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

by Robert J. Randisi

  “Huh,” Gil said as he sat down. “That was weird.”

  “Why don’t you go ask him what’s wrong?”

  “Maybe he didn’t see me,” Gil said. “Maybe he was just staring—you know, thinking, not really looking at us.”

  “Go after him and make him tell you why he’s been . . . stalking you,” Claire insisted.

  “Okay, if it’ll make you feel better.”

  “It will. And if you’re not back in ten minutes, I’ll send out the hounds.”

  Chapter 26

  “Wendell!” Gil shouted as he chased after the man. “Wait up!” But Wendell kept walking—down the hallway, through the lobby, and out a side entrance of the hotel. Gil ran to catch the doors before they slammed shut. They were heavy glass, coated with a gold reflective paint to keep the sun out. As Gil moved forward to open the door, it was being pushed from the other side. He struggled for a moment, then backed up a step and waited.

  “Gil, you’re just the person I’m looking for,” Dave Spenser said as he burst through the door. “Some coincidence, huh?”

  “Hold on a minute, Spense,” Gil said as he rushed outside. Looking from one end of the parking lot to the other, Gil scanned the length of the building. The sun was bright and he had a difficult time seeing far. But no matter what the conditions, it was quite clear that Wendell was nowhere in the vicinity.

  Giving up, Gil walked back into the hotel, where he found Spense standing exactly where he had left him.

  “What was that all about?” Spense asked.

  Gil was still distracted, trying to figure out what was happening. “Nothing . . . I just thought . . . Never mind. You said you were looking for me?”

  “Yeah, can we go someplace private? To talk? I need to bounce something off you.”

  Gil thought about Claire waiting for him. “Now’s not really a good time. I’ve got the table—after lunch is always a busy time. Can it wait until later?”

  Dave’s face fell. “I suppose. . . . It’s just that I really need to ask you something.”

  “Can’t you ask me now? Here?” Gil was tiring of Dave’s vagueness.

  “No, I’d feel better outside the hotel.”

  “But someone’s waiting for me.”

  “Claire?” Dave asked.

  “Yeah, I can’t just leave her alone. . . .”

  “Gil, I’m begging you, as a friend. I need some help. Please.” Dave seemed almost afraid, and it was that look on his face, that pained confusion, that persuaded Gil to hear him out.

  “All right, all right. Hold on a minute. I’ll be right back.”

  When Gil entered the dealers’ room, he found Claire having an intense conversation with another woman about the latest Grafton novel. The two seemed to be having such a good time, he almost felt guilty interrupting. But after dazzling her with his smile and promising to fill her in on every little detail later, she agreed to man the table. And when she told him to take his time, he wondered where had she been all his life.

  The place outside the hotel turned out to be a Village Inn a few blocks away. Each of them ordered coffee and a slice of pie.

  “All right, Spense, you got my attention, so now tell me what’s wrong.”

  “That detective came to see me this morning.”

  “After questioning you last night?”

  Dave nodded, looking glum. “Yup.”

  “You have an alibi; you were with all of us for opening ceremonies. There’re hundreds of people who can vouch for you.”

  “That’s what I told him.”

  “I don’t understand, then,” Gil said, confused.

  “Money. He must have asked me twenty questions—all about money.”

  “Give me a for instance,” Gil said between sips of coffee.

  Dave mimicked Donovan: “‘So, Mr. Spenser, is there a lot of money to be made from a convention like this? Do organizers do it for the money? Does a famous guest of honor bring in more money?’ On and on like that. What do you think I should do, Gil?”

  Their pie had arrived, and while Gil listened, he ate.

  “Come on, pal, I need some advice here,” Spense grumbled.

  “I don’t understand why you think you have to do something. The detective questioned you, and you answered every question with an honest answer . . . didn’t you?”

  “Of course.” Spense looked indignant.

  “There are committees and reports that you have to oversee, right?”

  Spense nodded.

  “I don’t know what kind of money we’re talking about here—I’ve never run a convention—but I don’t imagine it’s enough to kill for. And if Donovan is going on the assumption that Robin Westerly brought people in, why would you kill your main attraction?”

  “Publicity. Television coverage. Since Westerly was killed the first day out, maybe Donovan suspects that the murder was planned to bring crowds, curious types who would never normally attend a mystery convention, especially not with ‘our kind of people.’ Can you believe that’s what he called us?”

  “You mean mystery fans?” Gil asked

  “Yes. To hear him talk, we’re all bloodthirsty, murdering thrill seekers.”

  Gil couldn’t stop laughing. When he finally caught his breath, he said, “You have got to be kidding. I’ve spoken to Donovan several times, and he never acted like that. Maybe a little unfamiliar with the whole concept of the event but never contemptuous of anyone.”

  “So, he spoke to you several times? Did you wonder why? Everyone else got a few minutes of questioning.”

  “I found the body. I would expect to be of more interest to them.”

  Spense thought a moment. “I guess you’re right.”

  “Relax, Spense. A terrible thing happened and the police are just trying to do their job. The more we all cooperate, the sooner things will get back to normal.”

  “But I’m worried that with all the questions and inconvenience, people will leave early. There’s a lot at stake here, Gil. I’ve been working on this convention for two years. Everything has to go right.”

  “So, Donovan’s questions were hitting too close to home, then? You do stand to lose money here?”

  “Some. But mostly my reputation. I can’t have my name ruined like it was—” Spense stopped abruptly, hoping Gil hadn’t noticed.

  But he had. “Like it was when? I don’t remember anything happening.”

  “Oh a few years ago, there was this rumor going around, that’s all. It wasn’t anything. Forget it.”

  “A rumor about what?” Gil asked.

  “There was this place I used to work at—a computer place. They had some trouble with their auditors. It was all a misunderstanding. Nothing to it.” Spense shoved the rest of his pie into his mouth.

  At that moment, Gil realized how little he knew of Spense’s real life. He knew he lived in Seattle, had been divorced twice, had no children, and was a terrible poker player. And that was about it. Despite calling this man his friend, he’d seen him only once or twice a year for the past ten years.

  Gil checked his watch. “We better get back. Hope I helped.”

  “I guess I’m just stressed-out. It’s been real crazy. Lots of writers equal lots of egos. Keeping everyone happy gets challenging at times.”

  “I bet.” Gil grabbed the check that had been left on the table. “I got this one.”

  “Thanks,” Spense said. “I owe you.”

  Chapter 27

  Realizing he missed Claire, Gil smiled. Seeing her sitting there behind his table, surrounded by so many of his friends, reinforced his feelings that she fit perfectly into his life. He slowed down his pace as he approached, watching her reading one of the newer paperbacks. All too quickly, his contentment turned to unease. What if she didn’t think he fit into her life? A book dealer. It sounded so . . . so . . . boring. He hadn’t had time to tell her how much he traveled, all the interesting people that inhabited his life. And for the first time since he’d discovered poor Robin W
esterly, he asked himself if he was enjoying the extra attention from his colleagues and Donovan? Did it make him feel important in front of Claire? Then she looked up from her book and saw him. Her face brightened and their eyes locked. His fears drifted off to another part of his brain.

  “You walk like a dancer,” she said.

  “Where did that come from?” he asked, startled but flattered.

  “I was noticing the way you move. I like it.”

  He couldn’t speak right away. She made him feel self-conscious.

  “So?” she asked. “Did Wendell tell you why he was skulking around like that?”

  “Never spoke to him,” Gil explained. “I spent all this time with Spense.”

  “Wow.” She shook her head. “I think I missed something here.”

  “Come up to my room—no funny business, promise. You can freshen up before dinner and I’ll explain everything.”

  “Sure, but what about your books? Isn’t it too early to close up shop?”

  “I have an in with the boss.” Gil winked. “Come on.”

  Graciella Sanchez was a real beauty—when she wanted to be. At work, she went without makeup and wore her hair pulled back tightly. She could almost fade into the background. People never recalled meeting her until being introduced for the third or fourth time. But when she wanted to be remembered, she was an expert at making a lasting impression. Her shiny black hair, olive complexion, and small frame made her appear almost regal. With those huge eyes, the long lashes, she could be carrying on a conversation and make her companion abruptly stop and say, “You’re really a beautiful woman, you know that?” She’d look down demurely, shake her head, but she knew. And while the uniform she was forced to wear at her job in the Holiday Inn was drab and practical, her casual wardrobe consisted of tight-fitting, bright, sexy clothes.

  “Just talk to him. Gil Hunt’s one of the good guys.”

  “No! Jesus, Wendell, stop telling me what to do! Just because we live together, you have no right to tell me what to do with my life!”

  Wendell walked up behind her. At six two, he stood more than a head taller. He tried putting his arms around her, but she shoved him back with her elbows. “No! Get away from me!”

  “Gracie, baby, stop. You didn’t do anything, so why are you running away? Think how it’ll look if the cops don’t find you here.”

  She furiously continued to throw clothes into her suitcase. “So they got my address from personnel—big deal. When they come here, asking a shitload of questions, you tell them I went home to visit my sick mama. Tell them what a good daughter I am, sending my paycheck to my poor relatives in my tiny village. They’ll eat it up.”

  “This isn’t some damn cop show on TV, Gracie; it’s real life! Our life!”

  She spun around. “Oh no, don’t you do that. We are not married. I am not your wife. This is my life. My bad luck to be in that shitty room at the wrong time. Got it? My problem.”

  “No, you don’t get it. This is our problem—we’re in this together.”

  “You have no idea what can happen. I’ve seen it. I’ve lived through it with Lupe.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know all about your sister. But, baby, she was running drugs.”

  “No! Hector was, not Lupe! Not my sister.” When she suddenly broke down crying, he held her.

  “This is different. This isn’t Mexico.”

  “You’ll never get it, will you?” she said. “I’m a woman.”

  “Try being a black man.”

  “What the hell does that have to do with anything?” she shouted, breaking free of him. “This is your country . . . your home. You understand the language—all the little jokes everyone laughs at—you know the customs, the people. No matter what I do, I’m the foreigner. If something is missing from one of the rooms I clean, they question me. If the room isn’t cleaned to everyone’s satisfaction, it’s because I’m lazy. I can never do anything right.”

  He’d finally had enough and threw her suitcase across the room. “There are people out there who are gonna come down hard on you, no matter what you do. Nuthin’ is ever good enough. Nuthin’ is ever their own damn fault. But you can’t let ’em call the shots, baby. Gracie, trust me. I’m not gonna let anything bad happen to you.” He held out his arms to her. “You’re right; it is your life. But I love you and I’m just tryin’ to keep you from fuckin’ it up.”

  Chapter 28

  By Saturday, the Holiday Inn was overflowing with fans, visiting authors, booksellers, agents, anyone associated with publishing mystery novels. Either Robin Westerly’s murder had had no effect on the crowd or it had enticed locals to come on down and mingle with the mystery lovers.

  Gil had ordered breakfast from room service and was enjoying his bacon when he was interrupted by an insistent knock. Hoping Claire had decided to start her day early, he hurried to the door. But his spirits dipped when he saw who was on the other side.

  “Why do I get the impression that I’m not the person you were expecting?” Detective Donovan asked.

  “Oh, Detective, sorry, it’s just that . . .”

  “No need to explain. I’m used to it by now. Sometimes I think I’m one step below a dentist on the popularity scale.”

  Gil held the door open. “Why don’t you come in? I think there’s enough coffee, maybe some juice.”

  Donovan walked into the large room. “No thanks. But you keep eating.”

  If he hadn’t been so hungry, Gil would have protested, but he sat back down at the small table. “At least sit down,” he told Donovan, pointing across the room to a chair by the desk. “Drag that over and tell me why you’re here.”

  “Still interviewing people, doing the legwork, filing reports—standard stuff.”

  “I don’t think I can tell you anything else, Detective,” Gil said, buttering his toast.

  “Oh, no, Mr. Hunt.” Donovan loosened his tie and then sat down. “I’ve come for a favor. A big one, and you can say no, but it would sure help me out.”

  “What is it?”

  “This whole situation is a bit . . . out of the ordinary, shall we say:

  “That’s an understatement.”

  “And I’ve never been involved in a murder scene in the middle of a convention.”

  “That’s a good thing. Right?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Okay then, ask away,” Gil said. “What’s the favor?”

  “I’d like you to be my guide, so to speak. I need you to fill me in on who’s who, what their jobs entail, how they felt about Mr. Westerly. Give me your take on them. I need gossip, truth, anything that will help me better understand their relationship to the victim.”

  Gil paused for a moment to think over what Donovan had just proposed. “How many people are we talking about?”

  “Oh, six, tops. It shouldn’t take that long.”

  “But I’m here to work, Detective. This is how I make my living—selling books.”

  “I know, and I apologize. Don’t you have someone who can fill in for you?”

  “Maybe. I’ll have to make a call. Oh, and finish getting dressed.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Hunt, I really appreciate this.” Donovan waited a beat and then asked, “So when do you think you’ll know something for sure?”

  “An hour.”

  “Great.”

  “One question first,” Gil said. “Are you so sure I’m innocent that you don’t think I might steer you in the wrong direction?”

  “To be honest, Mr. Hunt, you and Mrs. Duncan would have to be two of the stupidest people I’ve come across if you’d kill someone and then go out and leisurely gather up a crowd to accompany you back to the murder scene. If you’d killed Westerly, your first instinct would be to run, unless, of course, you’re a cold-blooded killer. Which you are not. Or if you stood to benefit from his murder. Which it seems you do not. No, your reactions were appropriate. Your responses were truthful. And believe me, I’ve asked around. You are one of the most well-li
ked, respected men here.”

  Gil had always been leery of flattery. And he couldn’t help but wonder if the detective was just conning him now in hopes of tripping him up. Or was he truly sincere. But the thing that seemed to be controlling his actions over the past few days was the constant dialogue looping over and over through his brain: What if that had been me sprawled out on the floor for everyone to gawk at? Would anyone have helped me? Would anyone have cared enough to spend their time working with the police? Or, instead, would they have spent their time talking about the crime from a bar stool?

  So he called Claire, did some begging, and then while Donovan watched the baseball scores on ESPN, Gil ducked in the bathroom with an armful of clean clothes.

  The same room that had been used that first night of questioning had been cleaned, and stocked with bottled water and sodas. From the look of the place, it was obvious the police had set up camp and planned to be there awhile.

  The two men waited for the first person—a writer with ten novels under his belt—to show up. The only sound in the room was coming from children running out in the hallway. When he felt comfortable enough, Gil asked, “So, have you questioned the bellman yet?”

  “Which one?”

  “Wendell. I don’t know his last name.”

  Donovan checked the notepad laid out in front of him. “Ah, yes, Wendell Payne. Why?”

  “Oh, nothing, it’s just that I’ve known him for a few years now. He’s a great guy. Very outgoing, always offering to go the extra mile. He’s filled the refrigerator in my room with drinks before a poker game, driven me out to the track. We’ve had some good conversations about his job here.”

  “But?”

  “Nothing. I really haven’t seen much of him this trip. Well, Claire saw him yesterday—in the dealers’ room, standing in a corner. . . .”

  “And?” Donovan asked patiently.

  Gil wished he hadn’t started this whole thing, but since he had, he figured he’d better get on with it. “Claire said she noticed Wendell sort of stalking me. She said every time she looked up, there he was.”