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

by Robert J. Randisi

  Chapter 8

  She had never told Gil.

  The murder part was coming up. She hated telling that part. At the beginning of their relationship, she’d had nightmares—lots of them. Blood-soaked, horrific. And still she had never told Gil about any of them. Poor guy, he’d only feel he’d contaminated her in some way.

  Now there were unexpected flashbacks, as well as nightmares. White skin—porcelain. Stillness—the room noisy, frantic, but underneath it all, a void. Black—blood appearing black, soaking into that hideous carpet beneath the body. A murder scene on a cop show, and she was back in Omaha at warp speed, eight years earlier. An interview on the news with a detective, his calm voice repeating facts over and over, and she was in the police station again, frightened, gripping Gil’s hand with everything in her.

  “Fear is ignorance.” Hadn’t Truman said it first? And then her second-grade teacher, her mother, her father, her philosophy professor, Dr. Phil.

  Murder had frightened her beyond anything she’d ever experienced. But she wasn’t stupid. Murder meant death. Death meant no longer living. And she had counseled herself that she had every right to be afraid, in spite of knowing all the details. She’d been thrust into a frightening situation; it was only natural that she would be frightened.

  But nightmares about murder soon gave way to a different variety.

  Seeing him like that, spread out on the pink carpet, blood spilling out of his head. She’d had a front-row seat to an event that should have been sacred.

  Waiting for the police, she took in all the details. His toupee, lying across the room, looking like a hairy tarantula. He’d been so particular about concealing his shiny head, and now he was grossly exposed. Not only his head but his body. A damp towel was wrapped around his thick middle and some of the people were actually giggling, saying how fat he looked.

  We’re going to rot in hell. All of us, she thought.

  But I didn’t point or laugh, she told herself. I didn’t even smile. The dialogue in her head ping-ponged back and forth. Some nights it woke her as she tossed from side to side.

  But you looked. You stared. You could have walked away, showed the man some respect. Instead, you stayed and gawked.

  I’m a horrible person!

  Scrooge laying on his deathbed, in A Christmas Carol. Now those women were horrible. Pulling at the bed curtains, the blankets, running off to sell them to scum in a back alley.

  That poor man. Having to endure the humiliation.

  The nightmares showcased her now biggest fear—dying in public. Strangers staring at her. She helpless—at the mercy of their thoughts, their laughter, their ridicule. Dropping to her knees slowly, clutching her chest. No one noticing. Then hitting the pavement hard. Her nose crunching into the concrete. Hundreds of legs walking over her, around her. Lying there, humiliated, undignified, silly. No one helps me. Not one single person helps me.

  She’d kept the dreams to herself. Gil was never in any of them.

  Chapter 9

  “I can’t stand it!” Reagan screamed, snapping Claire from her unwanted reverie. “This has all the suspense of a made-for-TV movie.”

  “Yeah, well, we’ll have to put it on pause for a minute,” Gil said. “The steaks are ready. Claire, honey, can you bring me some plates?”

  She grabbed two of the four dishes she’d found in their rustic kitchen. “I hope you didn’t burn mine too badly. You know I like my steak medium rare, really, but I’ll settle for anything as long as it’s not burned. Gee, I just realized how hungry I am.”

  Tucker distributed the baked potatoes. “Everyone hurry up and do something so we can sit down and eat. Gil and Claire can continue to entertain us during dinner.”

  “Thanks,” Claire said as she set Tucker’s steak down in front of him. “You two get to relax and eat while we talk between gulps. I was taught it isn’t polite to talk with a mouthful of food. Maybe you’ll just have to wait until we’re done eating.”

  “And the dishes are cleared away.” Gil winked at his wife.

  “And the coffee’s made and we’re all settled inside around the fire,” Claire continued.

  “Will you both stop teasing and talk?” Reagan said as she unfolded her napkin. “The suspense is killing me!”

  Claire took up the story.

  She drove through McDonald’s on her way home, grumbling about what a fool she’d been to go to the Holiday Inn, expecting Gil Hunt to actually show up.

  She had just finished her fries when the phone rang.

  “Claire?” It was Gil, but she acted as though she didn’t recognize his voice.

  “Yes?”

  “This is Gil . . . Gil Hunt? The strangest thing just happened.”

  He sounded so nonchalant, as though they talked every day.

  “What happened?”

  “I was walking through the hotel lobby and just felt that there was a message from you. It was this . . . overpowering sensation. Really weird. So I asked at the front desk and they gave me your note.”

  “You forgot our date?” She tried disguising her embarrassment with a hint of anger.

  “No, no, no. Well . . . I remembered the day and place, just not the time.” He didn’t tell that he’d waited for hours. He had his pride.

  “Well, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow, then, at the convention.”

  “Hey, wait. My invitation still stands. For dinner?”

  “I already ate,” she said, looking down at her greasy hamburger wrapper.

  He didn’t tell her he’d eaten, too—not during that conversation anyway. “Well, if you’ll come back tonight, I’ll buy you a drink.”

  She liked the way he sounded, and it all came back to her: how kind he had been, how charming. “I don’t know. . . .”

  “Come on, Claire, it’s early. Not even nine o’clock. Please?”

  Ah, begging. That was almost as good as chocolate.

  “I’m really tired.” She didn’t want to give in just yet.

  “I’ll tell you what,” he said. “If you come back, I’ll buy you two drinks. And we’ll go anywhere you like.”

  “Two drinks,” she replied, bargaining, “and you have to run out to my car when I pull up in front of the hotel.” Now she was having fun.

  “You’ve got a deal,” he agreed readily.

  And that was what he did. He waited in the lobby, shifting impatiently from foot to foot, peering out the front door, his friends—Michael and a couple who wrote mysteries together—watching and waiting to see the woman who had him acting this way. Finally, when she pulled up in her car, he went trotting out, as he’d said he would. She saw people inside, their noses pressed to the glass doors, trying to see her behind the wheel. Later, she thought what good friends he had, how much they loved him, which was further indication of the type of man he was.

  He ran around the car and slipped into the passenger seat. She remembered that he smelled good, looked somewhat contrite, and how her heart raced because they’d finally gotten together.

  “Where to?” she asked.

  “Your choice, remember?” he replied.

  Right across the street was another hotel. It had a bar, too, and restaurant called Jodhpurs. She drove there, and the trip was strictly a symbolic one, just to be able to say she had picked him up and they had driven somewhere to talk.

  “Only he did most of the talking,” Claire told Tucker and Reagan, “just went on and on about what a bad year he’d had, and how he’d looked forward to this.”

  “In my defense,” Gil said, “I was nervous.”

  “And his body language was . . . well, weird,” she said. “We sat at this high table, had drinks, and he kept his body turned toward the door, like he was going to run out at any minute.”

  “I don’t remember that,” he said, shaking his head. “I recall I was very happy to be there.”

  Reagan put her knife and fork down, pushed her plate a few inches away, and said, “So what happened then?”

&nbs
p; “We closed the place down.” Claire said.

  “See?” Gil interjected. “I didn’t run out.”

  “And then we went across the street to a bar in his hotel.”

  “Spankys,” he said. “I remember that.”

  “And we talked and closed that place down.”

  “They close early in Omaha.”

  “And then he took me to his room to see his hot tub,” Claire said.

  “I did not!” Gil protested. “I mean, I had a hot tub, but I never even thought about it when I asked her to my room. I wanted to show her how nice it was, with a kitchen and a fridge.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Reagan said, exchanging looks with Claire. “They’re all alike, aren’t they?”

  “And,” Claire added, pausing for effect, “he left his pack of condoms out in the bathroom for me to see.”

  “They happened to be in my toiletry bag.”

  “Which you left open.”

  “Why would I close it?” he asked. “I hadn’t expected to take anyone up there.”

  The women exchanged another glance, and Tucker said, “They got you nailed, boy.”

  “Then his friends started showing up for his annual poker game,” Claire said, “and he shoved me out the door with a quick ‘Good night.’”

  “I never shoved you.”

  “You didn’t even walk me to the elevator.”

  “Gil!” Reagan said.

  “I know, I know,” he said sheepishly. “I thought about it too late, after I was trapped behind the poker table, but I apologized later.”

  “Profusely.” Claire smiled.

  Reagan leaned in. “You saw each other the next day, right? The courtship continued, right?”

  “Well,” Gil said, “let’s get dessert on the table, and then we’ll tell you how the courtship continued . . . with a slight detour for the murder.”

  Chapter 10

  Fresh air. It hit her the minute she walked out of the joint. Damn, but it smelled sweeter being outside.

  The ratty gym bag was light in her hand. Hell, why shouldn’t it be? There was nothing in there except for the Kmart skirt and blouse and those ugly running shoes that everybody’d been so hot for eight years ago. The envelope with the dough the asshole guard had shoved at her as she walked out the gate hardly made a bulge in her back pocket.

  They were right about the way prison changed a person. She was eight years changed.

  She’d gone into prison unprepared. Sure, she’d been convicted, but she’d had no previous record, no run-ins with the law. And that, she figured, was enough to set her apart from the bitches and whores who deserved to be there. When she went inside, she’d known nothing of the life of a criminal—and that’s what they said she was, a criminal.

  So she’d had to learn that life—and she had. She’d been lucky enough to find some damn good teachers inside. Some of those teachers hadn’t exactly been trying to help her, and some of those lessons she’d learned the hard way. She hadn’t been able to escape those eight years without physical pain and scars to show for her time.

  The first two years had nearly broken her, fighting off the dykes, the guards, and anyone else who wanted a piece of her. But she’d gotten quicker by year three. Learned not only how to cover her ass but how to bury her emotions, as well.

  On year five, she’d died. Her hopes, any plans for a new life outside of the goddamned prison walls, all of it. And out of the grave rose a different animal, baptized with the unholy water of that stinking place.

  And after eight years? This was a totally resurrected person, one who bore no resemblance to the spirit that once inhabited that body.

  The rusted-out ash can caught her eye and she shitcanned everything. From this moment on, she’d be brand-new.

  Stuffing her fists deep in the pockets of her windbreaker, she walked to the road to wait for him.

  Before she could begin again completely, she had something to do, a goal to accomplish that would officially put adficio to her former life.

  Yes, she had even read some Latin while inside.

  Iniuria.

  Revenge.

  Chapter 11

  “Murder?” Reagan said.“You can’t just drop a word like that on

  us and then go get dessert.”

  “Actually,” Gil said, “it’s not something we like to talk about, but, unfortunately, it is part of our story.”

  Claire carried an apple pie to the table, followed by Tucker, who balanced a tray loaded down with a carafe of coffee, cups, and silverware.

  “Claire,” Reagan implored, “come on. You’re killing me here.”

  “Um, it’s really more Gil’s part of the story. He should take it from here.”

  They started in on dessert and Gil said, “Well, the murder really didn’t happen until the end of that next day. . . .”

  Back then, there wasn’t much to do on Thursday. The convention traditionally started running panels on Friday. Thursday was a day for early registrations and for people to catch up with friends they hadn’t seen for a year.

  Gil was having lunch with a group of people, but he managed to be in the lobby when Claire arrived, and he invited her to join them. She accepted immediately.

  Lunch was pleasant. Afterward, Gil caught up with some friends, introduced them to Claire. Even that early in their relationship, he felt pride in the fact that she was there with him.

  They didn’t stay together for the entire day, as each had an agenda. They agreed to meet later for the cocktail party, which would officially open the convention and introduce the guest of honor.

  Gil got to the ballroom first because he was anxious to see Claire again. She would tell him later that she didn’t want to appear too anxious, so she arrived a few minutes late. It was all part of the game.

  Robin Westerly was a man who had been writing critically acclaimed mystery and Western novels for over twenty years. For some reason, however, this was his first turn as guest of honor. Also attending with him was his new wife, Gloria, an aspiring writer. Both husband and wife were in their late forties.

  However, Mrs. Westerly was not very well liked by the writing community. Robin Westerly had never been very accessible to fans, and things had only gotten worse since he had married Gloria.

  For this reason, when Gil saw Gloria from across the floor, he made no move to approach her. Instead, he spent his time saying hello to other writers he knew, all the while watching the door for Claire.

  “Gil!”

  He turned and saw Dave Spenser, one of the convention organizers, coming toward him. He and Dave had met many years ago, when both were new to mystery conventions, and since then each had become well known in the field.

  “Hello, Spense. Nice turnout.”

  The two men shook hands.

  Spense, a painfully thin, bearded man in his forties, looked around and said, “This is only the half of it . . . I hope.”

  “Don’t worry. It’ll be great.”

  Dave looked over Gil’s shoulder. “Have you seen Robin anywhere?”

  Gil shook his head. “Nope.”

  “Well, he and Gloria got here early, but you know how she is. She keeps him from mingling. Very passive-aggressive.”

  “He’s not two years old; he’s a grown man. Free to come and go as he pleases.”

  “I know you’re one of the people here who has thought for years that Robin’s a horse’s ass, but wait till you get a load of him now. He’s worse.”

  “Big egos don’t impress me, Spense. You know that,” Gil said.

  “Whatever,” Spense said. “I have bigger problems right now. I’m going to have to go and get him if he doesn’t show up soon.”

  “Well, maybe that’s what he wants,” Gil said, “for you to go to him.”

  Spense made a face. “I don’t know why I do this to myself. This has got to be the last time I organize one of these things.”

  “I’ve heard that before.”

  “And what’s this I hear
about you having a new woman in your life?”

  “What?”

  “It’s going around.”

  “Well, that’s not exactly right, but there is someone here—and there she is.”

  Claire had just entered the room and was looking around—he hoped—for him.

  “Very nice,” Spense said.

  “Not your type. Too old—she’s not sixteen.”

  “Bite me,” Spense said. “Introduce me?”

  “Maybe later. I’m still getting to know her myself. Besides, if you’d been at the poker game last night like you promised, you would have met her.”

  “She was in your room?”

  “Briefly.”

  “Fine,” Spense said. “Don’t share. I’ve got my own problems anyway.”

  “Catch you later.”

  They went their separate ways, Dave to wait for his guest of honor, and Gil to talk to his.

  Chapter 12

  Gil bought Claire a drink at the cash bar, told her how nice she looked, didn’t tell her how much he’d been looking forward to seeing her again that night.

  “What’s this guest of honor like?” she asked him, nervously making conversation.

  “Well, right now,” Gil said, looking at his watch, “he’s very late.”

  From across the room, Gil could see Spense fidgeting, anxiously watching the door. He wondered idly if that was how he had looked to people while waiting for Claire to show up.

  Suddenly, Spense was coming across the floor toward him.

  “Gil, I—”

  “Claire, this is Dave Spenser,” Gil said, cutting his friend off. “Dave is one of the convention organizers.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Claire said.

  “Yes, nice to meet you, too. Gil, would you do me a favor?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Go to Westerly’s room and see what’s holding him up?”