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

by Robert J. Randisi

  “Why me?”

  “Because I can’t leave here, his wife refuses to go and find him, and because you know him.”

  “Dave—” Gil said, sliding his eyes Claire’s way, hoping his friend would catch on.

  Instead, it was Claire who caught on. “Come on,” she said, “I’ll go with you.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure. I’d like to meet the illustrious Robin Westerly.”

  On the way to the elevator, Gil filled Claire in.

  “So everyone thinks his new wife has changed him?” she asked. “That doesn’t seem fair.”

  “Well, Robin was never easy to talk to, and he wasn’t a regular attendee at these cons, but since he hooked up with her, they come all the time. This is his first appearance as guest of honor, and as I understand it, she lobbied for him to get it.”

  “She sounds like a real go-getter.”

  “That’s one way of putting it,” Gil said.

  “So, what do you think of her?”

  “Well,” he said as they reached the elevator court, “I’ve always had the feeling she thought once they were married, she’d get a book deal.”

  “You think she married him just to get published? Isn’t that a little coldhearted?”

  Before he could answer, the elevator doors opened and a group of conventiongoers got out. When they spotted Gil, they stopped and asked what he was doing. After he told them about his errand, they all decided to tag along.

  “What’s the point of going to the cocktail party if the star isn’t there?” a man asked.

  “Hey, the more the merrier,” Gil joked. “Maybe when he sees a mob outside his door, he’ll move a little faster.”

  So they all piled into the elevator. Gil and Claire’s conversation had to be put on hold for the time being.

  got off on the fifth floor; they were a rowdy crowd by now. Claire looked amused as Gil led the way along the corridor to Robin Westerly’s room.

  As they arrived at the number Dave Spenser had given Gil, he noticed the door was ajar.

  “What’s wrong?” Claire asked when he didn’t knock.

  “It’s open.”

  Claire took charge, immediately turning and telling the others— five or six men and women—to settle down.

  “What’s going on?” someone asked.

  “Something’s not right,” Claire said.

  Gil wondered if he should call security, but he didn’t want to look like a wuss in front of Claire. So he knocked and then entered.

  “Hey! Robin!”

  Immediately, he saw the body on the floor. There was so much blood that he didn’t notice the maid. When he did look up, he was surprised to see the woman standing there. A woman who appeared to be in shock.

  “Jesus. Someone call the police! Hurry. Call nine one one.”

  “Who is that?” a man asked, trying to get a closer look. He only succeeded in pushing Gil, causing him to bump into the frightened maid.

  “Who are you?” Gil asked her.

  She suddenly came to life. Looking at Gil with a panicky expression, she moved slowly at first and then bolted from the room. The crowd was pushing through the door, clogging the hallway. None of them stopped her.

  Finally, someone started for the phone, but Gil said, “No! Find a house phone. Don’t touch anything in this room. In fact, everybody out!”

  He turned to Claire, found her frozen with fear.

  “Is—is he dead?” she asked.

  “I don’t know, Claire,” he said, taking her by the shoulders. “Let’s go outside and wait for the police.”

  She walked stiffly as he ushered her to the door and told the gawkers to leave.

  “Hey, this is something, huh?” one of them said. “Just like Murder, She Wrote.”

  As Gil closed the door behind him, he thought this was nothing like a TV show. The man on the floor would never be getting up, and he certainly would never be making another guest appearance.

  Chapter 13

  “My God,” Tucker said. “I had no idea you two were involved in anything like that.”

  They had all finished dessert and the table was now a graveyard for their dinner—plates, glasses, utensils, half-empty coffee cups.

  Gil found the look Tucker was giving him to be somewhat accusatory. “There’s never really been a reason to bring this up before,” he explained.

  “When someone asks how you two met, do you always include the murder?” Reagan asked.

  “No,” Claire said. “We usually edit that part out. But we’re among friends here. Besides, celebrating our anniversary—all the memories, excitement—we got carried away, I guess.”

  Reagan reached out and grabbed Gil’s hand and then Claire’s. “Hey, we care about you both. Tucker told me you didn’t want your story in my book, and I promise—cross my heart—that I will respect your wishes. Everything we say here tonight will forever stay among just the four of us.”

  Claire squeezed Reagan’s hand. “You know we wish you nothing but success with your book, Reagan.” She glanced at Gil, who was nodding in agreement. “It’s just that we’re afraid it might seem as if we’re trying to profit from someone’s death. Besides, it’s all so tragic, and your book should be upbeat.”

  Reagan smiled and sat back. “I fully agree. But that doesn’t mean you can’t tell us what happened, right?”

  Tucker agreed.

  “Why don’t we get this table cleared away first?” Claire suggested. Gil stood up and rubbed his hands together. “It’s getting chilly out here. I suggest we move inside.”

  “And we have a little anniversary gift for the two of you,” Tucker said. “I’ll be right back.”

  “It’s in the car,” Reagan explained. “A selfish gift, really. You’ll have to share it with us.”

  By working together, the women cleared the table in record time. Tucker had returned with a very expensive bottle of champagne, and after popping the cork, he helped Gil build a fire inside the cozy cabin.

  “This is so nice,” Claire said as she settled into the overstuffed chair in front of the fire. Reagan sat on a corner of the matching sofa and held out her arms for Tucker to come join her. Gil poured champagne and passed the glasses around.

  “To the most interesting people we know,” Tucker said, raising his glass.

  Claire laughed. “Ditto.”

  “Yeah,” said Gil, “the archaeologist and the artist. Not your average couple.”

  “And a bookstore owner and TV shopping hostess are normal?” Tucker asked.

  “Okay, so we all agree the four of us are unique, wonderful, and charming,” Reagan said. “Now how about getting back to your story?”

  “I think it would be better if Gil told the rest of it straight through.”

  Reagan and Tucker exchanged a look and he said, “Suits us.”

  “I just want to find out what happened,” Reagan said. “The suspense is still killing me.”

  Gil sat on the arm of Claire’s chair. “Well,” he said, “let’s see how I can best tell this. . . .”

  Chapter 14

  The detective in charge of the Robin Westerly murder was a man named Ed Donovan; however, he didn’t arrive until after two uniformed officers responded to a frantic call made from the hotel. Before the police were called, the hotel manager and head of security had both been summoned. But Gil refused to allow them to enter the room.

  “Are you a police officer, sir?” the nervous manager asked.

  “No, but we’ve all seen enough Law and Order to know that you don’t contaminate a crime scene. We have to wait for the police.” Gil stood firm.

  “How do you even know this is a crime scene?” the security man asked.

  “There’s a man lying dead inside that room,” Gil told them. “What would you call it?”

  “How do you know he’s dead?” the security man shot back. “Did you check him? Maybe he’s hurt and we’re wasting time standing out here arguing.”

  “He wa
s shot in the head. . . .”

  The security man listened to Gil with his mouth hanging open, then said, “But he could still be alive. I’ve seen Law and Order, too, and I know it can happen.”

  Gil was on shaky ground here. After all, he had not checked the body, so how could he be certain Westerly was dead?

  “If I get our house doctor down here, will you let him in?” the security man asked.

  “Why the hell do we need his permission to enter?” the manager demanded. “There’s two of us and one of him.”

  “There’s more than one of him,” Claire said, taking hold of Gil’s arm.

  “Yeah,” some of the other conventioneers chimed in. Thank goodness, Gil thought, that I asked them not to leave until the police arrived.

  “If you get your doctor down here,” Gil said, “he can go in and confirm that Mr. Westerly is dead.”

  The security man looked at the manager. “That’s fair.”

  The manager tossed his hands in the air.

  By the time the doctor came out of the room, two uniformed officers were exiting the elevator.

  “What’s going on?” one of them demanded. “Why are you all blocking the hall?”

  “We’re all waiting for you,” Gil said, and explained about the body inside the room. He also introduced the doctor.

  “Well, Doc, is there a dead man in that room?” the taller of the two asked.

  “There certainly is,” the physician replied. “He’s been shot through the head.”

  “What is the approximate time of death?” Gil asked. He was hoping that his taking control of the scene had not been foolish.

  “That’ll be up to the ME,” the man said. “I can only tell you that he was, in fact, shot and is dead.” He looked at the police. “May I leave now?”

  “I’m sorry, Doc,” the shorter cop said, “but you’ll have to wait until the detective arrives.” He turned to the people in the hall. “You’ll all have to wait, too.”

  “That’s what he said,” the manager responded morosely, pointing to Gil.

  “And you are?” the tall officer asked.

  “Gil Hunt. I found the body.”

  “We all found the body!” someone shouted, not wanting to be left out. Gil was somewhat appalled that the mood among the conventiongoers had remained festive. Maybe that would change when the enormity of the situation hit them.

  “Gil was the first,” Claire said.

  “And you, ma’am?”

  “Claire Duncan. I was right behind him.”

  The cop turned to his partner, who was writing in a small notebook. “Get everyone’s name and I’ll call it in.”

  “Right.”

  The next to arrive was Ed Donovan and his partner, Jerry Lyle.

  After viewing the body, the first thing Donovan did was to ask the manager if there was an empty room on that floor.

  “Well, we’re quite full. . . .”

  “Sir, I need a place to question all these people. That is, unless you’d like us to keep this hallway roped off all night—or, better yet, we could use the main lobby.”

  “No, no, we can’t do that,” the manager said, rubbing his sweaty hands along the seams of his suit pants. “I’ll check and see. I’m sure we have a room available on this floor.”

  Not only did they have a room but it turned out to be a two-bedroom suite.

  “Excellent,” Donovan said when he saw it. “Jerry, get me one of the first cops on the scene.”

  “Sure, Ed.”

  Lyle returned with the taller cop, whose name was Hal Jenkins.

  “Officer, who discovered the body?”

  “Fella named Hunt. Claims he entered the room ahead of his group, Detective.”

  “‘Claims’?”

  “There were a lot of people with him,” Jenkins explained, “but he was apparently the first one in. He also took charge and safeguarded the scene.”

  “Sounds like a smart man,” the detective said. “Bring him in here. I’ll start with him.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “As for the others, my partner will start taking statements in the other part of the suite. Have your partner—”

  “Sam Pezullo, sir.”

  “Yes . . . have Officer Pezullo begin bringing them over there.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Jenkins ushered Gil into the room for his first meeting with Detective Donovan.

  Chapter 15

  “Ed Donovan.”

  “Gil Hunt.”

  “Glad to meet you,” Donovan said, extending his hand, “just not under these circumstances.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  “Have a seat.”

  Donovan walked across the room and closed the connecting door to the other part of the suite. Gil was surprised that such a large man with hands as big as footballs would close the door so gently, then walk softly to a chair and settle himself into it so very gracefully.

  “Mr. Hunt, why don’t you fill me in on who the victim was, who you are, and why you were both here.”

  “What do you want to know, exactly?”

  “Just keep talking,” Donovan said. “If I have any pressing questions, I’ll interrupt, but what I’d like is just for you to tell me everything you can think of. Keep talking until you have nothing left to say. By that time, if I don’t have everything I need, I’ll definitely ask some questions.”

  And so Gil started to talk. He told Donovan about the convention first: who was attending it, how often the con was held and why. Then he spoke about himself, and his business. Finally, he told the detective what he knew about Robin Westerly, both the man’s career and what little information he had about his private life.

  True to his word, the detective sat quietly and listened, never interrupting once until Gil was finally done.

  “Well, that was very comprehensive. Are you a writer yourself?”

  “No, I just sell books.”

  “I have a few more questions, if you’re up to them.”

  “Sure, go ahead.”

  “You seem fairly calm for a man who discovered a dead body.”

  “I’m waiting until I’m alone to dissolve into tears,” Gil said. He knew the remark sounded like something straight out of a Richard Stark novel, because he’d read hard-boiled fiction for years, but it wasn’t too far from the truth.

  “I’ll try not to keep you much longer, then,” Donovan said.

  “That’s all right,” Gil said, trying to make up for the remark. “I want to help.”

  “And we appreciate it. In fact, you’ve helped quite a bit already. You knew enough to safeguard the crime scene. Must be all those mystery novels you read, huh?”

  “It just seemed to make sense.”

  “So, tell me, who makes sense for this?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Who do you see for this crime?” Donovan asked. “You know this crowd. You knew the victim, who his friends were—”

  “Detective Donovan,” Gil said, “this is an annual event. Most of these people see one another once, maybe twice a year. That doesn’t give them—me—any insight into someone’s private life.”

  “None of these people ever see each other privately?” the detective asked. “As friends?”

  “I’m sure some do, but—”

  “What about Westerly? Was he close to any of these other writers?”

  “He wasn’t a particularly friendly or warm man.”

  “I’m sorry, but I’ve never heard of him,” Donovan said. “Was he famous?”

  “Well, no. . . . He was respected in the field, but certainly not a bestselling author.”

  “Not like, uh, Stephen King? Or . . .” Donovan was stuck for the name of another famous writer, exposing his ignorance of such things.

  “No,” Gil said, “not like Stephen King.”

  “Mickey Spillane!” Donovan said proudly.

  “Right, nothing like Mickey Spillane.”

  “But he made his living this way
, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And would anyone benefit from his death?”

  “Personally, I couldn’t say,” Gil replied. “You’d have to talk to his wife about that.”

  Donovan closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them and said, “Gloria, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And professionally?”

  “I just can’t see how anyone would profit.”

  “Was he in someone’s way?”

  “What do you mean?” Gil asked, frowning.

  “Well, will someone move up now that he’s dead? Take his spot with his publisher? Do you have—I don’t know—ranks?”

  “It’s not that kind of business, Detective. But, as I told you before, I’m a bookseller. You’ll probably have to talk to his agent, or publisher—”

  “Can you give me some names?”

  “I can tell you who his publishing company is,” Gil said, “but you’d have to get his agent’s name from his wife, and his editor’s name from her also.”

  “So there are a whole lot of questions you can’t answer.”

  “Tons.”

  Donovan hesitated a moment, seemed to be collecting his thoughts. “All right,” he said finally, “tell me about the people who were with you.”

  “Conventiongoers,” Gil said. “They were in the elevator, heard where we were going, and decided to tag along.”

  “‘We’?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You said they heard where ‘we were going,’” Donovan said. “That means that at least one other person was already with you when you got into the elevator. Who was it?”

  Gil hesitated. He didn’t want to get Claire in trouble, but she was going to be questioned no matter what.

  “That would be Claire Duncan.”

  “And she is?”

  “An attendee . . .”

  “And a friend of yours?”

  “We . . . we met here, in Omaha, at this convention a couple of years ago. This year we’re . . . just getting to know each other better.”

  “Ah,” Donovan said, “a budding romance?”

  “No,” Gil replied, embarrassed. “It’s nothing like that.”