A Real Basket Case (21 page)

“True,” Deb said. “Why would she say that if she had something to hide?”

“Maybe she didn’t. That leaves Mrs. Kessler.”

“At one point I thought it could be Ellen,” Claire said, “but deep down I can’t believe she’d kill someone, let alone hurt Roger and me like this.”

Deb placed her hand on Claire’s shoulder. “Murderers don’t wear signs around their necks, especially the ones who kill in a fit of rage or jealousy. They probably surprise even themselves.”

“But Ellen said she left Enrique. Why would she be jealous?”

“Maybe she lied when she said she ended the affair. Maybe Karla was right and he ended it.”

“Then why would she encourage me to see him?”

“To set you up,” Deb said. “Or, more precisely, to set your husband up. Remember the phone call to Roger’s office? Ellen knew you were meeting Enrique. She could have faked an accent.”

“Oh, God.” Claire’s head whirled with the implications. “Ellen knew Roger and I had problems. She said she thought I needed a fling. Ellen can be manipulative. In fact, another reason she pushed Enrique on me was to get back at Karla. But I can’t believe she’d be that scheming. We’re not just talking about a crime of passion here.”

“Murder one,” Deb said. “Planning ahead in cold blood.”

Claire shuddered.

Upstairs, a toilet flushed. Claire wondered if she should check on Roger.

Deb said, “Ellen’s our best suspect, Claire. We’ve got to find out if she’s the one.”

“How do we find out?”

“I’ve been thinking about that while you two’ve been talking,” Wilson said. “There’s no physical evidence to help us. We’ll have to extract a confession.”

Deb looked at Claire.

Wilson studied Claire, also.

She felt like a squirming germ on a microscope slide. “Why are you two staring at me?”

“We could wire her,” Wilson began.

“And school her in what to say,” Deb added.

“But . . .” Claire reviewed her conversation with Ellen the day before. “I’ve already talked to Ellen, practically accused her of the murder. Except for getting mad at me, she acted cool and had a logical explanation for every move of hers that looked suspicious.”

“That was before we found out about the brunch,” Deb said, “before she lost her alibi. If you tell her you know she wasn’t at the Broadmoor during the time Enrique was killed, that might unnerve her.”

A groan at the top of the stairs made Claire look up.

Roger stood at the rail, gripping it so tightly his knuckles
showed white. “No.”

Deb and Wilson stared at him.

“No,” Roger repeated, then shakily descended the stairs. He
blinked
to focus his bleary eyes on Wilson. “I don’t want Claire put in any more danger.”

Roger gripped Claire’s arm, stumbled off the last step, then grabbed the banister to steady himself. “You’ve done enough. You convinced Wilson to investigate other people. He can move on from here. And Deb can help him, if you want.”

Claire nodded.
That’s what I was thinking. It’s time for the professionals to take over.

Deb glanced from Roger to Claire. “If Ellen’s the one, we already know how cagey she can be. She’d refuse to talk to Detective Wilson and I’m a stranger.”

Claire sighed and said, “The only person she might let her guard down with is me. Or Jill.”

Roger jiggled her arm. “You’re not listening. I said no.”

She gently removed Roger’s hand from her arm as newfound determination surged through her. “I have to do this. If Ellen is guilty and doesn’t confess, you’ll go to jail. You’re still charged with the crime, and the physical evidence points to you.”

“She could shoot you,” Roger said.

Claire shook her head. “I don’t think she’d kill me.”

“Don’t forget about the death threat,” Deb said.

Roger’s eyes grew wide. “What death threat?”

“Your wife received a note at the gym this morning, telling her to stop snooping or face death herself.” Wilson turned to Claire. “Ellen Kessler is your friend, but that note shows desperation. If she’s Romero’s murderer and you corner her, she may try to kill you.”

“It’s too dangerous.” Roger shook his head, then held his forehead, wincing in pain.

“We can fit Claire with a bulletproof vest and a wire she can wear under a sweater,” Wilson said. “My men and I will listen to the conversation close by and will intervene at the first sign of trouble.” Wilson’s eyes narrowed on Claire. “But if you do this, you have to go in with full knowledge of the risks. Don’t assume you’re safe because she’s a friend.”

“Claire,” Roger said, “I’d rather take my chances fighting this charge on my own. If you got hurt or killed, I couldn’t live with myself.”

He led her away from Deb and Wilson and said quietly, “I almost couldn’t live with myself after Ned basically fired me.”

“That’s what I was afraid of,” she whispered.

He gripped her hand. “But while I downed those damn scotches, I kept thinking of you. How I’d miss growing old with you. How hurt you’d be.”

Claire looked into his bloodshot eyes. Love for him flooded her heart. So did resolve. “I got you into this mess. I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t get you out of it.”

“No, Claire.”

She licked her lips. “Remember the three-legged stool?” The minister had explained the concept in his sermon when he married them, and she and Roger had based their relationship on it.

Roger said, “Love, trust, and respect, the three legs of a good marriage.”

“Without any one, the stool topples,” Claire said. “I knocked out trust, and we need to repair that leg, but I’m asking you to hold onto respect. Respect my right to make this decision.”

He stared at her, then squeezed his eyes shut. His chin dropped in defeat.

Claire glanced at Wilson. “I’ll do it.”

TWENTY-TWO:
CONFRONTATION

Saturday morning, Claire sat
in an unmarked white police van parked three driveways away from Ellen’s house. A curve blocked the view of the van from the house. Claire licked her lips in nervous anticipation. She watched and listened while Wilson and the two other policemen in the van made final checks on the recording equipment. Her empty stomach roiled. She hadn’t been able to eat anything for breakfast.

Wearing a serious frown, Detective Wilson studied her.

“What is it?” Claire asked.

“I’m just checking to make sure none of the equipment’s poking out.” He patted her damp hand. “Try not to worry. She’ll pick up on your nervousness.”

Claire tried to crack a smile. “Now that was a real helpful comment.”

Wilson peered at her. “You can still back out.”

“I’m in.” Claire gritted her teeth. “This is for Roger.”

“You know we’ll be there in a flash if you need us.” Wilson paused, as if giving her one last chance to refuse. “Ready?”

Claire nodded, though the Grateful Dead’s Mickey Hart was pounding out one of his famous drum solos in her heart. She climbed out of the van and sucked in her breath as an icy wind blasted her face. She shot a thumbs-up sign and a weak smile that she didn’t really feel at her personal support team, Deb and Roger, who sat in Deb’s car, parked behind the van.

Claire nodded at Deb’s return thumbs-up. With her hands tucked under her armpits, she walked to her car, parked behind theirs. She let out a long, slow breath to calm her nerves, then drove around the curve and into Ellen’s driveway.

She walked to Ellen’s front porch and took a moment to steady her trembling hands. A rustle in a copse of scrub oak in the front yard startled her.

A six-point buck stared at her from the midst of the barren trees, warily protecting his harem of three does. Through the bare branches, the bright mid-morning sun cast long rays, dappling his proud back. Apparently satisfied that Claire posed no threat, the mule deer bent his head to nibble at the dried grass.

Unlike the buck, Claire knew that the danger she faced was yet to come. She patted her knobby, loose sweater and felt the form-fitting Kevlar bulletproof vest underneath. Running her hand over her hair, she reassured herself that the miniature radio receiver in her right ear was covered. Her fingers searched for the thin, wireless microphone hidden under her collar.

“Test.”

Wilson’s voice answered from the earpiece. “All clear. We’re right with you. Go in when you’re ready.”

Claire shivered, only partly from the cold. She glanced down the street. She couldn’t see the van, but she drew strength from knowing it was there. She squared her shoulders and rang the doorbell.

When Ellen opened the door, her face registered surprise. “I didn’t expect to see you this morning. When I called Dave about some legal paperwork last night, he told me Roger had gone home with you. Why aren’t you with him?”

“The reunion didn’t go well. I need to talk to you. May I come in?”

Ellen’s expression changed to concern. She ushered Claire inside and locked the door. “I was afraid this might happen.”

“What might happen?”

“That your hopes of getting back with Roger wouldn’t pan out.” Ellen put her arm around Claire’s shoulder.

Claire flinched, then willed herself to act calm as Ellen led her down the hall. When they entered the kitchen, the lingering smell of fried bacon made Claire’s stomach twist into a knot and threaten to beat its way up her throat. She gulped down the taste of bile.

Ellen didn’t seem to notice Claire’s reaction. “Come have some tea and tell me all about it.”

As she settled onto a padded bench beside the kitchen table, Claire realized that talking about her relationship with Roger might lower Ellen’s defenses. “Roger’s been sleeping in Michael’s room.”

Ellen turned from the stove where she had lit a fire under the teakettle. “Uh-oh.”

Awkwardly, Claire pressed on. “He couldn’t sleep in the master bedroom. He said it brought back memories of seeing me covered in blood. And screaming.”

Ellen’s brow furrowed. “That would be enough to turn most men off.” She carried teacups and tea bags to the table.

“Roger said what really upset him was that I was afraid of him.”

“The toad! In that situation, anyone would be afraid of him. Enrique had just been shot, and Roger had a gun in his hand. What did he expect?”

“For me to trust him not to shoot his wife of twenty-six years. I’m sure Roger wasn’t exactly turning away from me last night. He was trying to avoid the memory of the killing, don’t you think?” Claire desperately hoped so.

Ellen put the teakettle on the table, slid onto the bench across from Claire, and covered Claire’s clenched hands with one of her own. “You want that to be the reason, don’t you?”

Claire nodded miserably.

Ellen poured tea. “Then you should believe that’s the reason, unless he says otherwise.”

Claire cupped her ice-cold hands around her warm teacup. “So you really think he didn’t reject me?”

“He’s your husband. You know him better than I do.” Ellen peered at her. “Looks like you haven’t gotten much sleep lately.”

“I haven’t.”

“What can I do to help?”

Oh, God, here’s my opening.
Claire released the fragile cup before she cracked it. “You can help me figure out something. Remember you told me you and Jill had lunch at the Broadmoor the day Enrique was killed?”

“Yes.”

“Deb and I called the hotel.” Claire tried to gauge Ellen’s reaction, but her friend’s expression was unreadable. “They said your reservation was for the Lake Terrace at ten-thirty, not lunch at Café Julie.” Claire took a deep breath. “Jill told me you had
brunch
that day.”

Ellen waved her hand, as if brushing away an annoying insect. “So?”

“So . . .” Claire squirmed in her seat, but kept her gaze trained on Ellen’s face. “That means you could have finished in time for one of you to, you know, come to my house afterward.”

Ellen’s jaw dropped. “Are you serious? You aren’t just collecting evidence about Enrique’s affairs. You really think one of us killed him.” Her eyes narrowed.

Instinctively, Claire drew back. “Yes, I do. And whoever did wrote that death threat.”

Ellen’s hands slapped the table. “How could you think Jill or I would want to harm you?”

“Maybe I was getting too close. Maybe one of you was desperate to stop me, not necessarily by killing me, but by scaring me off.”

“We both escorted you out to your car, remember?”

Claire took a quick sip of tea to wet her desert-dry throat. “You could have been acting.”

Ellen leapt up from the table and strode to the other side of the kitchen. “I don’t believe this.”

“I’m having a hard time believing it too, but all the clues point to you.”

With an incredulous expression, Ellen clutched her chest. “Me?”

Claire’s heart ached as she watched the devastating effect her accusation was having on her friend. “You said you met Jill for lunch, but she told me you met for brunch. She wouldn’t give up that alibi so easily if she shot Enrique.”

“It was a slip of the tongue, Claire.” Ellen turned away and gazed out the window. When she faced Claire again, a tear rolled down her cheek. In an anguished whisper, she said, “How could you think I’d kill someone? Or that I’d frame your husband and hurt you in the process?”

For the first time that morning, Claire felt a twinge of doubt. Ellen truly looked stricken. Claire hesitated, debating what to say next.

Detective Wilson’s voice sounded in her ear. “Good. She’s emotional and more likely to make mistakes. Keep pressing.”

Claire stood and approached Ellen. “Maybe it wasn’t the real you. Maybe something snapped when Enrique rejected you.”

“I told you, he didn’t reject me.”

“And Karla told me he did. Ellen, if you shot Enrique, you need help.”

“Damn you!” Ellen shouted. “I am not crazy, and I did not shoot Enrique!”

“Ellen.” Jill’s voice called from beyond the sliding-glass door on the deck. “Let me in.”

Claire felt a surge of panic. How had Jill made it past the police van?

Then Claire remembered the shortcut through the backyards that the two friends often used to visit each other.

To let Wilson know what was happening, she said, “Jill sure picked a bad time to visit.”

Ellen glanced at the clock. “I asked her to come over this morning, so we could talk about you.”

“Me?”

“We’re your friends, Claire. We were trying to figure out how to support you.”

And here I am, stabbing you in the back.
“I’m sorry, Ellen.”

“I can’t leave Jill standing out in the cold.” Ellen grabbed a tissue, wiped her eyes, and moved to the door.

With her back to the door, Claire whispered into her collar, “How do we protect Jill?”

“It’s a complication, but we’ll deal with it,” Wilson replied. “Don’t give up. Keep pushing Ellen.”

Chewing on her lip, Claire faced her friends. The situation was spinning out of control, and she didn’t know what to do. How could she extract a confession from Ellen with Jill here?

As they walked side by side into the kitchen, Jill peered at Ellen. “You look upset. Have you been crying?”

Ellen waved her hand in Claire’s direction. “Claire accused me of killing Enrique.”

Jill frowned. “Claire said she was making a list of people who had a reason to want Enrique dead, but—”

“No, that’s not it. You told her we had brunch that day, not lunch, so now she thinks I was making up an alibi.”

“We made a reservation, Ellen. Anyone could’ve checked it.” Jill glared at Claire. “And you did, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” Unsettled by Jill’s anger, Claire struck back. “You told me about the brunch because you realized I’d find out anyway, didn’t you? And by telling me, you made me suspect Ellen.”

Jill jammed her fists on her hips. “Don’t you dare blame me for this. You’re the one hurting Ellen, not me.”

Claire’s thoughts raced, along with her heart. Her previous conversations with Jill came rushing back. Jill had called Enrique an egotistical moron, and he’d refused her advances. Not only that, he’d insulted her, a fatal blow to her already battered self-esteem. A doorknob turned in Claire’s mind, and a door opened to another possibility.

She stepped toward Jill. “You were protecting yourself, weren’t you? You knew that I knew how badly Enrique treated you. You hated him. He called you fat, didn’t he?”

Jill’s face flushed. “I’m a lot more attractive than some of the other women he slept with, like that horse-faced Karla. But he refused me. He
rejected
me!”

Claire stared at Jill’s reddened face.
Oh, God. Ellen didn’t kill Enrique, Jill did!

“He hurt you,” Claire continued. “Deeply. And you wanted to hurt him back.”

“Of course I did. Lots of women did. He deserved to have his pretty face cut.” Chest heaving, Jill slashed her hand through the air.

Slack-jawed, Ellen stared at Jill.

Jill seemed to realize her reaction looked suspicious. Quickly, she dropped her arm.

Ellen put a hand to her head, as if to stop it from whirling. “I thought you were depressed about Enrique. Where’d this rage come from?”

“I could only keep it bottled up for so long, Ellen. Night after night that rat’s rejection, and Paul’s, tormented me so much I couldn’t sleep. Paul wanted to put me back on Prozac, but I’m sick of drugs. They don’t solve anything.”

Jill paced, clenching and unclenching her fists. “Drugs don’t stop your husband from cheating on you while you try to keep your plastic smile from cracking. While you play the perfect wife, hoping he’ll stay with you, hoping you won’t have to find a job and support yourself when you’ve never worked a day in your life. Then, when you turn to someone else for comfort, pills don’t stop that slimebag from rejecting you.”

She stopped, sides heaving, then stared wild-eyed at Claire. “I told you Ellen and I talked for a while after we ate,” she said. “Didn’t I?”

Claire wiped her clammy hands on her jeans and nodded.

“So neither one of us had time to get to your house.”

Before Claire could form a reply, Ellen said, “But we left before noon—”

“Stop!” Jill glared at Ellen. “Shut up, Ellen!”

“Because I wanted to pick up some groceries.” Ellen finished.

“So you left before noon.” Claire studied Jill. The maniacal glint in her eyes reminded Claire of a fragile glass figurine, ready to crack if someone slid it off its perch.

Jill’s chin thrust out. “That doesn’t prove anything.”

With sympathy, Claire said, “No one’s saying you’re a cold-blooded killer. Enrique wounded you, and to protect yourself, you struck back.”
And you couldn’t target your husband, so your tortured mind focused on someone else.

Jill shook her head, hunching her shoulders like a cornered animal.

Claire glanced at Ellen. An unspoken message of horror passed between them.

“Jill . . .” Ellen held out her hand.

Jill backed away, against the kitchen counter, still shaking her head. “No, no, I didn’t do it.”

“Yes, you did.” Claire felt even more certain now. “And you planned it beforehand.” She made an educated guess. “To avoid leaving fingerprints, you wore gloves. Didn’t you?”

Jill started to nod her head, then stopped herself. Her glance darted from Claire to Ellen and back.

“I’ll help you get through this, Jill,” Claire said. “Ellen will, too. We’re your friends.”

Jill’s mad stare burned into Claire. “You couldn’t let up, could you? That death threat should have stopped you, but you kept pushing.”

Claire replayed Jill’s words in her mind. All Jill had admitted to so far was the death threat. Claire had to find some way to get Jill to confess directly to the killing. She tensed, almost holding her breath. “You shot Enrique, didn’t you?”

“That asshole was the scum of the earth.” Jill ground out the words. “He preyed on innocent women.”

“So you killed him.”