Claire began. “The next year, I was anxious to attend the convention because of friends I had made the year before. I was working for a local news station and they wanted me to do a few author interviews. And . . . well, I was wondering if I might see Gil around.”
“I had been through a horrible year,” Gil said. “Got divorced; my books and I were living—existing is a better word—in a basement apartment in St. Louis. The bookstore was limping along. My father had died suddenly, so I was flying back and forth to New York to help my mother out. I got depressed, lost a lot of weight. I was not a happy guy. But work kept me busy, and I was looking forward to the convention in Omaha. The hotel was close to the racetrack—it’s gone now, but it was fun spending time watching the horses.”
“And so you guys saw each other across a crowded room and love bloomed?” Tucker asked.
“No. Truth is, we didn’t see each other until the last day—just about the last hour,” Claire told him.
“I had been busy and felt that the year before I might have been a little . . .”
“Drunk?” Claire asked.
“Well, maybe a little tipsy, and I was embarrassed. And I looked and felt like I’d been run over by a train. Definitely not the best time of my life.”
“So, I’m getting ready to leave after spending three days in and out of the hotel. I see a man who I think is Gil, but he’s too thin and doesn’t even look at me. At first, I think I’m mistaken, and then I realize it’s him.”
“I felt lousy.”
Tucker looked down at his drink. The amber liquid clung to the side of the glass. After taking a gulp, he turned to Gil. “I wish I’d known things were so bad for you back then. I feel awful.”
“Come on,” Gil said. “We’d only met about a year before. It wasn’t as if we were that close.”
“Even if you had been,” Claire said, “he wouldn’t have mentioned a thing. It’s taken me years to loosen this guy up.”
Gil slapped Tucker on the shoulder. “Those days are long gone. History. But thanks for the thought.”
“Anyway,” Claire continued, trying to lighten the mood, “I’m getting ready to walk out of the hotel lobby and I see this man slink across the room. I can’t resist and yell, ‘Gil! Gil Hunt!’ He stops and waves a pathetic little wave.”
“Being the shy, demure woman she is, Claire walked over to me and asked if I’d been avoiding her. I was stunned. She was so . . . direct.”
“Because it was true. You were avoiding me. And I made you admit it.”
Tucker sat back straight in his chair. “Remind me not to try to hide anything from you.”
Gil waved to the waitress to bring the trio another round. “I tried to think of a way to make it up to her, especially after looking into those beautiful green eyes again. So I told her I’d take her to dinner a year from that day. I grabbed a piece of paper and wrote, ‘May twenty-eighth, seven o’clock. Be there. Aloha, Gil.’ ”
“Aloha?” Tucker laughed. “Is that code for something?”
“I wondered, too,” Claire said, “but he thought he was being clever referring to the traditional closing line of Hawaii Five-O. After he gave me the note, I told him to write himself one so he wouldn’t forget.”
“Bet you didn’t know how pushy Claire can be, huh?”
“I was playing with you. And you didn’t tell Tuck it had been a bad year for me, too. I was separated, my airtime was getting less frequent, and my mother had died.”
“So I wrote a note to myself and we said good-bye. I went home and hung it on a bulletin board in the kitchen.”
Claire laughed. “I put mine on a bulletin board in my office.”
“And I thought that whatever happened during the next year, no matter how bad things got,” Gil said, “at least I had that meeting to look forward to.”
Chapter 6
“Come on,” Tucker moaned, “Reagan is going to kill me. This story is too good to waste.”
“Waste?” Claire wondered at the choice of word.
Gil looked sternly at his friend. “We told you—”
“I know, I know. Privacy and all that, but forget about publication. It’s just that Reagan loves these kinds of things. Fate. Soul mates. All this love stuff.”
Claire looked at Gil. “Well, maybe . . .”
“Good, we’ll all have dinner tomorrow. You’re staying for the whole week, right?” Tucker asked.
“Yes,” Gil said.
“I’ll have the kitchen send over one of their special baskets. They’ll pack everything we’ll need: steaks, salad, wine, the works. They’ll even start up the grill. All we’ll have to do is throw the meat on the fire and enjoy.”
“Sounds perfect,” Claire said. “How very lucky for us that our friend here knows the territory.”
“So, tell us, how goes the digging?” Gil asked. “You haven’t told us anything about what brought an important archaeologist such as yourself out here this time.”
Tucker looked embarrassed. “Oh, technically I’m an engineer.”
Claire smiled. “And a modest one at that.”
“Sam Crockett, the horticulturist on the property here, found something interesting over near Devil’s Pool. Quite a history out in this part of the country. The Osage tribe moved into the Ozarks and used the White River region for their hunting grounds around the thirteenth century,” Tucker explained as he tried to pay the tab. “Sorry I have to cut this short, but they’re holding a room for Reagan and me over at Valley View Lodge.”
Gil pulled out his wallet. “It’ll be great to see her again; it’s been quite a while.”
The focal point of their cabin was a large four-poster bed covered with a luxurious spread woven in warm earth tones. A triangular stained-glass window, artfully placed at the peak of the A-framed ceiling, added quiet elegance. As the couple sank deep into the soft mattress, they rolled into each other’s arms.
“Telling our story tonight was almost as good as living it,” Claire said.
“I was thinking the same thing.”
“I wish we could get back some of the newness.”
“Not me.” Gil sighed. “I was so frightened all the time, at the beginning. Afraid we wouldn’t work out. Afraid you’d wake up one morning and think you’d made a horrible mistake being with me.”
Claire kissed him tenderly on the cheek. “We’re stuck with each other, I’m afraid.”
“Sounds like a good deal to me.” He wrapped his arms around her. “So, after reviewing the past years, you’re happy enough to sign up for another seven?”
“I’ll get back to you in the morning.”
His card was propped against her cosmetic bag. She smiled to herself as she opened it. The couple on the front were somewhere between sixty and death. They were holding hands, standing on a beach, staring out at the ocean. It was a silly take on those romantic greeting cards showing beautiful Italian women gazing up seductively at a handsome dark man. Gil always said those were made for people too young and inexperienced to know what real love was about. But this? This couple in their too-tight swimsuits showing too much wrinkled skin. Across the blank inside, Gil had written, “Till death or high tide do us part.”
“Claire,” Gil shouted from the bedroom, “I don’t believe you got me the same card!”
She turned off the bathroom light and went back out to the bedroom, where he was sitting on the sofa, holding a cup of coffee in one hand and her card in the other.
“Why are you surprised?” she asked. “I thought you were used to it by now.”
“I know.” He laughed, “But sometimes it still feels creepy. It’s as if you’re walking around in there.” He pointed to his head.
“Well, I may have gotten the same card, but I didn’t write the same thing inside.”
“No, yours was much more poetic.” Standing up, he held the card in front of him like a hymnal and read the words as seriously as he could. “‘When we are older, losing our minds, many years from now
, I will still be watching you sell those books, eat your pasta, give me those looks. Women get better, sexier, too. So if you’re real good, play your cards right, I will stay with you . . . forever.’”
He looked at her as if she were crazy. “You’re weird.”
She shrugged.
“Just the way I like my women.”
It was another gorgeous day in paradise. A mild wind gusted by every now and then. The gourmet basket Tucker had promised arrived, complete with two waiters, at 4:30 that afternoon. By five o’clock, as Reagan and Tucker pulled up, the coals were perfect and the wine was chilled.
Reagan, her dark hair short and spiked in that bohemian way Claire envied, wore her favorite black boots, comfortable jeans, an orange sweater, and a fleece jacket printed with horses in brown and cream. Tucker was dressed more casually than Claire had ever seen before. His jean jacket was slightly frayed around the cuffs and the Yankee baseball cap looked like he actually wore it often.
“Claire,” Reagan said, “I love that jacket. Is it new?”
Claire rubbed her hand along the soft leather sleeve. “Gil gave it to me for our last anniversary.”
“He certainly has good taste.”
Gil pulled on the collar of his shirt. The print was copied from the painting of dogs seated around a poker table, smoking and playing cards. “I sure do!”
“Oh Gil,” Tucker said in his best falsetto, “I love that shirt. It’s so cute.”
Reagan patted the chair next to hers, signaling Claire to sit. “Ignore them. Let’s get right to the good stuff. Tuck got me all caught up in your story. He was so psyched when I got back to the room last night.”
“Maybe we should wait until we’re finished eating,” Gil said.
“You can start now. Please. Take your time. Don’t leave one thing out.” Reagan settled back to watch Gil cook the steaks. “I like mine rare, Gil.”
“When Gil cooks, everything comes out medium,” Claire warned.
“That’s fine, as long as he tells the story,” Reagan said.
Tucker stood by Gil. “I’ll supervise. Isn’t that what friends are for?”
“Hey, friend,” Gil said, “you paid for dinner. It’s your party; I’m just here to serve and obey.”
“God, Claire.” Reagan winked. “You’ve trained him well.”
“It sure wasn’t easy.”
“Here we go,” Gil moaned. “She’s going to tell you I didn’t show up for our first date, but I was there, sitting right next to the cowboy.”
Chapter 7
As she got dressed, she wondered what the hell she was doing. He wouldn’t be there—the convention wasn’t scheduled to start until the next day. What made her think he would come in early just to have dinner with her?
She’d already changed her clothes three times. Nothing too sexy. On a first date, that could translate into slutty. And she certainly didn’t want him to think of her as too businesslike. Her favorite skirt never let her down; it was just the right length and the material lay in flattering folds. A simple black blouse. Not too revealing, but feminine. Not too feminine, no ruffles or bows. She hated bows.
Grabbing a jacket, she looked at the note he had written the previous year. The corners were pierced with tiny holes. How many times had she taken it off the bulletin board, read it, and replaced it? Silly. The whole thing was silly. But oh so very exciting.
She looked up the number for the hotel and dialed. “Do you have a Gil Hunt registered?” she asked, wondering if his full name was Gilbert. Why was she doing this?
When the operator confirmed Gil was there, she felt those damn butterflies skittering around in her stomach again.
“No, I don’t want to be connected. Thanks.”
On the way to the hotel, she wondered again if he had actually come to town a day early just to keep their dinner date. No, he probably had to get his books set up in the dealers’ room. All that packing and unpacking, arranging, it must take quite a few hours to get things right, she thought. More than likely, he had forgotten all about that silly note long ago.
It was exactly seven o’clock when she parked her car in front of the Holiday Inn. After turning the keys, she sat there a moment. So, what’s the worst thing that can happen tonight? she asked herself. I’ll see him and he won’t remember me. And I’ll feel like a fool. And I’ll go home. Okay, act like a grown-up. Whatever happens, you’re not going to die. She got out of the car.
Ten minutes later, when he still hadn’t shown up, she walked across the lobby and into the lounge. It was a quiet evening: A couple sat at a corner table; four men were sitting at the bar. She realized she didn’t know Gil well enough to recognize him from the back. Having been born and raised in Chicago, her first impulse was to shout, “Hey! Gil! Paging Gil Hunt!” But she suppressed the urge.
Okay, she thought, process of elimination. The guy at the very end of the bar was too heavy. The cowboy wearing the large black hat on the other end was definitely not Gil. A man sat beside the cowboy, talking to the bartender, calmly sipping his drink. If that was Gil, why would he be here in the bar instead of in the lobby, waiting for her? The fourth guy suddenly turned and hopped off his stool. Definitely not Gil.
She walked back to the lobby.
The house phone! She called up to his room. The phone on the other end rang and rang . . . and rang.
By 7:30, she realized she was very hungry, and disappointed and angry at herself for thinking he had taken the date as seriously as she had.
She started to leave, when she remembered his note in her pocket. Walking to the front desk, she scribbled a message across the paper: “I was here—you weren’t. Now you’re gonna pay.” She signed it and then, after a moment spent debating with herself, wrote her phone number across the bottom. Evidence she had been there. The tone, playful . . . hopefully. Why was she doing this? She gave it to the desk clerk and headed out to get some dinner.
He’d lost the note. But there he was in Omaha on the twenty-eighth day of May. At least he knew he had that right. He checked into his room and called down to the front desk to check for messages. None.
After unpacking, he went downstairs to get some lunch. No, he was too nervous to eat. What the hell was he doing? Married all those years, now newly divorced, it was time to enjoy just . . . being. And Claire seemed fun and adventurous, making him write that note for himself. Damn, damn, where had he put it? He’d gone through everything at home—his new home, actually, the tiny basement apartment he found he was liking so much.
Oh, stop it, he told himself. She probably didn’t even remember the date, or him, either, for that matter. Why should she?
He went and checked out the dealers’ room. He hadn’t brought as much stock as other times. This year felt different, for some reason. Besides, he wanted to have more time to spend with friends, both old and . . . new. He wanted to have fun, and relax.
It only took a few hours to get everything unpacked and set up. He stopped to talk to several friends and then hurried upstairs to take a shower. His plan was to start waiting for her at five o’clock. He was sure he wouldn’t have asked her to dinner any earlier than that.
He was wearing a new suit. His tie had an abstract design of red and blue cubes. He checked his mustache and beard, patted down a stray hair near the nape of his neck. He wasn’t usually this fussy about his appearance. Satisfied, he hurried back downstairs to wait.
He wondered where everyone was; it was so quiet. Sitting there on that long black vinyl-covered sofa, he wondered if anyone was dumb enough to think it was leather. He straightened his tie, crossed his legs, uncrossed them. Half an hour crawled by.
“Yo, Gil,” he heard someone yell. “What’re you up to all by yourself here in the lobby?”
Before he turned, he recognized his friend Michael’s voice. “Nothing, just waiting.”
“Got plans for dinner?”
Gil checked his watch again. It was 5:35. “I hope so.”
“Must be
someone special, to make you put on a suit,” Michael observed. “How about one drink while you wait?”
Conversation would make the time pass more quickly. “Okay. Just one.”
Several TV screens had been set up on either end of the small bar. Instead of sports, they televised Keno games. The two friends decided to play a few cards while they visited, and the next thing Gil knew, it was 6:30.
“Looks like you been stood up, buddy.” Michael swallowed the last of his beer. “A bunch of us are heading down to Ross’s. They’re supposed to have the best steaks in town. Why don’t you come along?”
“I have to check something first,” Gil said.
Walking into the lobby, he looked for Claire. He walked down the hall leading to the dealers’ room. He checked another small bar tucked away by the pool. Realizing he didn’t remember her last name, he suddenly felt foolish for even thinking she would meet him that night.
Returning to the bar, he told Michael he’d join him.
“Wait here. I’ll go round everyone up.”
Gil took a seat next to a cowboy at the bar. It was 6:55.
“Hit anything?” the man asked, pointing to the Keno game.
“No, nothing,” Gil said. As he sat there, he couldn’t stop thinking about Claire, and at the same time marveled at his own naiveté.
It took half an hour for Michael to return. By the time he did, Gil was starving. As the group headed toward the lobby, Gil made one last quick check, walking down the hall, past the gift shop, and then met his party outside at 7:40.
Gil had served the salad while the steaks were cooking on the grill. Since he had been doing most of the talking, he was a little behind the others in eating.
“Well, don’t stop there,” Reagan pleaded as Gil poked a forkful of salad into his mouth.
“I think Claire should take it from here,” he said after swallowing. “Wow, this salad is great.”
Reagan looked at her husband, who was also chewing vigor-ously, then at Claire, who, for the moment, seemed lost in thought.
Same Time, Same Murder: A Gil and Claire Hunt Mystery Page 3