She let herself in, knowing it was too early in the afternoon for Gil to be home. Kicking her shoes onto a small carpet by the front door, Claire was surprised to see a single rose lying on the floor. Picking it up, she held it to her nose and inhaled deeply, wondering why Gil had left it there.
She walked through the living room, then into the bathroom. There, on the vanity, was another rose. She picked it up and smiled, adding it to the one already in her hand.
As she walked into the kitchen, she couldn’t help but notice two more roses arranged by the telephone. Gil knew her routine so well, it comforted her as well as prompted her to make a mental note to be more unpredictable in the future. Glancing at the answering machine, she was glad to see no messages waiting to be answered.
Three more roses were strewn down the hallway. As she walked to the bedroom, she bent to pick up each blossom, giggling to herself. On the nightstand beside the bed was a vase containing seven more roses; a card had been propped up in front of the bouquet: “It’s no fun here without you. I missed you too much. Call me the minute you get home. Love, Gil.”
After adding the five roses in her hand to the others, Claire picked up the vase and headed for the living room, where she could see the flowers more frequently throughout the rest of her day. Standing back a little to admire the soft pink of the buds, and then the large end table, she thought how well she and Gil had blended not just their lives but their possessions together.
When they initially moved into the condo, four years ago, she had arrived with a truckload of leftover furniture from her first marriage and odds and ends accumulated during her postdivorce years. After unloading her things, they then drove the truck to Gil’s small apartment in University City. How he hated that place.
Jill and he had been having a difficult time keeping their marriage together. As far as Gil was concerned, a separation was imminent. When he returned from a business trip, however, he found the real estate section on his desk, with three apartment listings circled in red. Not quite as surprised as he thought he’d be and more relieved than he’d expected, he called the first number and rented the apartment without ever setting a foot inside.
After his divorce became final, the realization that his fourteen-year marriage was over triggered a six-month bout of depression and loneliness. Each week seemed to bring confirmation that he would never find happiness with another woman again. Slowly, Gil’s concentration fixated on his sons and the bookstore. After a while, he had almost convinced himself he was adjusted and maybe a little happy with his life—until he met Claire.
Looking back on it now, the three years spent living in that cramped, dingy one-bedroom apartment left Gil with nothing but bad memories. It seemed only natural he would give most everything belonging there to the Salvation Army. He had even told Claire that he had so few things he wanted to take with him that the job would be easily managed by just the two of them. But when they pulled the truck to the back of the apartment building and started loading boxes and boxes, and then more boxes of books, the space inside the rental truck quickly shrank.
After countless trips up countless stairs, with Claire complaining and Gil promising that next time they moved, professionals would be called in, they finally had the condo filled. Gil’s contribution to the decor had been two lamps, three chairs, a desk, several paintings, and one small dresser crammed with clothes.
Their first year together had been one continual shopping spree. They replaced, refurnished, and relished in starting over. It was agreed the things they kept had to have only good memories attached, or they bought items ready to be imprinted with their newfound happiness. Now, four years later, the condo was an eclectic mix of new and worn—two separate lives incorporated into one. They collected art from their travels, and between Gil’s love of books and Claire’s passion for clothes, their closets were packed. As Claire surveyed the room, she still thought it looked more like the occupants had been together a lifetime instead of just a few short years.
Turning toward the phone to call Gil, Claire was startled when it rang. After four rings, the answering machine clicked on and Gil’s voice announced that the Hunts were not at home right now. The beep sounded and Claire immediately recognized Stella’s voice.
“Claire! Come on, you have to be home by now. Pick up!”
Claire grabbed the receiver. “I’m here.”
“Thank God! I was going crazy. Gil’s a doll, but he doesn’t tell me all the details, like you do. So? How’s my friend doin’?”
“Fine, as long as I was in Chicago. But the minute I parked the car, I started to hyperventilate.”
“What you need is to get your mind off things. How about a movie?” Stella was more than a movie buff; even she had to agree when friends kidded that there hadn’t been a movie made she didn’t like. “Do you think Gil will let you out of his sight long enough for us to catch an early show and get something to eat?”
“He’s at the store until nine tonight; I think he’ll survive without me a few more hours.”
Stella Bartlett had been Claire’s closest friend for more than twenty years. The two had met at an auction that Claire was attending and that Stella had organized. They liked each other from the first bid.
“I’m so glad you’re back, Claire; I was worried about you,” Stella said.
“Thanks, but I’m fine. Why don’t you check the movie times and I’ll call Gil. I’ll get right back to you.”
“Okay. I think a comedy would do us some good, don’t you?”
“Yeah, I sure could use a good laugh.”
Claire got Gil on the second ring. “You must have been sitting on top of the phone all day long, just pining away for me,” she kidded.
“Not exactly. Stella just called. We figured you’d be home
by now. But, hey, if you want to think of me as some pathetic soul just wasting away until you got home, that’s okay. Us men know how you women need to feel superior.”
Claire walked to a chair and got comfortable. “Gee, I call to thank you for the beautiful roses, and I get such abuse.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t be so quick to thank me.”
“What do you mean?”
She could hear him moving in his creaky old chair and knew he was sitting in the back of the store at his desk. “Well, the flowers represent sort of a good news/bad news thing. The good news is that you’re home. And for that, I am truly grateful.”
“And . . .” She waited.
“The bad news? It isn’t bad, really, as much as it is annoying.”
“Gil, tell me what you’re talking about.”
“Go into the guest room.”
Without questioning him further, she got up and walked down the hallway. Turning the corner, she flipped on the lights and saw the small bed piled with envelopes.
“Okay, what am I looking at, Gil?” she asked.
“Fan mail. I went down to the station and picked up all the letters delivered while you were gone. Then I got all the boxes of mail you’d answered and filed. I never realized how organized you are. I even found a few shoe boxes full of letters in the storage room. I think I got them all. Can you think of anyplace there might be more?”
“You mean you want me to gather more than five years’ worth of fan mail together? All in one place?”
“Right. It came to me, after talking to Holliday, that we should start going back and seeing if maybe you’d corresponded with any of those three women. Maybe there’s even something there from the killer himself.”
“That’s a great idea.” Claire was anxious to get started. “You hear all the time about those weirdos writing the police, bragging about what they’ve done. But it’ll have to wait until later tonight. I promised Stella I’d go to a movie and have dinner with her.”
“Okay, then. It’s exactly four-oh-eight. We’ll synchronize our watches and meet back in the guest room at precisely nine-thirty to start organizing things.”
She played along with
him. “How will I recognize you?”
“I’ll be the handsome guy, the one jumping for joy because he’s so glad to see you.”
Chapter 15
Sifting through the hundreds of letters Claire had received during her time with TBN took longer than they had anticipated. For every old letter they read, two new ones arrived at the station daily. News coverage of the three murders slowly worked itself from the front page to the third, but callers and fans continued sending their questions and support via the U.S. postal service, faxes, and E-mails.
Somewhere around the halfway point, when the pile of unread letters was the same size as the pile of those read, Claire realized she had never talked to any of the order operators. Unlike other shopping channels, which took orders electronically, TBN processed each order personally. A human being answered every phone call, assisting consumers with orders, complaints, and problems. Benjamin Thurman had learned, while still a boy in Texas, that a little bit of southern hospitality went a long way.
Millie Winters had started working the order desk the very first day the Home Mall program aired. Her family was raised, her husband retired. She had seen the ad in the paper and decided, on a whim, to go for an interview. When she got the job, she worked part-time, using the additional income to buy gifts for her grandchildren. A few years later, after her husband died, she increased her hours to full-time and now thought of TBN as her second home. She was intuitive as well as congenial, and Claire knew if anyone could detect a strange tone in a voice, it would be Millie.
“Tell me the procedure—from the minute you connect the call until you hang up,” Claire said.
They were sitting in the break room, snacking on candy bars from the vending machine.
“I ask the caller for the item number and then their membership number. After that, we go through stuff like size, color, quantity. Lastly comes the shipping address. If there’s time, I ask if they want to talk to the show host.”
“Are there ever any customers who ask to speak to us? Before you get a chance to invite them?”
Millie picked at her Milky Way. “Occasionally—not very often. Most times, they’re surprised and even shy about talking on the air.”
“So, choosing callers to speak to us is purely random? There must be some voices that seem threatening or hostile, some that you don’t feel right about asking.”
“Oh, sure.” The older woman nodded. “There were a few that got away from me, at first. It was so new, the shopping by TV and all, and I didn’t have any experience. Remember the woman who talked so sweetly until she got on the air and then tried to shock you with those awful words?”
“It was hard to keep going after that one,” Claire said.
“Who knew? But we learned together. And just look at us now. You’re this confident television personality and I’m a polished professional. I can tell by the time I have their order taken if they’ll be good on the air.”
Claire wiped chocolate from her fingers. “Well, dear professional, how about regular customers? Even I have a few women I recognize by now, just by their voices. You certainly must know a lot more than I do.”
“Sure. And they know me. Why, there’s this one lady, calls every day. She’s a widow like me, a real sweetheart. And then there’s a middle-aged woman in Indiana, an invalid, does all her shopping—everything from makeup to Christmas presents—with us.”
“Could you make me a list?” Claire asked anxiously.
“Course, honey. No problem.”
“Millie, have you been questioned about this by anyone else?”
“Besides you? No.”
“Not even the police or Mr. Thurman?”
Millie cocked her head. “No, and I’ve been wondering why. You know, it really gets my goat that everyone seems to forget, except for you, of course, that it’s us, the people behind the scenes, who really know what’s going on.”
Chapter 16
Claire returned home that evening to find Gil still going through the letters. He had moved the operation to the dining room table, which was covered completely by envelopes. As he sat, hunched over, totally engrossed in his reading, she watched him a minute before speaking. Gil was one of the few people she had ever known who seemed completely comfortable inside his body. His light blue T-shirt hung in soft folds; while he read, he unconsciously rubbed his beard with his left hand. The sight of him made her smile.
“Still at it, I see,” she said, coming up behind him and wrapping her arms around him. She leaned over and kissed his neck.
He nuzzled her face. “Claire, did you know that some of your admirers are . . . a little odd?”
She laughed and kissed him again, this time on the mouth. “Not odd, sweetie, creative and, sometimes, very unique.”
“Look.” Gil dug for something on the cluttered table. Finding the picture, he held it up to her.
“What is that?” she asked, narrowing her eyes. “It looks like—”
“It is! It’s a photo of a man’s naked butt.”
“Oh my God.” She took it from him, holding it closer for a better look. “It is . . . not nearly as cute as yours, though.”
“Doesn’t this worry you?” he asked, taking it back. “This is a letter and photo from some nut. Some nut who’s out there, wanting you . . . wanting you to want him.”
“Gil.” She walked to the kitchen. Opening the refrigerator, she removed a small bottle of water. After unscrewing the cap, she took a sip, then stepped back into the dining room. “Honey, that’s part of it—being in the public eye.”
“I don’t like this.” Gil shook his head. “I’ll have to talk to Thurman about security at the station.”
“We have security.”
“Oh yeah, that old guy—what’s his name?—the one who’s always asleep.”
“Nate is sweet.”
“That may be,” Gil said, “but you need security, not only because of nuts like the Butt Man here but also because of this whole murder situation. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. You could be in danger at the station. You hear about stuff like that happening all the time, right in broad daylight.”
She hated to admit it, but she agreed with him. “I hadn’t thought of it, either. I’ll talk to Thurman tomorrow.”
Gil tossed the photo and accompanying letter—he didn’t dare remind her what it said—into the trash can.
“Gee, looking at all this mail makes me feel like a real celebrity.”
“Or a prisoner.”
“What?”
“Some of these are like the letters men and women get in
prison,” he said. “There are at least half a dozen proposals of marriage in here.”
“With photos?”
“More like portfolios.”
“Ooh, Gil,” she teased, “I’ll have to save those to keep you in line.”
“And you have hundreds of female fans—”
“Well,” she interrupted him, “that’s my target audience.”
“I especially like the picture of the lady with her twelve cats, each one of them dressed in matching hats.”
“I bet that was sent when we did Craft Day.”
“Here’s one from a woman. It’s postmarked about eight weeks ago,” he said, holding it out. “Apparently, she’s wearing something she bought from you.”
“You mean from the station?” Claire accepted the photo.
“From you. She makes it very clear in her letter that she bought the item based on your enthusiastic recommendation.”
“Oh, that beautiful diamond and ruby choker. I love that piece.”
Gil sat back. “Look past the necklace.”
Claire sipped her water again and frowned at the photo. “Past the chok—oh, you mean at the woman? Why, do we— oh . . . oh my.”
Gil watched as she placed the bottle down on the table without looking. If he hadn’t moved so quickly, it would have tipped over and soaked some of the letters. He caught it and righted it while Cla
ire continued to stare at the photo in horror.
“Gil,” she said, “that’s—is that—it is, isn’t it? It’s her!”
“It’s her all right. Mary Dunn, the second woman to get murdered.”
“I remember her now!” Claire exclaimed.
“The envelope had already been opened. This must be one of the letters you did read, and when the police showed you another photo of her, you remembered.”
“No—I mean yes, you’re right, but that’s not what I meant. I remember talking to her on the phone. She was very . . . sweet.”
“So is her letter.”
She sat down opposite him, heavily, still clutching the picture in her hand. “What’s happening, Gil? Am I to blame for this somehow?”
He reached across the table and took her hand. “That’s not even an option, sweetheart, so put it out of your mind.”
Claire laid the photo down and looked at the sea of paper spread out in front of her. “Is there—are the other victims here?”
“I don’t know,” he said softly, “not that I’ve seen, yet.”
Gil assumed she’d lost interest in the water, so he stood up, walked into the kitchen, and put it back in the refrigerator.
“What did you do today?” he asked her.
“What? Oh, I talked to some of the operators. Millie Winters was helpful.”
“I like Millie.”
“And she likes you.”
“Of course,” he said with false modesty, “all women do.”
“Don’t I know it.” She knew he was trying to get a laugh out of her, but it just wouldn’t come.
“So, tell me,” he said sitting opposite her again, “what’d Millie say?”
Claire related her conversation to him as accurately as she could get it. She was like that. She’d try to repeat a conversation, any conversation, exactly as she’d heard it. She always had to start a few steps back, describing the setting as well as what the participants wore. It had driven Gil crazy the first year they were married, but it quickly became apparent that rushing her had not been the way to go. In the end, he learned that her versions of conversations were almost as accurate as tape recordings, and he listened attentively.
Murder Is the Deal of the Day Page 6
