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

by Robert J. Randisi

  “What did he want?”

  “That’s the strange part. When I tried to ask him what was going on, he took off.”

  “And you said this was yesterday?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you haven’t seen him since?”

  “No.”

  “Did you know that Mr. Payne lives with a woman?”

  “No. We never talked about personal things like that.”

  “Well, according to the manager, it’s a relatively new arrangement.”

  “And why would his living situation be any business of mine?” Gil asked.

  “Because the woman he lives with is a maid at this hotel.”

  Suddenly, Gil got it. “The maid who was in Westerly’s room?”

  “The very one.”

  “And you’ve questioned her?”

  “No. It’s taken until today to track her down. The hotel recently switched over to a new computer system, so their personnel records were difficult to access. You add that to the fact that there are fifty-two maids on the payroll, you’ll see we’ve had our hands full. There was also a problem finding out just which maid we were looking for.”

  “You had to wait to see who didn’t show up for work?”

  Donovan nodded. “Process of elimination. But my men are on it. In fact, two of them are on their way to Mr. Payne’s apartment as we speak.”

  Chapter 29

  Claire never did well in the morning, but as she sat behind Gil’s table, she got caught up in the excitement and enthusiasm of the fans who crowded the large dealers’ room.

  “Do you have the latest Max Allan Collins? From his Nate Heller series?” asked a teen wearing black jeans, a black T-shirt, and black tennis shoes.

  “I think I saw it right there.” Claire pointed to a far corner of the table.

  “He’s great, isn’t he? There’s always so much research in his books, and they take place in Chicago. Elliott Ness, Al Capone, Frank Nitti—great stuff!”

  “Sorry, I’ve just started reading mysteries and haven’t gotten to him yet.”

  “Oh. Well, when you get time, try him.” The kid couldn’t stand still as Claire counted out his change. “This is my first mystery convention. I came all the way from Lincoln just to get Mr. Collins to sign my books. I have five of ’em in here.” He held up a book bag.

  “Well, I hope you have a good time.”

  “Thanks.” And he was off.

  Business was steady, but the majority of people who stopped by the table asked for Gil. They wanted to know about the murder.

  “I heard he got shot in the arm,” said a woman wearing a vest covered with pins from other conventions she’d attended across the country. “He walked in on the killer and had to wrestle the gun away.”

  “No,” Claire said, “he’s fine.”

  “He’s working with the police, then?” her friend asked. “Everyone’s saying he works undercover . . . part-time.”

  “How exciting,” the vest lady said.

  As they chattered between themselves, Claire wondered what she should tell these people. Then she decided to play it safe and say as little as possible. Besides, if word got around that she had some juicy details, a line would form in front of the table and she would become the star attraction.

  People continued to stop at the table and more questions flew in her direction. Each time, Claire shrugged and said, “Sorry, I just work here.” After a while, the curious got tired and drifted off to talk to other dealers. She hoped she hadn’t cost Gil any sales.

  The pace began to pick up as the morning wore on. A camera crew set up in a far corner, doing interviews with some of the more famous authors. Convention volunteers walked the room to make sure everyone was happy. Several more volunteers were set up by the two entrances, checking that every attendee had a badge, proving they had paid for the right to be there. Aisles were getting crowded and the noise level in the room was rising.

  Several tables down from her, a dealer was selling ornate bookmarks, pens, and jewelry. There were tables piled high with magazines—current and back issues—alongside old pulps and shiny new bestsellers. As she sat there, Claire mentally planned which tables she would visit when Gil returned.

  Fifteen minutes went by, then another. Claire had only had time for a quick cup of tea after Gil’s call for help. Now she was hungry and had to find a rest room. After asking the dealer at the next table to cover for her, Claire hurried out of the room.

  The ladies’ room closest to the dealers’ room had a line of irritated women backed up to the door. Claire rushed back into the hallway and down to the gift shop, where she remembered having seen rest rooms in the corner next to a bank of pay phones. Her effort was rewarded when she pushed the door open and found she practically had the place to herself. An attractive woman was standing in front of the mirror, fixing her lipstick, and never even glanced up when Claire entered the last stall.

  The bathroom was so still, and the Muzak version of one of her favorite songs made her appreciate the first calm moment she’d had all day. But the mood was interrupted by the sound of metal screeching across the tiled floor. After listening for a second, Claire figured out it was a bucket.

  “I tell you, LaVonne, he’s better off without her.”

  “That’s what I’ve been tellin’ you for months, Ty. He was fine before she come along.”

  “He’s a man of quality, not meant to go slummin’ with the likes of that one.”

  The other woman laughed. “You still carrying on because he didn’t want to go out with you, huh? I thought things was better between you two since you embarrassed yourself like that.”

  “Things was. No matter, though. With her always there, always bitchin’ at him, he’s different. It ain’t the same, no matter what he says.”

  “Wendell is truly a unique man. Any woman here would snatch that brother up.”

  Claire’s ears perked up at the mention of Wendell’s name.

  “He swears she ain’t like that, though, LaVonne.”

  “Tell it to my sister. She’s got the locker next to that bitch. One day, she notices Gracie has a gun in her locker. One of those big ones, not some little play toy. So she says, ‘What you planning to do with that?’ and Gracie takes it out, holds it to my little sister’s head, and says if she asks any more questions, she’ll find out.”

  “But LaVonne, I still don’t understand why she’d go and kill that man? Don’t you find that bizarre even for her?”

  “Graciella comes from money. She’s used to nice things. Wendell’s all the time bringing her expensive stuff to make her happy.”

  “Well, Miss High-and-Mighty will be havin’ Uncle Sam payin’ for all her nice things now, I suppose.”

  Both women laughed.

  “An’ poor Wendell, maybe he’ll realize once and for all that she’s nothin’ more than a murderin’ whore. Maybe he’ll be back to the nice, sweet Wendell he used to be.”

  “So you can have another crack at him. Ain’t that right, Ty?”

  “I told you before, LaVonne—that’s all over with.”

  The women worked for a few minutes. It sounded to Claire as though one was scrubbing the floor while the other filled the paper-towel holders and soap dispensers.

  “Have you talked to the police yet, Ty?”

  “Not yet. How about you?”

  “No. Maybe tomorrow.”

  “Maybe so. You just about finished with that?”

  Claire didn’t know why, but she held her breath. Obviously, the women hadn’t noticed her way back in the end stall. But before she had a chance to decide what to do, the room was filled with voices. She could tell they were mystery fans. Then that bucket screeched across the floor again—she really hated that sound!—and LaVonne and Ty were gone.

  The restaurant was crowded. The coffee shop was crowded. Even the snack bar near the pool was crowded. Claire stood near the shallow end, trying to decide what to do as she watched a father splash with his litt
le boy. Should she wait in line at the coffee shop? Or should she try to find Gil and tell him about the conversation she had just overheard? Would the police be interested in what she’d found out, or did they already know? And if they knew, would they think she was interfering? Was she really hungry? While she stood there, she noticed a candy machine over by a Ping-Pong table.

  It was a tough choice, but she went with the Mounds bar. Grabbing a Coke from the soda machine, she promised herself she’d eat a nutritious salad for dinner to make up for the vending-machine snack. Then she hurried back to the dealers’ room.

  Chapter 30

  “Well, what you think?” Donovan asked Gil.

  The detective had just finished questioning two mystery writers, the one who’d had ten novels published, and one who was famous for writing historical mysteries. Gil had watched and listened, never saying one word during either interview.

  “Isn’t it more important what you think?” Gil asked.

  “I need your input here, Gil. I’m on the outside looking in.”

  “Okay. But tell me why you chose these two particular writers to question this morning?”

  “Well . . . I asked around about who was competitive with this Westerly guy, and these two were the names I got.”

  “From whom?”

  Donovan pursed his lips for a moment, then said, “I don’t think I want to say.”

  “Okay, fine, protect your source,” Gil said. “How come you’ve been using me right out in the open like this?”

  “Why? Do you have anything to hide?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Well, maybe my source does.”

  “And maybe your source is just using you. Maybe he has his own agenda,” Gil said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “These two men you just interrogated, they hardly knew Robin Westerly. Why would they’ve had any kind of motive to kill him?”

  “They were competitors, weren’t they?” the detective asked.

  “Detective,” Gil explained, “these are midlist writers. This is not a dog-eat-dog business we’re involved with here. Nobody’d move up a notch by killing Robin Westerly.”

  “I still don’t understand,” Donovan said. “Explain midlist.”

  “It’s what we call mystery writers who are not enjoying the success of a Walter Mosley or Michael Connelly. They don’t get large advances, and they don’t get the push from their publishers the way the big boys do. Believe me, whoever killed Westerly had more of a motive than competition.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know,” Gil said. “You’re the professional. Could it have been an accident?”

  “Maybe.”

  “You know, I don’t think I asked you this before,” Gil said suddenly. “Why didn’t anyone report hearing a shot?”

  “With a single shot, people aren’t always sure what they heard,” Donovan said. “The gun that was used was a twenty-five; it’s a small handgun, one that doesn’t make much noise. And we’re not certain that no one heard the shot. Maybe the maid did. That’s one of the questions we’re going to ask her when my men bring her in.”

  “I see.”

  Donovan checked his notepad, regarding it for a moment.

  “Is that your list of suspects?” Gil asked.

  “Some of them.”

  “Can I have a look?”

  Donovan hesitated.

  “You said you want my input, right?”

  Donovan shrugged. “Right,” he said, and handed it over.

  For such a big man, Donovan had a small, childish scrawl. The only reason Gil was able to make out the names was that he was familiar with them.

  “You’ve got two more writers on here like those you just spoke to. Interrogating them will be a waste of time.”

  “I think I should be the judge of that,” Donovan said. “Don’t you agree?”

  “Hey,” Gil said, “I’m just giving you my input. I could go back to my table in the dealers’ room and be making some money right now.”

  “Okay, okay,” Donovan said, “take it easy. So if I’ll be wasting my time with those two, what about the names that are left?”

  “It’s logical to question them.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because one is Westerly’s agent, and the other’s his editor,” Gil explained. “They know each other; they’re more than just acquaintances who see each other at a convention once a year.”

  “Okay, that makes sense,” Donovan said, reclaiming his notebook. “Now tell me which one this would be.”

  Gil looked at the doorway and saw Nicholas Ablow standing there. “That’s Ablow. He is—or was—Westerly’s agent.”

  “Mr. Ablow!” Donovan called, waving his arm. “Right here, please.”

  Chapter 31

  Nicholas Ablow walked to the table tentatively, taking oddly small steps for such a tall, gangly man. Donovan stood up as the man reached them.

  “I’m Detective Donovan,” he said, extending his hand, “I assume you know Gil Hunt?”

  “Yes,” Ablow said, slowly drawing his hand back from Donovan’s vigorous shake. “May I ask what he’s doing here?”

  “Mr. Hunt is assisting me with my inquiries,” Donovan said. “He’s sort of my . . . guide through the mystery world. Have a seat, please.”

  Ablow didn’t look happy about having Gil there, but he sat down. Because of his height and extreme slenderness, it seemed as if he folded himself into the chair.

  “I have some questions about your client,” Donovan said.

  “Such a terrible tragedy, but I don’t see what I can do to help.”

  “Well, you knew Mr. Westerly better than most people, didn’t you?”

  Warily, Ablow said, “Perhaps.”

  “Why don’t I just ask the questions,” Donovan suggested, “and you answer them to the best of your ability. How would that be?”

  To Gil, it sounded as if the detective were talking to a reticent child. He knew Ablow to be a somewhat fussy but fairly sophisticated man. Why he wasn’t balking at Donovan’s tone surprised Gil.

  “Very well,” Ablow said. He crossed his legs and rested his hands in his lap, sitting away from the table. It appeared as if the man didn’t want to bother having to push his chair away from the table when the time came to leave.

  “What was Mr. Westerly’s relationship with his wife like?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know,” Ablow said. “You should ask his wife that.”

  “I did.” Donovan didn’t elaborate. “I want the opinion of an outsider.”

  Ablow hesitated, picked a piece of nonexistent lint from his trousers, and said, “They seemed . . . content.”

  “Content, or contentious?” Donovan asked.

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Other people I’ve talked to said the two argued fairly often, and in public.”

  “I hadn’t noticed.”

  Donovan stared at Ablow long enough for the agent to begin fidgeting.

  “I don’t think you’re being very honest with me, sir,” the detective said finally. “If other people had witnessed the couple fighting, surely you, who knew them on a more personal level, had seen it, as well.”

  “Oh, all right,” Ablow said then, “so they argued. A lot of married couples do.”

  “What did they argue about?”

  “Several things,” Ablow said. “Robin didn’t like the way Gloria tried to . . . direct his career. She was also not happy with the way her own writing was going.”

  “Are you representing her, as well?”

  “I represented her on one matter as a favor to Robin.”

  “But you wouldn’t say she was your client?”

  “No, I wouldn’t say that.”

  “All right,” Donovan said, “let’s move on. Who do you think might have held a grudge against Mr. Westerly?”

  “A grudge? I think it more likely we’re talking about jealousy here, Detective, not a g
rudge.”

  “Really? Enlighten me.”

  Gil thought Donovan’s choice of words and phrases in talking with Ablow were meant to provoke the man, perhaps make the usually guarded agent drop his defenses. He’d watched Donovan interrogate three men so far, and he thought the detective was very good at his job—or at least this portion of it. On the whole, the persona Donovan seemed bent on displaying struck Gil as being a bit Columboesque.

  “Robin is—was—an award-winning author. He was on the verge of great things.”

  “Such as?”

  “I believe he would have cracked the bestseller lists with his next book . . . or possibly the one after that.”

  Gil knew Ablow was exaggerating. Robin Westerly’s books were nowhere near making the bestseller lists and, as a bookseller, Gil had never seen greatness in the man’s future. The author had gotten excellent reviews, but they had not often translated into sales. He had a core readership, but it didn’t go much beyond that.

  “So you think this caused some others to become jealous?”

  “Of course.”

  “Jealous enough to kill him?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know,” Ablow said. “I am simply trying to answer your questions to the best of my ability.”

  Gil hid a smile. It was obvious the agent was now attempting to handle the detective. He suspected Ablow was a shrewd negotiator. Watching them was much more interesting than watching Donovan question the previous two men had been.

  “And I appreciate that, sir.”

  Donovan questioned Ablow for ten minutes more, but Gil couldn’t see that the detective had learned anything important from the man.

  “All right, Mr. Ablow,” Donovan said finally, “I think that’s all for now. I appreciate your coming by and talking to me.”

  Ablow stood up, taking a moment to adjust the drape of his suit jacket. “I assume you have a few suspects?”

  “On the contrary, Mr. Ablow, I have an entire hotelful.”

  Gil had the feeling the agent wanted to ask if that included him, but in the end the man simply nodded at both of them, turned, and used a long, purposeful stride to take his leave.