Murder Is the Deal of the Day

by Robert J. Randisi

  “About what?”

  “I don’t know, Claire,” Wilson said, “but Mr. Thurman told them you’d be glad to cooperate any way you could.”

  “Sure, but I’d like to know what I’m cooperating about.”

  “Claire, do this today, as soon as possible.”

  “I’ll do it right now,” Claire said. “I want to find out what this is all about.”

  So did Gil. He decided to go to the police station with his wife.

  “What about the store?” she asked, concerned.

  “So I’ll close early today.”

  Chapter 3

  They drove downtown to the police station in separate cars. Inside, Gil asked at the front desk for Detective Holliday.

  “Upstairs,” the desk sergeant said. “First door on the right.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Ma’am?” the man asked, looking admiringly at Claire.

  “I’m with him.”

  “Lucky him,” the man said with a smile.

  Gil gave the sergeant a cold look and took Claire’s arm.

  “He’s just being nice,” Claire said.

  “I don’t like idle flirting.”

  “Except with waitresses,” she commented with an amused smile.

  They went upstairs and into the squad room. There were several men sitting at desks, and one woman. The woman glanced at them, then looked away. One of the men, though, a bulky man in his fifties, acknowledged the couple, walked from his desk to the woman’s, and said something to her. She looked up again as the male detective approached Claire and Gil. The woman got up after a beat and followed.

  “Claire Hunt?”

  “That’s right.”

  “My name’s Detective Jason Holliday. This is my partner, Detective Longfellow. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  “About what?” Gil asked.

  “Who are you?”

  “This is my husband, Gil,” Claire said.

  “It’s about murder, Mr. Hunt.”

  “Murder?” Claire repeated.

  “I’m afraid so, ma’am.” The detective looked at Gil and said, “Maybe your husband could wait outside?”

  “Why?” Claire asked. “I’ll just have to tell him everything we talked about later. Letting him stay would save me the trouble.”

  “Well, all right,” Holliday said. “Why don’t you both come and sit at my desk?”

  The four of them walked across the room to his desk.

  “Detective Holliday, has someone I know been murdered?” Claire asked as he sat behind his desk and Longfellow stood next to him. Gil sat just behind Claire and to her left.

  “That’s what we’d like to know, Mrs. Hunt,” Longfellow said. “Do you know a woman named Mary Dunn?”

  “Mary Dunn ...” Claire repeated, frowning, trying to place the name.

  “Maybe a photo will help,” Longfellow said.

  “Uh, wait.” Holliday stopped his partner before she could produce the photo. He looked at Claire. “The woman in the photo is dead, Mrs. Hunt.”

  “I appreciate the warning, Detective. Thank you. I think I can handle it.”

  Holliday nodded, and Longfellow took out the photo and placed it on the desk.

  Claire picked it up and looked at it. “Jesus ...” she said.

  “I know,” Holliday said. “She doesn’t look dead. After she was murdered, she was propped up on the sofa. I think the killer made sure her eyes were open.”

  “Oh ...” Claire said, and then looked uneasy, as if she hadn’t realized she’d said it out loud. “How was she killed?”

  “Suffocated,” Longfellow said.

  “It’s a shock, I know, Mrs. Hunt,” Holliday said.

  “When was she murdered?” Gil asked.

  “Last night, between ten and midnight.”

  Both detectives looked at Claire.

  “You want to know where I was between those hours?”

  “It would be nice,” Longfellow said.

  Claire shrugged. “Home.”

  “By yourself?”

  “No,” Gil said. “With me. Is Claire a suspect?”

  Holliday smiled at Claire, and Gil almost expected him to pat her hand.

  “Not at all, Mr. Hunt, Mrs. Hunt. It’s just routine right now.”

  “Please don’t patronize me, Detective,” Claire said.

  Holliday looked alarmed.

  “I wasn’t, Mrs. Hunt. There’s no reason to suspect you of anything . . . at the moment.”

  “Then why am I here?” Claire asked.

  “Mrs. Hunt, did you know a woman named Kathleen Sands?” Longfellow asked.

  “Sands?” Claire repeated. “I don’t think—”

  “I thought this was about a woman named Mary Dunn,” Gil said.

  “Mr. Hunt,” Holliday said, “please don’t interfere.”

  “What? Hey—”

  Claire turned and put her hand on his arm. “Gil, please.” She looked at Longfellow then and said, “Kathleen Sands?”

  “That’s right.”

  “The name doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “How about this?” Longfellow handed over a picture.

  Obviously, the girl was dead also, posed similarly to the other, except she was on a bed. She had long dark hair and in life had probably been stunning.

  “No,” she said, returning the photo.

  Longfellow took it and exchanged a glance with her partner. “All right, Mrs. Hunt, thank you for coming in.”

  “That’s it?”

  Holliday smiled and said, “For now.”

  “Is it against the rules for you to tell me why you called me in? Why did you think I knew these women?”

  “That’s not really something—” Longfellow began, but Holliday—exercising his right as senior partner, no doubt— interrupted her.

  “At the time they were murdered, both women were watching videotapes of your television show, Mrs. Hunt,” Holliday said. “That’s how you became involved.”

  “They both watched my show?” Claire asked, surprised.

  “We don’t know if they were regular viewers, Mrs. Hunt,” Holliday said, “but when they were found, each of the VCRs had a tape of your show in it.”

  “I don’t understand,” Gil said.

  “Frankly, Mr. Hunt,” Holliday said, “neither do we. When we do, however, maybe we can explain it to you. Once again, thanks for coming in.”

  Claire felt as if she should ask more questions, but she couldn’t think of any.

  “Claire . . .” Gil said, putting his hand on her shoulder.

  “Right.” She stood up.

  As they left, Holliday and Longfellow looked after them thoughtfully.

  “What do you think?” Longfellow asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Holliday said. “She seems to be honestly puzzled.”

  “I think she’s dirty.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, “just a feeling.”

  “You always think attractive women are dirty.”

  “Are you accusing me of being catty, or just bitchy?”

  “Catty,” he said, “definitely catty.”

  Chapter 4

  When they were outside the police station, Claire asked Gil, “So what are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking that you knew the first woman they asked about.”

  “Maybe. Was it that obvious?”

  “Only to me. Where’d you know her from?”

  “That’s just it—I can’t remember.”

  They walked down the steps and started toward the municipal parking lot.

  “What are we going to do now?” she asked.

  “About what?”

  His lack of interest irritated her. “About the murders. Aren’t you curious? Even a little?”

  “Sure, but I don’t know what you expect me to do.”

  She stopped short next to a newspaper machine and bought a copy of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch. The front page carried
side-by-side photos of two women. “Both victims were found with a cassette tape of my show in their VCRs. That’s some coincidence.”

  “What else could it be, Claire?”

  “I don’t know, but I’d sure like to find out.”

  Gil frowned. “Don’t tell me you want to drag us into a police investigation.”

  “We’ve already been drug in, my dear husband,” she said as they reached their cars. “I would think you’d want to do your best to keep me out of jail.”

  Gil hesitated a moment, then said, “Well, I guess I would miss you if they put you in the big house.”

  “So what should we do first?”

  “I guess we could start by seeing Mr. Thurman. Apparently, the police went to him to get to you.”

  “That’s a great idea. I knew you’d think of something.”

  When they reached their cars, which were parked next to each other, he asked, “Where to?”

  “To talk to Ben. Isn’t that what you just said we should do?”

  “Well, I didn’t mean right now.”

  “Now’s as good a time as any.” She opened her car door. “I’ll meet you there.”

  Benjamin Thurman had an office in the TBN building on Grand Boulevard, but he didn’t keep regular hours there. He had other businesses and holdings and another office in the Famous Barr building in downtown St. Louis.

  Claire pulled into her reserved parking spot and waited for Gil to park in a visitor’s space. They walked into the studio together.

  At the moment, a local news program, also directed by Harve Wilson, was airing. The anchors were a man who formerly had been with a national network but who had been let go because of his age, and an attractive young blonde who Thurman was hoping would blossom into a top anchorwoman. There was no way Claire could get to Harve at that moment. She looked around and spotted Linda Bennett, who was sitting on a stool eating an apple and watching the proceedings. Linda always hung around in case there was need for an extra cameraperson. She collected overtime the way some people collected stamps.

  Linda Bennett was in her late twenties, a woman with arresting good looks, due to her turquoise eyes and full lips. Her hair was long and straight, a mixture of reds and browns, and although she was slender, Claire knew she worked out and kept herself toned.

  “Linda.” Claire came up next to her and spoke in a low voice. Gil stayed one step behind.

  Linda turned her head and smiled when she saw Claire. The smile broadened when she saw Gil.

  “Hi, Claire . . .” she said, and then, in a completely different tone, added, “Hello, Gil.”

  “Hi, Linda.”

  “What are you doin’ back here?” she asked Claire.

  “I’m looking for Mr. Thurman. Have you seen him?”

  “I think he’s upstairs. He was down here chewing Harve out about half an hour ago.”

  “What for?”

  “I couldn’t hear,” she said, shaking her head. She had a bandanna around her neck. She often used one to hold her hair back when she was working. “But I didn’t see him leave.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Trouble?”

  “I’m not sure.” Claire put her hand on Linda’s arm. “I’ll talk to you later.”

  Linda smiled past Claire at Gil. “See you, Gil.”

  “Bye, Linda.”

  At the back of the studio, they went through a door leading to a stairway, took that to the second floor, then walked along the hall until coming to a door marked janitor. Ben Thurman liked to believe he had an offbeat sense of humor. When he converted the warehouse into a television studio, with offices on the second floor, instead of having his name stenciled across the door, he left the original large black letters. Claire’s theory was that it would make people think he was humble— but Benjamin Thurman was quite the opposite.

  Claire knocked and they entered. There was an outer office for a secretary, but Thurman didn’t have one—not at this location anyway. The door to the inner office was open and they could hear Thurman talking. Claire checked the phone on the desk and saw one of the lines was lit. They waited until they heard Thurman hang up and then made their presence known.

  “Anybody around?”

  “In here. Is that you, Claire?”

  “It’s me, Ben.”

  “Come on in.”

  Claire entered the office and saw Thurman standing behind his desk. Her boss was in his fifties, healthy, robust, still had a full head of brown hair. Claire suspected Thurman wore his hair slicked back and wet because it appeared darker and hid traces of gray.

  He was wearing one of the western shirts he’d ordered from a catalog. This one was black on one side, with a mass of multicolored shapes, mostly reds, yellows, and oranges, scattered on the other. Thurman liked to wear western clothes, right down to the boots; it was the only thing he willingly spent money on. The man had been born in Texas, but his family had moved to St. Louis when he was two years old. Nevertheless, there were times when he affected a Texas twang, and this was one of them.

  “Oh, hello, Gil. I should have guessed. . . . Tell me what the hell happened with the cops.” He motioned Claire to sit down.

  “I thought you would have known all about it,” Claire said.

  “Hell, all I know is that they were lookin’ for you. Fill me in on all the details.”

  Claire gave Thurman a straightforward report. Gil decided to stand back for a while, just to watch and listen. He knew that somewhere in that egotistical heart, Ben Thurman had a soft spot for Claire.

  When she had finished, Thurman rubbed his chin. “Holliday, that’s the one I talked to.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He asked for you, said he would appreciate it if you would come in and talk to him.”

  “And you didn’t ask what it was about?”

  “I sure did. He told me it was just a routine inquiry. I didn’t think cops really said that.”

  “Well, I guess they do,” Claire said. “Those were his exact words to us.”

  “Do they suspect you, Claire?”

  “They said no, but isn’t it their job to suspect everyone?”

  “You didn’t even know the women, did you?”

  “No,” Claire said, and left it at that. Gil silently agreed with her decision.

  “What now, Ben?”

  He looked confused. “What do you mean?”

  “Are you thinking about pulling me off the air?”

  “Why on earth would I do that?”

  “Come on, I know how conservative you can be.”

  “Maybe, but why would you expect me to overreact like that? There’s no scandal here, right, Claire?”

  “None that I know of.”

  “Then don’t worry.”

  “What about the tapes, Ben?” Gil asked.

  “What about them?”

  “Have there been any videos of Claire’s show distributed?”

  “A little old home-shopping program? Come on, Gil, this is not Bonanza we’re doing here, you know? No, there are no tapes.”

  “So the ones the cops found had to be homemade.” Gil was almost speaking to himself.

  “That’s good news, isn’t it?” Thurman asked, looking at Claire. “There are women out there who are taping your show. Maybe we’re a bigger hit than we think, huh?”

  “Yeah,” Claire said, “and they’re dying to see it, right?”

  Chapter 5

  The next day was Saturday. Gil didn’t usually open the store until one, and Claire was not scheduled to work. Claire woke first, and Gil remained in bed until the fragrant hints of breakfast filled the air. He followed the aroma of coffee and bacon into the kitchen, wearing only a pair of Jockey shorts. She was wearing a green floral-print robe that came midthigh.

  As he entered the room, he took her into his arms and kissed her.

  “Careful, sweetie.” Claire held a spatula coated with scrambled eggs.

  “Good morning to you, too.” He sat himself
at the table.

  She carried a cup of coffee to him. “So what do you think?”

  “Since when are you so chatty in the morning?”

  She smoothed down his ruffled hair. “I’ve been thinking about it all night. It’s driving me crazy. I can’t remember where I knew that poor woman from.”

  “The one in the first picture the police showed you?”

  “Yes, Mary Dunn. Do you think if the police find out that I did know her, they’ll think I lied on purpose? To protect myself because I’m involved with all this somehow? What do you think?”

  In spite of how anxious his wife was, Gil told her what he honestly thought, no matter how much it might upset her. “If you said you knew her but couldn’t remember where you’d met, I guess that would sound fishy. So maybe, in a weird way, you did lie. I better call Anson; you should have a lawyer.”

  She sat down across the table from him and buttered the toast. “I haven’t done anything. Besides, Anson’s not a criminal lawyer.”

  “Lots of people who haven’t done anything go to jail, Claire.” Gil slowly chewed on a piece of bacon. “Maybe Anson can recommend someone.”

  “I’m not a suspect, Gil. The police said so.”

  “Even the police lie. I still think you should talk to a lawyer. . . .”

  Over their last cup of coffee, he told her, “I’m supposed to go to a book fair at two.”

  “You’d better hustle, then.”

  “I don’t have to go.”

  “Yes you do; it’s your business.” She smiled at her doting husband. “I’m fine.”

  He kissed her neck and left the kitchen. He went directly to the bathroom to shower. Lament for a Dead Cowboy by Catherine Dain was lying on Claire’s vanity. She was hopelessly hooked on female private-eye fiction, and Gil found it odd for someone as sophisticated as his wife was supposed to be. Then again, he was the one who had gotten her the copy of Sue Grafton’s “L ” Is for Lawless that was on her nightstand.

  It was 12:45 by the time he was ready to leave. She was sitting in the living room, reading Snapshot by Linda Barnes.

  “I don’t know anyone else who has a book for each room,” he said.

  She smiled and put the book down. “I can’t help it. I don’t want to waste time having to look for the same book all the time.”