night here, then?”
“No, you have to work tomorrow. And I’m so exhausted, I’m sure I’ll fall asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow—the one on Judy’s bed, that is. I can’t go in my bedroom yet.”
“You sure you don’t want me to stay?”
“I’m sure.”
Hesitantly, Ellen picked up her coat. “Call me if you need me. Even if it’s the middle of the night.”
Claire hugged her friend. “Thanks. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” She stood in the doorway and watched Ellen walk to her car and drive away.
As Claire slipped between the cool sheets of her daughter’s narrow single bed, she reviewed her conversation with her husband. Something nagged at the edges of her sleepy consciousness—the phone message that was supposedly from her. I’ll have to call Roger’s secretary tomorrow.
Claire sat bolt upright. That thought meant she believed he was innocent. And the killer was still on the loose! What if he thought she saw him? She clambered out of bed to check the door locks, then returned to the room and stood transfixed, shivering in the dark.
If Roger didn’t kill Enrique, who did? And why?
___
The next morning, Claire hunched over the newspaper spread on the kitchen table, her temples throbbing as if she’d overindulged in cheap red wine the night before. She stared at the headline: LOCAL BUSINESSMAN CHARGED WITH MURDER. Below the story was a picture of her house, apparently taken with a telephoto lens from the street.
She pushed aside her breakfast—grapefruit with brown sugar and a soft fried egg on whole-wheat toast. She had hoped the routine of making her typical morning repast would provide some comfort, but one glance at the paper took her appetite away.
She reread the story, wincing when Roger’s name appeared as the suspect. She still felt an eerie sense of unreality, as if she was caught up in a horrible nightmare where she had no control over the events swirling around her. But she couldn’t deny it. She was wide-awake.
Enrique’s name hadn’t been released, pending notification of next-of-kin. Claire felt a pang of sympathy for whomever that next-of-kin might be, especially if it was his mother, assuming she was still alive. Claire tried to imagine how she would feel if her son Michael was killed. Her throat closed up. God, what that woman would go through. Claire massaged her head.
The Gazette reporter, Marvin Bradshaw, had labeled her Coyote Hills neighborhood “exclusive” and quoted the median price of homes. Claire envisioned the reporter rubbing his hands, itching to ferret out and divulge more sordid details.
She gulped extra-strong coffee and stared out her kitchen window. With no apparent awareness of the excitement the day before, ground squirrels foraged in the drifts of dried scrub oak leaves. The whirling lights of the police cruisers and people tromping through the yard hadn’t bothered the creatures. She, however, had barely slept a wink.
The phone rang.
Claire let the answering machine, which already held nine messages, take the call. The thin, reedy voice of nosy Mrs. Saunders drifted from the machine, asking what was going on and if Claire needed anything.
Yeah, right. Mrs. Saunders would have to get her answers from the morning paper. Claire would not give satisfaction to the old snoop today. Dreading what she’d find, Claire punched the replay button on the answering machine. The first two were from Marvin Bradshaw.
Fat chance he’d get a call back. The next was Mrs. Saunders again, followed by two other neighbors, then an ominous single word message, “Bitch,” followed by a hang-up. And another hang-up. Ouch. The last message played.
“Claire, this is Rita Wilaby calling. Weren’t you supposed to deliver my two gift baskets yesterday? Anyway, I’ll be in my office doing paperwork most of today, so you can just bring them by without calling first.”
Claire smacked her hand against her forehead, causing it to throb even
“No, you have to work tomorrow. And I’m so exhausted, I’m sure I’ll fall asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow—the one on Judy’s bed, that is. I can’t go in my bedroom yet.”
“You sure you don’t want me to stay?”
“I’m sure.”
Hesitantly, Ellen picked up her coat. “Call me if you need me. Even if it’s the middle of the night.”
Claire hugged her friend. “Thanks. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” She stood in the doorway and watched Ellen walk to her car and drive away.
As Claire slipped between the cool sheets of her daughter’s narrow single bed, she reviewed her conversation with her husband. Something nagged at the edges of her sleepy consciousness—the phone message that was supposedly from her. I’ll have to call Roger’s secretary tomorrow.
Claire sat bolt upright. That thought meant she believed he was innocent. And the killer was still on the loose! What if he thought she saw him? She clambered out of bed to check the door locks, then returned to the room and stood transfixed, shivering in the dark.
If Roger didn’t kill Enrique, who did? And why?
___
The next morning, Claire hunched over the newspaper spread on the kitchen table, her temples throbbing as if she’d overindulged in cheap red wine the night before. She stared at the headline: LOCAL BUSINESSMAN CHARGED WITH MURDER. Below the story was a picture of her house, apparently taken with a telephoto lens from the street.
She pushed aside her breakfast—grapefruit with brown sugar and a soft fried egg on whole-wheat toast. She had hoped the routine of making her typical morning repast would provide some comfort, but one glance at the paper took her appetite away.
She reread the story, wincing when Roger’s name appeared as the suspect. She still felt an eerie sense of unreality, as if she was caught up in a horrible nightmare where she had no control over the events swirling around her. But she couldn’t deny it. She was wide-awake.
Enrique’s name hadn’t been released, pending notification of next-of-kin. Claire felt a pang of sympathy for whomever that next-of-kin might be, especially if it was his mother, assuming she was still alive. Claire tried to imagine how she would feel if her son Michael was killed. Her throat closed up. God, what that woman would go through. Claire massaged her head.
The Gazette reporter, Marvin Bradshaw, had labeled her Coyote Hills neighborhood “exclusive” and quoted the median price of homes. Claire envisioned the reporter rubbing his hands, itching to ferret out and divulge more sordid details.
She gulped extra-strong coffee and stared out her kitchen window. With no apparent awareness of the excitement the day before, ground squirrels foraged in the drifts of dried scrub oak leaves. The whirling lights of the police cruisers and people tromping through the yard hadn’t bothered the creatures. She, however, had barely slept a wink.
The phone rang.
Claire let the answering machine, which already held nine messages, take the call. The thin, reedy voice of nosy Mrs. Saunders drifted from the machine, asking what was going on and if Claire needed anything.
Yeah, right. Mrs. Saunders would have to get her answers from the morning paper. Claire would not give satisfaction to the old snoop today. Dreading what she’d find, Claire punched the replay button on the answering machine. The first two were from Marvin Bradshaw.
Fat chance he’d get a call back. The next was Mrs. Saunders again, followed by two other neighbors, then an ominous single word message, “Bitch,” followed by a hang-up. And another hang-up. Ouch. The last message played.
“Claire, this is Rita Wilaby calling. Weren’t you supposed to deliver my two gift baskets yesterday? Anyway, I’ll be in my office doing paperwork most of today, so you can just bring them by without calling first.”
Claire smacked her hand against her forehead, causing it to throb even
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