Same Time, Same Murder: A Gil and Claire Hunt Mystery

by Robert J. Randisi

  But what, if anything, could dispel the visions in her head?

  When Gil entered the hotel, he thought about going to one of the bars, but they’d both be filled with conventioneers, and the thought of spending the rest of the evening fending off questions about Robin Westerly sickened him. He decided to go to his room instead.

  When he got there, he found a note taped to his door. “No game tonight?” it said. It wasn’t signed. He pulled the paper down and crumpled it in his hand. People were more resilient than even he, with his inborn New York cynicism, had imagined. Somebody— maybe more than one somebody—had expected that there would still be a poker game, even after a murder had been committed.

  He entered his room and tossed the note in the wastebasket. Then he fell down across the bed and rehashed the events of the day, still unable to make sense of it all.

  He’d started out very anxious to see Claire again, and get to know her better. He’d never met a woman before whom he was so eager to know. It could have been a perfect day spent with her except for . . .

  He rubbed his hands over his face, and suddenly the shakes started. It took a while for them to run their course, and he remained on the bed until they had. When his insides finally stopped quivering, he got up, went to the refrigerator, and took out a bottle of beer. He gulped half of it, then set the bottle down on the countertop, gasping. It was then he noticed the round table in the corner, still set up with cards, chips piled in the center.

  Poker. He usually looked forward to playing when he came to this convention. It had become a lifeline for him since his divorce, this game with his friends, but now it didn’t seem important at all. One minute, one tragedy, and so many things changed. Now spending time with this wonderful woman who had come into his life seemed more important than playing poker.

  Did he feel so upset because he had been the one to find Robin’s body? he wondered What if he were just like most of the other convention attendees and had only heard about the murder—not actually seen the victim up close? Would he then be concerned just with the convention continuing, only half-caring about who the new guest of honor was? Or would he be concerned with the poker game going on as scheduled? Or simply trying to make sure now that Claire was in his life, she would never leave?

  Or would this murder, the violence, the horrible scene he had walked in on, forever change the way he viewed everything from now on?

  He wondered if Detective Donovan would be able to solve the mystery before the weekend was out. Maybe that would go a long way toward wiping it from his mind.

  Maybe.

  Chapter 20

  Gil had breakfast in the hotel dining room, and, as he’d feared would happen, many people were eager to join him. He put them off by saying he just wanted to enjoy his meal and forget all about the murder. Apparently, many of them would have been thrilled finding a body and then talking about it, because they looked at him as if he were crazy—but at least they left him alone.

  He was down to his last cup of coffee when Dave Spenser walked in, spotted him, and came walking over.

  “I’m almost finished and I don’t want to talk about it,” Gil said, in hopes of heading him off.

  “Neither do I,” Dave said, sitting down. “I need a favor.”

  “Okay.”

  “You’re friends with John Barry Williams, right?”

  Williams was a successful writer of hard-boiled novels and was on a slightly higher plane than Robin Westerly had been.

  “Why?”

  “I want him to step in as guest of honor.”

  “He’s not here, Dave,” Gil said.

  “But he lives in St. Louis. He could be here in no time, if you called him.”

  “Dave, John wouldn’t do it,” Gil said. “You’ll have to find somebody else—somebody who’s already here.”

  Dave averted his eyes.

  “Wait a minute,” Gil said. “You’ve already asked?”

  Dave nodded. “Five people. They all said no, for one reason or another.” He looked at Gil. “Do you think they’re superstitious?”

  “What do you mean? There’s some ancient law about being a guest of honor at a mystery convention?” Gil tried not to laugh.

  “No. Maybe they don’t want to step in for a man who was murdered. Maybe they think there’s some deranged serial killer who’ll finger them next.”

  Gil opened his mouth to say that was ridiculous, then closed it again as he reconsidered. Then he said, “Naw, I don’t think so. They probably just came here to have a good time, like the rest of us, and don’t want to take on the responsibility.”

  “All they’d have to do is make a speech at the banquet.”

  “Which is tomorrow night, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Then you have the better part of two days to keep asking,” Gil said. “Try Parnell Hall. He’d probably love it. Or what about Jerry Healy?”

  Dave snapped his fingers and said, “Two good ideas. Got any more?”

  “Ask them first. If they say no, I’ll suggest a few others.”

  “Thanks. You’re a big help, Gil.”

  “Well, I try.”

  Dave grabbed a piece of toast Gil had left on his plate. “So, have the police been around today?” he asked.

  “I haven’t seen them, but I’m sure they’ll show up. Did they talk to you last night?”

  “Yeah, but I couldn’t tell them much. I didn’t know Westerly that well.”

  “What about his wife?”

  “I don’t know her, either, but from what I hear, she’s a real bitch. I think the cops talked to her in her room last night. She hasn’t been down yet today. I wonder if she’ll ever come down . . . although . . .”

  “Although what?”

  “Well . . . some of our less forgiving friends think she may be burning up the phone lines trying to generate some publicity out of this.”

  “For her husband’s novel?” Westerly had a new book coming out, which was supposed to debut at the convention.

  “Or her future ones.”

  “Ah.”

  “Well,” Dave said, licking a smudge of jelly from his finger, “I got things to do. You gonna be doing some business in the dealers’ room today?”

  “For a while.”

  “Until the lady shows up?”

  “Who knows. . . .”

  “You’re not the type for convention romances, Gil. At least you never have been before.”

  “And I’m still not,” Gil said. “This is no convention romance.”

  “Okay,” Dave said, standing. “’Nuff said, then. I’ll see you later.”

  “Yeah,” Gil said, looking for the waiter, “later.”

  Gil was in the dealers’ room, doing business, when Claire walked in. He felt his heart make a leap, and a trapdoor in his stomach opened, releasing a rush of butterflies.

  He didn’t wave, having decided to wait until she came over to him. He had his pride.

  Chapter 21

  Claire knew Gil had seen her as soon as she walked in. As part of the game, she decided to stroll around the dealers’ room, pretending to examine some of the books at the other tables before going over to him. The game was important to her. Too many people in her life were running on anger and regret; too many had forgotten the little pleasures life offers up for the creative. And she really enjoyed the fact that Gil would play along.

  She had awakened that morning after a restless sleep filled with nightmares. But the bad dreams had just seemed to fuel her determination to return to the convention and see Gil. Something had gotten started between them, and she meant to see it through. A comforting aura surrounded Gil Hunt. She had felt it immediately, back at their first meeting, two years before. And as she flipped through pages of books she didn’t even focus on, she could feel her heart racing, but she forced her legs to move slowly.

  Gil saw Claire circling the room and smiled to himself. It had been a long time since he’d met a woman he wanted to play
with. His wife and he had never been playful together. What had kept him in that marriage for so long? he often wondered.

  He was mulling that over, keeping his eyes on Claire, when he noticed someone else enter the dealers’ room. The man wasn’t wearing a convention badge, but Gil knew he had another kind of badge in his pocket. It was Detective Donovan.

  The detective stopped just inside the door and looked around the room. Unlike many of the dealers’ rooms Gil had been in at past conventions, this one was spacious, with a high ceiling and plenty of elbowroom. He was used to bumping into people, both behind the table as well as in front of it. For this reason, it was easy for the detective to spot the person he was looking for—who, apparently, was Gil.

  Instead of taking the circuitous route that Claire had chosen, Detective Donovan walked directly to Gil’s table. For this reason, he beat Claire there by several tables. Gil saw her stop short as Donovan reached him.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Hunt.”

  “Detective,” Gil said. “I don’t suppose you’re here to buy some books?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Donovan said, scanning the titles displayed on Gil’s table. “Have you got anything interesting? Like a Raymond Chandler?”

  Gil wondered if the man was trying to show off some odd bit of knowledge he had stashed inside his brain or if he was a reader.

  “I’ve got a Chandler first edition here,” Gil said. He took down a copy of The Big Sleep, coated with Mylar to protect it, and handed it to the detective. The price was written on a sticker, and when the man saw it, he whistled and gingerly handed the book back.

  “That’s not a book,” he said; “that’s a down payment on a car.”

  “What did you have in mind, then?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Donovan said, “How about a Robin Westerly?”

  “You’re in luck,” Gil said. “You can get that from just about any dealer in the room.”

  “I see,” Donovan said. “Then he’s not particularly, uh, collectible?”

  “No more or less than any other contemporary author,” Gil said. “Why?”

  “I was just wondering about motive.”

  “Do you think someone killed him to make his books more valuable?”

  “It works with painters, doesn’t it?”

  “I suppose it does.”

  “But you don’t buy it, huh?”

  “Not in this case, no.”

  “Then maybe you can take some time to talk to me about a few things?”

  “Like what?” Gil asked.

  “Like the things you told me yesterday. I just need some insight into this business, and these people.”

  Gil looked confused. “But why me?”

  “You found the body,” Donovan said, “so you’re already involved. And you seem intelligent.”

  “Gee, thanks,” Gil said sarcastically, all the while watching Claire, who was standing at the next table, turning a book over in her hands.

  Donovan followed Gil’s eyes. “Am I interrupting something?”

  “You might be.”

  “You can ask the lady to join us for coffee,” Donovan said, “or lunch.”

  Gil looked at him. “Are you interested in her, too?”

  “Only insofar as she’s attending the convention,” Donovan said. “And she was with you when you found Westerly.”

  Claire instinctively knew the two men were talking about her, so she boldly walked over.

  “Hello, Gil.”

  “Claire, you remember Detective Donovan, don’t you?”

  “Of course. How are you, Detective?”

  “Fine, Mrs. Duncan, but I’d be better if you could talk your friend here into having lunch with me—and inviting you along, as well.”

  “Me?” she asked. “Why would you want to have lunch with me?”

  “I have some questions for the two of you,” Donovan said, “and I get the feeling you would have been spending time together today anyway. Besides, two heads are better than one. The more details you can remember, the more efficiently I can do my job.”

  “Now it sounds like you want to grill us. I thought you just had a few questions to ask over coffee,” Gil said.

  “Well . . . lunch would be better, give us more time. What do you say?” He looked at Gil and then to Claire. “The city will pay.”

  Gil and Claire exchanged a glance and had a moment of total understanding. They had no way of knowing then that it would be the first of many such moments they would share throughout their years together.

  “All right,” Gil said, confident that he was speaking for both of them, “lunch it is.”

  Chapter 22

  Gil got someone at the next table to cover for him and then went to lunch with Claire and Detective Donovan.

  “You trust folks like that?” the detective asked on the way to the hotel restaurant.

  “The dealers watch out for one another,” Gil said. “If there’s any stealing going on, it’s usually after hours.”

  “How do you prevent that?”

  “A good lock on the doors helps,” Gil said. “Also some extra attention from security, if the convention can get it.”

  “That Chandler book you showed me, you leave that in the room overnight?” Donovan asked.

  “Not if I can help it.”

  Claire stood next to Gil when they reached the restaurant. The place was filling up for lunch, but they were able to get a table fairly quickly.

  Gil ordered a burger, Claire went for the Cobb salad, Detective Donovan ordered a grilled cheese sandwich, and they all had coffee.

  “You want fries with that?” the waiter asked Gil.

  “No.”

  “How about you?” he asked Donovan.

  “None for me, either, thanks.”

  As the waiter walked away, Donovan patted his stomach and said, “Guys our age have to start watching our weight and cholesterol—all those numbers.”

  Gil was embarrassed that Donovan was making him feel old in front of Claire. “I just didn’t want to take too long,” he said. “Got to get back to the table. Can we start your lunchtime investigation, Detective?”

  “Sure, of course,” Donovan said. “I’m still trying to get a handle on the people involved here.”

  “How do you know who’s involved?” Claire asked.

  “I just mean the . . . mystery-writing people. Authors, editors, publishers . . . book dealers,” Donovan said, pointing to Gil.

  “What do you want to know?” Gil asked.

  “I talked to this fella . . .” Donovan took out his notebook and consulted it. Gil had the feeling he didn’t really have to, that he was just doing it for effect. “Dave Spenser.”

  “What about him?”

  “He seems . . . nervous.”

  “I’ll bet he does.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “He’s the organizer of this whole thing,” Gil said. “If it’s a flop, it’s on his head.”

  “Does he lose money if it flops?”

  “I’m not sure how these things work,” Gil said. “I don’t know if he’s on the hook financially. . . . You’ll have to ask him what the arrangements are.”

  “Is he usually a nervous guy?”

  “He can be.”

  “You mean just because he comes across as being nervous, which he probably is because of this whole murder investigation, you take it to mean he’s hiding something?” Claire asked, a bit perturbed.

  “I thought it was a possibility.”

  “Dave was hosting a party in the ballroom when Westerly was killed,” Gil said.

  “And you know that because you were there also?”

  “That’s right.”

  “So, by giving him an alibi, you’re also giving yourself one.”

  “I’m not giving him an alibi,” Gil said, “or myself. Talk to anyone who was there; they’ll say they saw us.”

  “And you were there, in the ballroom, until he asked you to find Westerly.”


  “That’s right.”

  Donovan paused a moment to collect his thoughts, then said, “Well, all right.”

  “Have you talked to his wife yet?” Claire asked.

  “Yes, this morning. She seemed . . . bereaved.”

  “‘Seemed’?”

  “Yeah. I don’t know, but it didn’t feel right. It was almost as if she was acting the part of the sad widow from one of her husband’s novels.” Donovan shrugged. “Just giving the old detective what he wanted.”

  Claire looked at Gil, as if asking for confirmation that this was what Gloria Westerly was like. He could only raise his eyebrows.

  “I don’t know the woman that well,” Gil said. “You’ll have to ask someone who does.”

  “And who would that be, Mr. Hunt?”

  “I don’t know.”

  At that point, the waiter came with lunch, set out plates in front of the threesome, and left.

  “Well,” Donovan said, “I guess I’ll leave you nice people to your lunch.” He picked up his sandwich and wrapped it in a napkin, then stood up. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of the check. Thanks for your help, both of you.”

  Gil and Claire watched as Donovan walked over to the waiter, passed him some money, and then left the restaurant. Then they looked at each other.

  “What help?” Claire wondered aloud. “The man didn’t ask me one question. Do you think he was being sarcastic or just very sneaky about something? Trying to trip us up. You know, more can be said with silence than by volumes of words. Why did he even want me here? Gil? What do you think?”

  Gil didn’t know what he thought about any of it. Deciding to take the easy way out, he pointed toward her salad. “That looks good.”

  Chapter 23

  “Oh, I forgot to ask the detective something,” Claire said halfway through lunch.