“But things like that do happen at conventions, right?”
“I suppose.”
“Just a few more questions, Mr. Hunt, and I’ll let you go. Is this considered one of the larger conventions?”
“It’s a regional one. The big mystery convention—called Bouchercon—moves from state to state and takes place in the fall. There’re usually anywhere between fifteen hundred to two thousand people attending. But this one is much smaller and is only a few years old.”
“With how many in attendance?”
“About three or four hundred, I’d imagine,” Gil said. “You’d have to speak with one of the organizers to get exact numbers.”
“So, we have three or four hundred suspects.”
“More, I’d think.”
“Oh? Why more?”
“Well,” Gil said, “I’m no policeman, Detective Donovan, but who says the killer has to be attending the convention?”
Donovan stared at Gil for a few moments, then said, “Very good point, Mr. Hunt.”
Chapter 16
Before leaving, Gil said, “There’s one more thing.”
“What’s that?”
“When we entered the room, there was a maid inside.”
“What was she doing?”
“Just . . . standing there.”
“Had she touched anything?”
“I don’t know.”
Donovan stretched out his long legs. “Well, Mr. Hunt, you seem to have pretty good instincts. What do you think she was doing? Did you happen to catch a name? Was she wearing a name tag? Any kind of ID?”
“I don’t know the answers to any of those questions,” Gil said. “I remember thinking that she looked as if she was in shock, and when I tried to speak to her, she bolted from the room.”
“And nobody stopped her?”
“Listen, Detective, I know this is all routine for you, but it’s not for me or for any of the rest of us. After I saw Westerly, everything else sort of blurred for a minute. Besides, the woman moved quickly. I can’t speak for the others, but the first thing on my mind was not tackling a stranger.”
“I understand,” Donovan said. “Just give me a description, then.”
Gil did, trying to be as thorough as possible.
“I assume you’re staying in this hotel?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll need your room number.”
Gil gave it to him, and then the detective walked him to the door. When he opened it, Gil saw one of the uniformed officers standing outside with Claire.
“Gil?” she said.
“It’s okay.”
“Is this the lady who was with you?” Donovan asked.
“Yes. Detective Donovan, this is Claire Duncan.”
“My pleasure, ma’am. Would you mind coming inside so I can ask you a few questions?”
“Sure,” she said.
“Thank you for being so helpful,” Donovan said. “It makes my job a little easier.”
Claire looked at Gil, who touched her arm and said, “I’ll be waiting out here.”
She told him later that the way he’d said that, and touched her, meant a lot. She also told him what had transpired inside.
Claire sat in the chair Gil had just vacated, and Donovan reclaimed his.
“I’m sure this has been very upsetting for you, Miss Duncan.”
“Mrs.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Duncan. Mr. Hunt filled me in on the convention and who’s who. Would you just tell me why you’re here?”
Briefly, Claire told the detective her story, why she had attended the convention for the past two years and had come this year. She did not tell him that she was interested in Gil romantically.
“So you didn’t know the victim?”
“I haven’t even read any of his books.”
“Are you an avid reader?”
“Oh yes,” she said, “but I’ve only started reading mysteries recently.”
Donovan smiled. “I don’t have much time to read for pleasure, but when I do, I usually stick to biographies. I’ve never heard of Robin Westerly.”
“I’ve heard of him. He’s a big shot around here.”
“Do you know any of his history?”
“No.”
“Do you know his wife?”
Claire shook her head. “Never met her or heard of her.”
“Then I guess all you need to tell me now is what you saw when you entered the room.”
Again, Claire described things as briefly as she could, telling him what she had seen. It annoyed her that her voice shook when she spoke.
“What can you tell me about the maid?”
Claire told him everything she could remember, which wasn’t much.
“To tell you the truth, Detective,” she said, “I found it difficult to take my eyes off the body.”
“Is Westerly’s the first you’ve seen that was a product of violence?”
“You mean my first murder? Yes.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I can certainly understand how you wouldn’t have been aware of much else.”
“I only wish I could be more help.”
“Maybe you can.”
“How?”
“Tell me what you know about Gil Hunt.”
“Not much,” she said. She had no way of knowing what Gil had already said, and she didn’t want to say anything that would get him into trouble. Then again, what was there for her to say? The truth was, she really didn’t know him that well, so that’s what she said.
“You’re not a couple?” Donovan asked.
She gave the detective’s left hand a quick look and saw he was wearing a wedding band.
“No,” she said. “Why? Did he say something to that effect?”
“No, not at all.” The detective stood up and buttoned his jacket. “Well, I think I have all I need from you, Mrs. Duncan—except your address.”
“I live here in town. I’m in the book.”
“Excellent.”
She stood and he walked her to the door.
Outside in the hall, Gil waited impatiently. He watched as the others were ushered through a door and into the other part of the suite.
The manager and doctor were gone, but Gil noticed that the head of security was sticking around. He sidled over and stood beside the man.
“Guess you have to stay to represent the hotel?”
“No. I’m waiting to be questioned.”
Gil stuck out his hand. “Gil Hunt, by the way.”
The man looked at the hand for a moment with basset hound eyes, then gave Gil’s hand a limp shake.
“Steve Kerr.”
“This is my first murder. Has this ever happened to you before?”
“Twelve years in this business, I’ve seen a lot of dead bodies, but this is my first murder.” The man looked at Gil. “You showed a lot of balls, keeping us out. Where are you from?”
“New York.”
“Hmm,” Kerr said, facing front again. “Maybe that explains it.”
Gil had the feeling he’d just been insulted.
Chapter 17
When Detective Donovan opened the door to let her leave, Claire saw Gil waiting for her and got a funny feeling in the pit of her stomach. She told him years later that it was just one of the many loving gestures he’d made so effortlessly—tiny things he was hardly aware of, but monumental compared to the disregard she had experienced throughout her life.
In the time it had taken Donovan to interview Gil and Claire, his partner had interviewed and cut loose the rest of the witnesses. The only one left to be interviewed was Steve Kerr.
Claire stepped into the hall and Gil came forward and placed a protective hand on the small of her back.
“Okay?” he asked.
“I’m fine.”
Donovan looked from one to the other, then said, “We’ll be in touch if we need anything else. I’m sure neither of you will be leaving town for a while.”
“No,” she said, th
en looked at Gil.
“Not until the convention is over,” he said, then added, “That is, if it still goes on.”
“Yes, well,” Donovan said, “if it gets canceled, I’m afraid everyone will need permission to leave—but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. I still have to talk to the organizers, who, no doubt, have heard the news by now.”
Gil realized the man was right. By now, the news had probably filtered down to everyone at the convention—-up to and including the victim’s wife.
“We pulled her aside and told her privately,” Donovan replied when Gil put the question to him. “She’s been in her room all this time.”
“That was very sensitive of you, Detective,” Claire said.
“Thank you, Mrs. Duncan.”
Gil could see the detective had been charmed by Claire, and he was surprised to feel a twinge of jealousy.
“Mr. Kerr,” Donovan said as his partner came up behind him, “we’re ready for you now.”
Kerr nodded and moved past Gil and Claire.
“Good luck,” Gil said.
“Thanks.”
Donovan gave the couple a brief smile and then closed the door.
“Whew!” Claire said. “I’m so glad that’s over.”
“You’ve handled this whole thing pretty well,” Gil told her. “I’m impressed.
“Me?” she asked. “What about the way you took charge? That was very brave.”
“Okay,” Gil said, “now that we’re both suitably impressed, maybe a drink is in order.”
“Only one?” she said. “I think I need some time to let everything that’s happened here sink in.”
They decided to take the time in the hotel bar.
However, drinking alone, especially under the bizarre circumstances, was impossible. Not only had word of Westerly’s death gotten around but also the fact that it had been Gil Hunt who had found the body. As soon as they entered the crowded bar, they were besieged with questions, most of which were coming from Dave Spenser, who grabbed Gil and pulled him over to the side.
“What the hell is happening?” he hissed.
“Somebody killed him, Spense,” Gil said. “That’s all I can tell you.
“Killed him how?”
“Shot him.”
“Jesus!” Dave covered his face with both hands. “This is terrible!”
“It sure is.”
“What am I supposed to do?” Dave asked. “He was the guest of honor.”
“Oh, you mean that kind of terrible.”
“No, no,” Dave said, “don’t get me wrong, Gil. It’s awful that he’s dead, but what do I do now with four hundred people? Cancel?”
“I wouldn’t advise it.”
“Why not?”
“The detective in charge told me he doesn’t want anyone from the convention to leave town yet. If hundreds of people are going to be stuck here, they need something to do.”
“That makes sense,” Dave said, “but how does he expect to keep everyone here? I mean, some of them live in town and aren’t staying at the hotel.”
“He’s going to ask you for a complete list of attendees. Do you have it computerized?”
“Of course,” Dave said, “everyone who puts on a convention does that.”
“Then if I were you, I’d get busy printing out lists.”
“Lists?”
“Yes,” Gil said, “try a list of fans, a list of writers, and break it down by location. Give him a separate list of those who registered here at the hotel and those who are locals.”
“That’s a good idea,” Dave said, calming down somewhat. “Keep the con going, print out lists.”
“And pick a replacement guest of honor.”
“Oh, right, right, gotta do that . . . but who?”
“Who’s here?” Gil asked.
“Larry Block? Al Collins? I’m going to need someone who can step in at a moment’s notice and be good,” Dave said, half to himself.
“Well, good luck,” Gil said, patting him on the shoulder. “I’ve got to get going. There’s a lady waiting for me.”
“Yeah—hey, thanks, buddy. You gave me some good advice.”
“No problem.”
Gil returned to where Claire was still trying to field a barrage of questions. He pulled her aside.
“What’s happening?” she asked.
“We can’t talk here. Let’s go someplace else and have that drink.”
“Food, too?” she asked. “I know just the place.”
Chapter 18
Clair took Gil to her favorite Mexican restaurant. It was just down the street a few blocks, on Dodge. Well after the usual dinner hour, a table was easy to come by.
“What time do they close?” Gil asked as they were seated.
“You still have about an hour,” the hostess told him.
A waiter came over and took their orders immediately. They asked him to bring the drinks—a beer for him and margarita for her—right away. When they had their glasses, she brought hers up to her nose and inhaled deeply.
“I love margaritas,” she said, “the salt along the rim of the glass, especially the glass. It feels good in my hands.” She took a sip. “God, I really need this tonight. I’ve never seen . . . what I saw today . . . before.”
“Neither have I.”
“What are they going to do now?” she asked.
“Who? The cops or the convention people?”
“The conventioneers, I guess.”
The waiter returned with a large basket of chips and a stoneware bowl of salsa. Claire nibbled on a chip while Gil told her about his conversation with Dave Spenser, and the advice he had given him.
“Wow,” she said. “That was good thinking. Detective Donovan will be so pleased.”
“So will Spense,” Gil said. “He would have had a heart attack if he’d had to cancel. Now all he’s got to do is find a replacement guest of honor.”
“I still can’t believe it,” Claire said, wiping her hands and straightening up. “Here we are, talking about . . . I’ve never seen . . . blood, like that.”
He reached across the table and took her hand. “I’m so sorry I subjected you to that.”
She squeezed his hand. “Don’t be so noble. How were you to know what we’d find? And remember, I wanted to go with you.”
“Well,” he said, “if I’d reacted a little more quickly, I might have been able to keep you from seeing . . . him.”
Their orders were ready, and as the waiter arranged plates, each let go of the other’s hand and sat back.
“This looks good,” Gil said.
“I feel terrible that I can eat,” she said, “but I’m so hungry, it hurts. I get that way when I’m upset. Nothing stops my appetite.”
Gil cut into his enchilada. “Me, too.”
“So, what are you planning to do now?” she asked between bites.
“Uh, well, I guess I’ll attend the convention, like I planned. Sell some books.”
“You think people will be in a buying mood?” she asked. “Want to attend panels? Do the usual stuff?”
“People are resilient,” Gil said. “And curious.”
“And, unfortunately, bloodthirsty,” Claire said, shaking her head.
“Unfortunately, yes. But most will be trying to make sense of it, theorizing. You’ve got to admit that they’ll be talking about it for years to come. The mystery convention where a mystery writer was murdered.”
“You’re right,” she said. “It does make it sound exciting—in a macabre sort of way.”
“I’ll have to be at my table tomorrow,” he said. “I have some Robin Westerly books with me.”
“You won’t raise the price, will you?” she asked, staring across the table at him.
He knew some of the dealers would do that, especially if the books were signed. “I don’t think so,” he said. “That would just be . . . ghoulish.”
“I agree,” she said, secretly glad he had said that.
/> After dinner, she drove him back to the hotel and they sat in her car for a few moments.
“So, you’ll be in the dealers’ room tomorrow?”
“Assuming it’s open,” he said, “and right now I’m operating on that premise. What are your plans?”
“Well, I’m registered,” she said. “There are some authors I’d like to see and a few panels that sound interesting.”
Suddenly, he was nervous. “Okay, then. Good. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“I guess you will.”
“Maybe we can have lunch,” he said, “or dinner.”
“Won’t you be busy at your table?”
“I can get somebody to cover for me,” he said, “or I can just shut down for a while.”
“If you do that, you’ll lose money.”
He shrugged. “It’s only money.”
She smiled. “You’re so sweet. Well . . . I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
“Right,” he said, “tomorrow.”
There was an awkward moment and then he suddenly leaned over and kissed her—that is, he meant to kiss her. What he actually ended up doing was grazing her cheek with his lips. Then he got out of the car and stood there feeling like a dope as she drove away.
“Lame-o,” he said to himself, and went into the hotel.
Chapter 19
When Claire got home, she immediately made herself a cup of tea and sat down on the sofa, pulling the chenille blanket over her. She couldn’t stop shaking. Never before had she experienced anything like she had that day. It was odd, frightening, and under normal circumstances she would never return to that hotel again. But Gil made the difference. She had felt a connection with him that she had never felt before, not even with her ex-husband. Stronger than her fear was the desire to know Gil Hunt better. The possibility of something wonderful developing between the two of them could only happen if she went back there, to the place where she’d seen something horrible.
When she closed her eyes, she could still see the blood, and the paleness of Westerly’s head. The smell of him, of death, seemed to have followed her home.
She needed a long hot bath. Taking her cup with her, she headed for the bathroom. A box of scented bath beads was on the vanity and she dumped a few into the steaming water as it filled up the tub. Some candles might also help, she thought. Anything to dispel the odor that lingered in her nostrils.
Same Time, Same Murder: A Gil and Claire Hunt Mystery Page 6