward the master bath suite. “Go.”

Claire returned with the towels. Enrique had pulled back the bedclothes. The soft strains of a Navajo flute floated from the speakers. She walked back into the bathroom and closed the door. Staring in the mirror, she debated her reflection.

Should I?

C’mon, it’s just a massage.

But what if Roger finds out?

How could he? He probably wouldn’t care anyway. He did say I couldn’t depend on him to fill my time. Maybe he hates being with me. Maybe he doesn’t love me anymore.

She swallowed the lump in her throat. Decision made, she turned away from the mirror. Once she had stripped down to her plain white bra and panties, she grabbed her thick, terrycloth robe and threw it on before she caught a glimpse of her middle-aged body and lost her nerve. She closed her eyes, counted to ten, and stepped into the bedroom.

Enrique smiled and clasped her hand. “No need to be nervous. I’ve done this many times before.”

Done what?

He led her to the bed and untied the belt of her robe. Easing it off her shoulders, he let it slip to the floor.

Claire cringed. Other than Roger and her doctor, no man had seen this much of her since she’d birthed her two children.
Who had left their marks.

“You are a beautiful woman, Claire. Do not let anyone tell you different.” He paused, then pointed at the bed. “Lie on your stomach on these towels.”

Claire did as she was told.

Enrique moved to stand beside her, then unfastened her bra.

She tensed and lay nervous and stiff, arms tight against her sides. She wondered what would happen next and if she should allow it. When his warm hands, slick with sandalwood-and-rose-scented oil, touched her back, she shivered.

His palms slid down, up, and down again, pressing deep into her flesh and willing her to relax.

The muscles in her back loosened one-by-one under Enrique’s firm touch. Her brain, already fuzzy from the wine, loosened too. His soothing strokes and the calming flute music pushed her remaining worries aside.

He must have felt the difference, because he began kneading her shoulders.

She finally yielded to the bliss with a sigh.

“Yes, just relax. I will do all the work, and you will feel wonderful. You
do
feel wonderful,” Enrique said with a laugh.

All Claire could muster was a murmured assent.

Enrique worked on her neck, back, and shoulders, then massaged her arms and legs, freeing cramped muscles and releasing the accompanying pain and tension.

Claire had never felt so relaxed—like warm gelatin. When Enrique refastened her bra and asked her to roll over, she mumbled, “I don’t think I can.”

He eased his hands under her and helped her roll onto her back. His hands lingered on her waist a moment too long before he drew them away to pour more of the fragrant oil into them. Then he began massaging her thighs.

A warm tingle spread over Claire’s body. She closed her eyes.

Enrique’s hands froze. “You—”

BLAM!

Claire’s whole body jerked. Her eyes snapped open. She sought the source of the loud noise reverberating through the room.

Past the other side of the bed, a flash of metal glinted in the doorway. Then it disappeared.

Footsteps thudded down the stairs.

With a groan, Enrique fell face-forward across her hips.

Hot, sticky fluid seeped onto her belly. She propped herself up on her elbows and stared down the length of her body with dawning comprehension—and horror.

A red pool oozed over her, the towels, and the bed. A ragged, bloody hole gaped in Enrique’s back and shirt where the bullet had exited.

Overwhelmed with whirling, frantic fear and revulsion, Claire screamed. And screamed again.

A raw, animal instinct for survival seized her. Scrambling, she pushed herself out from under Enrique’s dead weight. She leapt off the bed and swiped at blood dripping down her legs. Feeling dizzy, she grasped the headboard to steady herself.

Will the shooter come after me next?
She crouched beside the bed and listened.

Nothing.

Only the sound of her heart pounding against her ribcage, with the accompanying rush of blood in her ears.
Think, Claire. Now what?
She forced herself to feel Enrique’s neck for a pulse. Her trembling fingers found none.

She picked up the phone and dialed 9-1-1, smearing blood on the receiver. When the operator answered, Claire shouted, “A man’s been shot! Send an ambulance!”

“Please calm down, ma’am. I need to confirm your address.”

Claire realized she was panting, almost hyperventilating. She took a deep, slow breath and listened to the operator recite her address. “Yes, that’s it.”

“You said a man’s been shot,” the operator said. “Are you in danger?”

“I don’t know. Someone was here, but I don’t see anyone now. He or they might still be in the house.”

“The police and ambulance are on their way. Do you hear any noises in the house?”

“No.”

“Which room are you in?”

“The upstairs master bedroom, to the left of the stairs.”

“It’s probably best for you to stay where you are. What’s the status of the victim?”

Claire looked at Enrique’s body, slumped over the bed, leaking blood all over the linens. He was so young, with so many years left to live. Why would someone shoot him? She squeezed her eyes shut. Tears ran down her cheeks.

“I think he’s dead. He was shot in the chest.” She swiped at her runny nose.

“Does he have a pulse?”

“I didn’t feel—”

“Claire?” Roger’s voice sounded from downstairs.

Without thinking, Claire yelled, “Oh, God.”

What was Roger doing home?

She glanced down at her nearly naked body smeared with blood. She dropped the phone, grabbed her robe, and threw it on.

Roger stumbled into the room, holding a handgun. He gaped at Enrique’s body.

Claire stared at her husband. As far as she knew, he’d never fired a gun before in his life.

Did he kill Enrique?

The emergency operator’s voice floated out of the telephone receiver at Claire’s feet. “Hello? What’s going on?”

Roger looked at the telephone, then at her. Taking in her blood-smeared, semi-clothed state, his eyes burned with rage.

Claire backed up against the wall, sure she would be his next victim. She screamed.

Roger jumped, and the gun went off, firing a slug into the floor. He dropped the gun. With a puzzled glance at her, he approached Enrique’s body and pressed his fingers against the neck. His hand came away smeared with blood. “This man’s dead.”

Claire nodded, mute.

The operator shouted, “Ma’am, are you all right?”

Roger stepped toward Claire. “Are you hurt? Did he attack you?”

Claire stared at his blood-red hand.
Oh, God.
She screamed again.

Roger opened his mouth to speak, but was silenced by the sound of heavy footsteps thundering up the stairs.

Two policemen barreled into the room with guns drawn. “Don’t move.”

FOUR:
THE HUSBAND

“Then you arrived, while
the policemen were talking to us separately.” Claire glanced at Detective Wilson, whose face had remained impassive throughout her tale, then realized she’d twisted the towel in her hands into a knot. She laid it on the bathroom counter.

She hadn’t seen her husband since the cops had handcuffed him.
What’s he thinking?
Detective Wilson had told one of the patrolmen to keep her in the bathroom while he talked to Roger, then she’d overheard him send Roger away with the other cop. By the time Wilson walked into the bathroom, Claire was puking her guts out.

After choking out the story, Claire felt like a cheap trollop, even though nothing had happened between her and Enrique.
Or had it?
Deeply embarrassed, she felt grateful Wilson hadn’t shown any emotion during her tale.

He looked up from his notes. “Just before he was shot, you said Mr. Romero started to speak. What did he say?”

“I only heard one word, ‘you.’ ”

“You.” Wilson thought for a moment. “Had he met your husband before?”

“No.”

“Did he know what your husband looked like?”

Claire shook her head, then stopped. “He saw the family portrait downstairs.”

Wilson made a note. “Can you demonstrate for me how your husband held the gun?”

Her hands shook as she showed how Roger had shot a slug into the carpet.
A bullet meant for me?

After Wilson finished his questions and closed his notebook, Claire said, “What will happen to Roger?”

“With the evidence we’ve found here, we have enough to charge him with manslaughter or murder.”

Oh, God.
Claire bit her lip.

Wilson handed her a tissue. “After we interview your husband, the D.A. will decide what the charge will be. Then your husband will go to Metro jail, where he’ll be booked. He’ll probably be arraigned tomorrow morning.”

“What will happen at the arraignment?”

“The judge will inform Mr. Hanover of the charges against him, ask him to plead guilty or not guilty, determine if he can be released on bail, and set the amount. I suggest you call a lawyer.”

Claire remembered Roger asking if Enrique had hurt her. “Roger may have thought I was being assaulted.” He’d soon find out differently, though. “If that’s so, would he still be charged?”

“I’m afraid so. Probably for manslaughter.” Wilson gave her a weak, sympathetic smile, then closed his notebook. “But the timing is suspicious—him coming home exactly when Mr. Romero was here.”

Claire clutched the soggy tissue. Suspicious indeed. If Roger
found out about the massage, he’d be angry, jealous. Good God, what if he tried to kill her when he was released? But he’d dropped the gun when he had the chance before.

“When can I see him?”

Wilson checked the date on his watch. “It’s an even day and your last name is in the first half of the alphabet, so you can visit him tonight between six-thirty and nine-fifteen.”

Even days, alphabet?
Claire’s head pounded. Overwhelmed, she had no idea what to do first. She rubbed her forehead.

Wilson offered to get her some aspirin. When Claire accepted, he said, “Do you have someone you can call? To be with you?”

“My friend, Ellen Kessler.”

___

Claire waited for word on Roger’s charge, then used the kitchen phone to call Ellen at Stein Mart, where she sold discount-priced, high-fashion clothing two days a week. Claire blurted out the story before hysteria could start her weeping again. Since a few hours had passed, she wasn’t still reeling from the shock of being dropped down a surreal rabbit hole, but like Alice, she knew doses of expanding and contracting reality were yet to come.

“How awful! Claire, I’m so sorry. I’ll never forgive myself for buying that massage for you.”

“It’s not your fault, Ellen.”
I shouldn’t have accepted it.

“Are the police sure Roger shot him?”

Claire nodded, then realized Ellen couldn’t hear that over the phone. “He had the gun in his hand. What’s worse is that the D.A. is charging him with murder, not manslaughter.”

“So they think he did it in a fit of jealousy?”

Claire’s throat constricted with guilt and fear as the image of Roger holding the gun flooded her memory. “I was afraid he’d shoot me, too, but when I screamed, he dropped the gun.”

“Lost his nerve, huh? But what might he do to you when he gets out on bail? You have to protect yourself, Claire. The faster you slap a restraining order on him, the better.”

Restraining order? Claire felt a jolt in the pit of her stomach. “I’m not ready to do anything like that. I’m still in shock.”

“Of course you are. But think about it. He shouldn’t be in the same house with you. In fact, the way he’s been ignoring you, you haven’t had much of a marriage for a long time.”

“I don’t want to talk about this. I just need to get through the next few hours. Oh, I should tell you that Dave called me after Roger contacted him.”

“Dave? He’s not going to be any help. You need to hire a
good
lawyer.”

Claire couldn’t help but smile at Ellen’s reaction to the news that her ex-husband was involved. “Dave said he’ll give me the name of a good criminal lawyer, but first he’ll represent Roger at the arraignment tomorrow.” She marveled at how easily the legal term tripped off her tongue, when a few hours ago she hadn’t even known, in detail, what it meant.

“I hope Dave doesn’t botch the arraignment. Sorry, you know how I feel about him. Just today I was talking to Jill about him, while we ate at the Broadmoor before my shift. Good God, that was probably when Enrique was shot. I shudder to think.”

Claire did shudder.

“Anyway,” Ellen said, “Jill wants to talk to a divorce lawyer and asked me about Dave—”

“Jill’s getting a divorce?” Claire felt stunned. If anyone had asked,
she would have said the Edstroms were a happy couple. What was this, a divorce epidemic among her friends?

“Not yet, but she thinks Paul’s losing interest in her and suspects he’s cheating on her. She’s deathly afraid he’ll ask for a divorce and wants to know what her options are.”

“Why doesn’t she talk to Paul?”

“You know Jill, the perfect little housewife. She’d rather dish up his favorite meal and hope that makes him notice her than have a serious discussion. No wonder she can’t lose weight with the feasts she puts out for Paul and her son. But don’t tell Jill I said anything to you about the divorce thing.”

“I won’t.”

“Back to lawyers. I said, ‘No way, honey, would I recommend Dave.’ I gave her the name of my lawyer instead. She knows her stuff and fleeced Dave good. She’d be good for you, too, when you’re ready. But if you want me to, I’ll call her to see who she recommends for Roger.”

“I need to talk to Roger first. I can’t make decisions now. I’m a total basket case.”

“Do you want me to come over? I can take off early here if I tell them—”

“No, don’t!”

“I was going to say, if I tell them I have a sick friend who needs me.” Her tone indicated she felt miffed Claire would assume otherwise.

Claire glanced at her watch—four-thirty already. Outside her kitchen window, dusk had fallen. “I’m going to the jail soon.”

“Do you need someone to go with you? Can you drive?”

Claire studied her hands. Amazingly, they were steady. Her stomach was turning cartwheels, though. “I can drive.”

“What can I do? Have the police finished there?”

“Detective Wilson said they wouldn’t need to come back.” Claire grimaced and glanced at the kitchen ceiling, which lay directly below the master bedroom. “He gave me the card of a company that cleans up after crime scenes. Could you call them?”

“Sure. Give me the number.”

Claire hesitated. For the umpteenth time, she wished she still lived next door to Ellen instead of a twenty-minute drive away. The resale home near the five-star Broadmoor Hotel had been perfect for socializing with her friends. But since moving into the showy custom home that Roger had insisted on building in Coyote Hills, Claire had to schedule outings with Ellen and Jill in advance. The favor Claire wanted to ask was big, but she knew Ellen would do it, no matter how much it inconvenienced her.

“Could you meet the cleaners here if they can come while I’m gone? You still have the key I gave you, right?”

“Yes, and I’d be glad to come. It’ll be better for you if you don’t have to go into your bedroom until it’s, you know, back to normal.”

The horrific, bloody scene flooded into Claire’s mind. She took a shuddering breath. “You’re right. I do
not
want to go in that room. I grabbed some clothes before the police left, and then I showered in the kids’ bathroom.”

“Ugh. I don’t plan to go in there either.”

“Are you sure you can handle this?”

“What are friends for? Cripes, I still can’t believe this happened. What the hell was Roger doing home in the middle of the day?”

___

Claire pulled into the parking lot of the Metro Detention Facility, across from the city courthouse, and caught a glimpse of herself in the rearview mirror. Her face looked blotchy and washed-out. She hadn’t put on any makeup, because she couldn’t bring herself to go into the master bedroom yet. Her hair hung in the limp strands it had dried into after her shower. Instinctively, she ran a comb through her hair, then threw the comb in her purse in disgust. Now was not the time to worry about her appearance.

When she reached the front desk, she filled out a form requesting a visit with Roger, then sat on the edge of a plastic chair to wait. She glanced around with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. The waiting area, with its dull gray linoleum floor, well-worn puke-green chairs, and vending machines dispensing peanuts and pork rinds, could have been a bus station. A faulty fluorescent light buzzed by the entrance.

The room’s inhabitants fit the bus-station theme—none looking forward to the long, tiring journey ahead, but waiting patiently nonetheless. A frazzled young mother with wrinkled clothes toted a baby on one hip and shushed the fidgety toddler next to her. A silently weeping, rotund Hispanic woman sat in the far corner, clutching a shredded tissue. A wizened old man in a wrinkled trench coat, seemingly dozing in a chair, opened a bleary eye to peer at her.

Claire felt like a piece of flotsam in a sea of discarded humanity. Did any of them know her husband had just murdered a man in her bedroom? Imagining accusing eyes, she drew her coat tightly around her.

When the desk sergeant finally called her name, she followed an attendant up the hollow-sounding concrete stairs and through a door unlocked by an unseen watcher who could observe Claire through a TV camera. Claire walked into a visitation hallway lined with four small closed Plexiglas windows on one side, separated by short partitions that stuck out a few feet into the hall. A uniformed sheriff’s deputy, whose belt bristled with a Taser, pepper spray, and expandable baton, but no gun, stood at the end of the room.

As Claire passed the first window, she glimpsed the Hispanic woman standing in front, talking to a grim-faced man on the other side. The attendant led Claire to the third stall. A scratched Plexiglas window faced a wide hallway on the other side, similar to the one in which she stood.

“Wait here,” the attendant said.

An opening under the window, covered with sturdy steel mesh, carried his words into the other hallway. A large, bearded prisoner waiting to speak to a visitor squinted at her and scratched at a snake tattoo on his forearm, then frowned and looked away.

After the attendant left, Claire looked around. She found no chair, and no place to set her purse. The institutional gray walls and ceiling reminded her of heavy rain clouds. She glanced up, half expecting a drop to leak on her.

Feeling depressed and unnerved, she pulled tissues out of her coat pocket and fingered them. The sound of a door creaking issued from the mesh opening and made her start. She peered through the window.

In the hallway on the other side of the glass, a uniformed man held the door open and pointed to the window where she stood. Roger shuffled in slowly, keeping his eyes trained on the floor while he made his way to the window.

Good God, he’s wearing handcuffs.
Claire brought her hand to her mouth.

Roger seemed to have aged years in the few hours since she’d last
seen him, an old man at forty-nine. Baggy orange overalls had
replaced his business suit. The garish color made his pale face look
like death. His glasses were askew, and the circlet of gray hair around his bald pate was mussed.

Claire wondered if he’d been running his fingers through his hair, a habit when he felt stressed, a habit she’d always found endearing. A sudden realization jolted her. Even though Roger had apparently killed Enrique, she still loved her husband.

A memory flashed of the last time she’d seen him in orange—wearing a Denver Broncos team jersey when they attended a football game at Mile High Stadium one cold, blustery afternoon several years ago. He’d snuggled close to warm her while they sipped hot chocolate and laughed like teenagers. His eyes had danced when he looked at her, and their lovemaking had been passionate that night.

She longed to reach out and hug him now, but could only place a hand on the cool window. She stood immobilized, staring at what Roger had become. Her throat constricted as she drowned in her own guilt. If she hadn’t brought Enrique home, Roger wouldn’t be here.
What have I done?

Roger stopped at the window with a sigh, pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose by raising both hands, then dropped the handcuffed pair in front of him. “Dave contacted me. My arraignment is tomorrow at ten-thirty.”

Claire lowered her hand from her mouth and swallowed hard. “I’ll be there. Roger, I’m so sorry. It’s because of me that you’re here.”

Roger glanced at her with red-rimmed eyes then stared at his hands. “I missed the dry run of the investor’s briefing. I need someone to explain why to the office. Could you call them?”