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

by Robert J. Randisi

“What?”

  “About the maid. I was wondering if he’d been able to find her and interview her.”

  “Good question,” Gil said, “but the poor thing was so frightened of what she’d found that she might still be running.”

  When they finished lunch, they waited while the waiter cleared the table and refilled their coffee cups. Gil decided that since he finally had Claire to himself, he’d take the opportunity to get to know her better. He had no intention of rushing back to the dealers’ room. “This is kind of odd, isn’t it?” he said.

  “‘Odd’? You mean having lunch with a detective? Walking into a murder scene?”

  “I mean us, meeting under these circumstances,” he said, “connecting the way we have—we have connected, haven’t we? I mean, I’m not fooling myself, am I?”

  She thought about teasing him, then decided this was not the time to play, since he was being so sincere. “No, you’re not wrong. We’ve definitely connected.”

  “I hate to sound . . . callous,” Gil went on, “but it seems like this whole . . . murder investigation has been thrown in our way.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “I don’t believe it. I was thinking the same thing. Isn’t that so . . . egotistical of us?”

  “Maybe it is,” Gil agreed, “but it’s how I feel. I just wish they’d all go away and give us some time to get to know each other.”

  She looked at her watch. “Speaking of time, don’t you have to get back?”

  “The hell with it,” he said, putting his elbows on the table and his chin in his hands. “I want to talk about you.”

  She mimicked his pose and said with a smile, “Only if you talk about yourself, too.”

  So they stole a few moments that afternoon to learn more about each other before the investigation really got in the way.

  Several cups of coffee later, they were still engrossed in conversation, but not so much so that they didn’t notice the person who had entered the restaurant.

  “Is that who I think it is?” Claire asked.

  “Yes,” Gil said, “that’s Gloria Westerly.”

  “The artificially grieving widow, according to Detective Donovan.”

  “How did you recognize her?” Gil asked.

  “She was pointed out to me at the party last night, before we left. Who is she with?”

  One of the waiters showed Gloria to a table, along with the two other women in her group.

  “I know one of them,” Gil said, “the tall one is Sasha Peters.”

  “The Chicago author?” Claire asked. “The one who writes about the lady PI?”

  “That’s her.”

  “She’s a bestselling author, isn’t she?”

  “Is that what they say?”

  Claire looked a little disappointed. “You mean she isn’t?”

  “She’s made some of the extended lists,” Gil said, “but she’s never made the top ten.”

  “Still . . .”

  “Yes,” Gil agreed, “still.”

  “I wonder what she’s doing with Gloria Westerly.”

  “Maybe they met through Robin. I really don’t know, but somewhere along the way they became friends.”

  The three women were given menus and then the waiter left them to make their decisions. As Gil and Claire watched, the three women began to laugh.

  “It sure seems like Donovan was right,” Gil said. “She doesn’t look very bereaved.”

  Claire turned around in her chair. “Maybe her friends are cheering her up.”

  “If your husband had been killed less than twenty-four hours ago, could you be cheered up?”

  “Well—and we’re talking about my ex-husband here—yes. In fact”—she rubbed the place on her left hand where her wedding band had been—“I’d also be doing a dance of joy.”

  “Good point,” Gil said, remembering his own harsh feelings toward his ex-wife. “But maybe you’d be doing your dance in private—just because that’s the kind of classy broad you are.”

  She laughed. “You really are starting to know me. So, why don’t you go over and talk to her?”

  “Me? What for?”

  “Aren’t you curious?”

  “About what?”

  “About her, and her husband,” Claire said. “Just go over and see how she reacts when you give her your condolences. After all, you are the one who found him. She should have something to say to you.”

  “Like what?” he asked.

  “‘Thank you’?”

  Chapter 24

  Gil had to admit that he was curious about how Gloria Westerly would react to him. Before he stood up, he wiped his face with the napkin that had been folded in his lap. “Do I look okay?” he asked Claire.

  “Fine.” She patted his arm. “Now get over there, so you can hurry back and tell me everything.”

  “Here I go.” He stood up, pushed his chair in, and walked over toward Gloria and her companions. As he approached, they stopped talking and all three looked up at him.

  “Can we help you?” Sasha Peters asked.

  She was older than the two women she was with. Gray hair and a handsome, if somewhat lined, face gave away her seniority.

  “My name is Gil Hunt.”

  “Oh, yes,” Sasha said, “you have a table in the dealers’ room, don’t you? Old Delmar Bookstore in St. Louis, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Oh, my God,” said the woman who was unfamiliar to him. Her hand quickly went to her mouth, as if she were trying to hold the words back. “You found—” She stopped and looked at Gloria.

  “Yes,” Robin Westerly’s widow said, “you found my husband’s body.”

  “Sorry to say I did,” Gil said solemnly. “I wanted to offer you my condolences.”

  “Thank you. And I suppose I should thank you for finding him.”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  She dropped her hands into her lap and shrugged. She had large eyes, very blue, and he was surprised how clear the whites were. Crying generally made one’s eyes red.

  “I’m just sorry it happened. . . . I hope the police haven’t been too . . . rough on you.”

  “Detective Donovan, you mean?” she asked, casually checking out the manicured nails on her right hand. “No, he’s been doing his job. I’ve been moved to another room because the one we were in is now a . . . a crime scene.”

  The third woman reached out to touch her friend’s arm, but when Gloria didn’t respond, the woman removed her hand quickly.

  “I think he suspects me,” Gloria said.

  “What?” Sasha looked horrified. “Why, that’s silly. Don’t you think that’s ridiculous, Mr. Hunt?”

  “I think it’s standard procedure for the police to start a murder investigation with the spouse, Mrs. Peters. But she was in the ballroom with hundreds of people at the time, so I don’t think he seriously suspects her.”

  “Maybe not,” the third woman said, “but it must be horrible to think you’re suspected of your own husband’s—”

  “Murder,” said Gloria, finishing her friend’s statement. “You can say the word, Angela. Robin was murdered by someone at this convention.”

  “But . . . but who would do such a thing?” Angela asked. Gil recognized her now. Her name was Angela Beldon and she published a fanzine featuring book reviews and author interviews.

  “Somebody who was jealous of him, I guess,” Gloria said.

  Before he could stop himself, Gil asked, “Jealous of what?”

  “His success, of course,” she said, “his talent, and, most of all, his position in the mystery community.”

  Gil frowned but held his tongue this time, even though he thought Mrs. Westerly had an exaggerated opinion of her husband’s reputation in the “mystery community.”

  “Well,” he said, unsure of what to do next, “I didn’t mean to interrupt your lunch. I just wanted to tell you how very . . . sorry I was.”

  “Thank you again, Mr. Hunt,” Gloria Westerly sa
id. “I truly appreciate that.” Looking up at Gil, she gently touched her hand to her heart. “And I know Robin would have appreciated your kindness also. He often told me how important fans like you were to his career.”

  “Ladies,” he said, hoping the word didn’t sound as angry as he suddenly felt. And then he retreated to his table before he said something he’d regret.

  “I wonder what he wanted?” Sasha Peters said, watching Gil walk away.

  “He seemed pretty straightforward to me,” Angela said. “He came over to say he was sorry.”

  “Do you know how he happened to find Robin?” Sasha asked Gloria.

  “Not exactly,” Gloria said. “I only know that he did.”

  Sasha reached out and touched Gloria’s arm. The gesture did not escape Angela’s notice, and she felt hurt seeing how much more willing Gloria was to accommodate Sasha.

  “You poor thing . . .” Sasha cooed.

  Before Gil even had a chance to sit down, Claire asked excitedly, “So? What happened?”

  “Not much,” he said, scooting his chair closer to the table. “She doesn’t seem very upset, and she certainly is under the misconception that her husband was more important—or more popular—than he was.”

  “What did you say?” Claire demanded. “And what did she say?”

  “Word for word?”

  “Of course!”

  Gil found himself repeating the conversation, Claire hanging on his every word.

  “And her eyes weren’t red?” Claire asked when he had finished.

  “Nope.”

  “Do you think that means she hasn’t been crying?”

  “Looks that way to me.”

  “They do have drops, you know—to take out the redness.”

  “I suppose she could have used something like that,” Gil said.

  “Maybe you should call Donovan.”

  “Why?” Gil asked. “I haven’t found out anything he doesn’t already know. He seems very thorough. I wouldn’t want to waste his time, or embarrass myself.”

  “I suppose.”

  Gil checked his watch.

  “You have to get back to your table?”

  “Only if I want to make a living.”

  She smiled. “I’ll go with you ... if that’s all right?”

  He smiled back. “It’s very all right.”

  Chapter 25

  “You’re good at this,” Gil said as Claire wrote up a sale.

  “Comes from lots of experience in all kinds of jobs. I figure by now I’m qualified to do practically anything.”

  Gil bagged the books for his customer and thanked him. After straightening a section of the table, he sat down again. His chair was touching Claire’s, and he liked the cramped space. “For instance?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “Give me a list of the jobs you’ve had. I bet my list is longer than yours.”

  “How much?”

  “Dinner,” he said.

  “Is that all? How about something bigger?” she joked. “A lady of my breeding requires much chocolate and junk jewelry.”

  “Okay, if you win, we’ll go to the nearest Target and you can shop till you drop. But if I win, you have to take me to the nearest mall and let me spend some money on you.”

  She was really starting to adore this man. He was not only funny and charming but so easy to be with, it was unsettling at times. Her ex-husband used to say that her independent nature was her biggest flaw. He used to complain that she didn’t need anyone. Unfortunately in his case, it was true. But Claire had always thought of herself as self-sufficient, and considered it a good thing, what women were supposed to strive to be. She also knew that if she let him, Gil would become a vital part of her life—a life she was now somewhat fearful to share.

  “Okay, my first job was in Chicago. I was seventeen and worked in the toy department at Marshall Field. The next summer, there was a job, also downtown, and I was a proofreader. Then came six months at Time Books, then buyer for a department store, a finance company, Western Union, another department store, a greeting card store, a radio station, the music store a friend was opening and needed help with, and then—finally—my journalism degree kicked in and I started getting jobs at small TV stations.”

  “How many of those?” Gil asked, looking amazed.

  “About five.”

  “Well.” He added up the numbers he had been writing on a scrap of paper. “According to my figures, you’ve had about fifteen jobs.”

  “Sounds right.”

  “And I know for a fact that I’ve only had six. So you win. Hands down, you’re the most—”

  “Gil Hunt!”

  The couple looked up, to see a well-dressed white-haired man smiling the most photogenic smile Claire had ever seen. The word that immediately came to her mind as she studied him was dashing.

  “Les!” Gil raced around to the front of the table and embraced the man. “God, you look wonderful.”

  “You’re looking well yourself,” Les said, and then broke away to extend a hand to Claire. “And who’s this pretty lady?”

  Claire stood and shook hands. “Claire Duncan.”

  “Claire, this is Les Roberts,” Gil said.

  If Les had been wearing a hat, he would have tipped it at Claire, but instead he gave a slight nod. Then turning toward his friend, he confided, “Everybody’s whispering about this new lady in your life, and now I see what all the commotion is about.”

  Gil’s cheeks were warming, but he hoped no one would notice. “Claire, Les is the most charming man you’ll ever meet, but he’s also one of the most . . . popular? Is that how you’d put it, Les?”

  Les smiled even wider. “I like women. So sue me. I’m an all-American red-blooded man.”

  “And also the author of the Milan Jacovich series.”

  Claire nodded. “I’m familiar with the books,” she said. “In fact, about two months ago, I read Pepper Pike.”

  Les looked flattered. “Take good care of this one,” he said to Gil. And then to Claire, he said, “I like you.”

  It was Claire’s turn to blush.

  “Well, guys, I got a meeting with my agent and then a panel, but maybe we can have a drink later?”

  “Sounds good,” Gil said.

  “It’ll give me a chance to find out all the gory details about Westerly. You know,” he said thoughtfully, “sometimes karma does bite you in the ass, doesn’t it? Robin was one person I definitely will not miss. But you”—he hugged Gil again—“I wish we could get together more often, old friend.”

  “Me, too, Les,” Gil said.

  Claire was struck by the true affection the men shared for each other.

  Gil watched Les walk away.

  “How long have you been friends?” Claire asked.

  “Oh, years. Did you know his books outsell everyone’s—King’s, Koontz’s, Clancy’s—in Cleveland. He’s a god there.”

  Before Claire could comment, a couple carrying large book bags stopped in front of the table. “You can run, but you cannot hide from us,” the woman said.

  “Gil Hunt, long time no see,” the man said.

  “John,” Gil said excitedly, “where have you been hiding?”

  “Barb and I just got in this morning.”

  Gil pulled Claire closer to the couple. “Claire, these are two of my dearest friends, John and Barbara Lutz.”

  Claire smiled and shook hands. “Are you the John Lutz who’s responsible for Single White Female?”

  John rolled his eyes, “That’s the Hollywood name. The book is called SWF Seeks Same.”

  Barbara pointed proudly, “We got to do a scene in the movie. I’m so excited.”

  “Not really a scene, just a walk-on,” John said, trying to downplay the whole thing, but it was obvious he was happy about it. “The cast was great, though; they each made a point of talking to us.”

  Barbara was a few inches shorter than Claire. While John explained more details of the movie shoot
to Gil, she slipped her arm around Claire’s waist and whispered in her ear, “It’s so good to see Gil happy. He’s been through a lot of bad stuff lately.”

  Claire instantly felt a special bond with the personable woman. “I think we’re good for each other,” Claire said.

  “How about the four of us having dinner tonight?” Barbara asked. “We need more time to talk about everything. And by everything, I mean the whole Westerly mess.”

  Gil looked at Claire. “Our first double date—what do you think?”

  “I think we can handle it.” Claire laughed.

  “Good,” John said, “we’ll meet you back here when the dealers’ room closes. It’ll give us time to decide where to go.”

  “Great,” Gil said.

  When they were alone again, Claire told Gil how much she liked his friends. “You’re very lucky to have so many people in your life who obviously care about your welfare.”

  “I know. But I hope they’re not getting too carried away and scaring you.”

  “Don’t worry, the only person scaring me today is that guy.”

  Gil stretched to look in the direction Claire was pointing. “Oh, that’s Wendell; he works here.”

  “In the dealers’ room?” Claire asked.

  “No, in the hotel. I’ve known him for three years now. He’s a nice guy.”

  Claire tried not being too obvious, but she couldn’t keep from looking at the huge man. He could have passed for one of those hokey wrestlers on TV. He was bald and big and . . . scary.

  “Well, he’s been staring at you all day,” she said. “I even saw him watching you while you were talking to Mrs. Westerly at lunch. But I guess since he works in the hotel—exactly what is his job?”

  “Doorman, bellhop, driver, concierge—he does it all. Last year when he heard I wanted to go to the track, he drove me over there on his lunch hour.”

  “That was nice of him.”

  “Wait, you’ll see; I’ll introduce you.” Gil waved to the man lurking in the corner. When Wendell did not respond to Gil’s overture, Claire felt even more uneasy.

  Gil stood up and waved with both hands.

  Realizing Gil had seen him, Wendell rushed out of the room.