“Okay,” he said. “Okay. I’m sorry. Let’s both calm down.” He looked around and saw that, with Wendell having been taken away, he and Claire were now the center of attention.
“Let’s got to the bar,” he said, “and I’ll tell you everything that happened.”
She was very tempted just to walk out the front door and go home. “I don’t know.”
“Please?” he asked.
“Well... all right.”
Chapter 42
They decided not to go to the hotel bar, heading instead to the one across the street, where they had been together once before. They found a table and Gil went to the bar to get a beer for himself and a martini for Claire.
When he returned to the table, he set her drink in front of her, sat down, and took a healthy swig from his glass.
“Jesus,” he said, shaking his head, “I still can’t believe everything that’s happened.”
“Tell me about it.” She waited for him to respond, and when he didn’t, she said, “No, I mean it. Tell me about it now.”
“Oh sorry. I guess I’m still kind of in shock. Okay, Iwent and met Donovan this morning. . . .”
He tried giving her the condensed version, but she wanted every tiny detail, and every conversation verbatim—especially when he got to the part about meeting Graciella.
When he was finished, she asked, “So, do you think she’s guilty?”
“I don’t know. She’s got a gigantic chip on her shoulder, and I have to say she’s extremely bitchy to Wendell, who’s only trying to help her.”
“He’s in love with her. Men in love are oblivious,” Claire said, wondering why Gil didn’t know that. “And being bitchy doesn’t mean she’s guilty of anything. What about Wendell?”
“What about him?”
“Do you think he could have killed Westerly?”
“Wendell? I don’t know. What kind of a motive could he have had?”
“Maybe Westerly made a move on Graciella. You know, the exotic-looking maid? Maybe he found himself alone with her in the room and made a pass. Graciella told Wendell, or maybe he walked in on them?”
“Is making a pass at someone a reason to be murdered?”
“Believe me, I’ve known quite a few men who think it is. But maybe he didn’t just make a pass; maybe he . . . attacked her, either verbally or physically.”
“All I know is that Wendell doesn’t belong in custody right now for kidnapping me.”
“I am so sorry,” she said. “I guess that’s my fault.”
“No, Donovan made the call, not you. And I’m partially to blame—for not leaving you a more coherent message.”
“So, what do we do now?” she asked.
He stared across the table at her, wondering why she was even still there. He dared not ask, though. It might have brought her to her senses and sent her running home.
“I have to get back to the hotel,” he said. “Detective Donovan is supposed to take me in to make a statement. I have to convince him to release Wendell.”
“Just because he didn’t kidnap you doesn’t mean he didn’t do something,” she said. “And what about the maid? Graciella? Why didn’t you tell Donovan about her?”
“Wendell didn’t want me to,” Gil said. “He made it very clear that I should keep quiet.”
“Just because he loves her and wants to protect her, he certainly shouldn’t expect you to feel the same way toward her. And he can’t expect you to withhold anything from the police.”
“No, but he trusts me. They both do.”
“If she trusts you so much,” Claire asked, “then why didn’t she come back with you?”
“All right, so she doesn’t trust me completely . . . yet. But he does.”
“So how did you leave it with her?”
“I’m supposed to meet with her again tomorrow,” he said. “She’s going to decide whether or not to go to the police with me.”
“But what about Wendell?” she asked. “Will she talk to you without him being there?”
“I’ll just have to try to get him released first, then worry about that later.”
“Will you still meet with her if he ends up in jail?” she asked.
“I guess the question will be, Will she still meet with me? Which brings me to another point.”
He checked his watch. If he wasn’t at the hotel when Donovan returned, the detective might put an APB out on him.
“What point?”
“I’ll make this quick,” he said. “I know I have no right to ask, but . . .”.
“But what? Come on, spit it out.” She smiled, trying to put him at ease. “You know you want to.”
“I was thinking . . . maybe Graciella would be more comfortable talking to a woman than to a man . . . than to me.”
She sat back in her chair and stared at him, the look on her face a combination of surprise and incredulity.
“You want me to go with you to meet her?”
“The, uh, thought had crossed my mind.”
“Why me?” she asked. “Why not one of your friends, another woman you know at the convention?”
“Because,” he said, “believe it or not, I feel I already know you better than any other woman here.”
Chapter 43
The couple went back to the hotel to wait for Donovan together. No one paid attention to them as they crossed the lobby to the bar. The place was quiet and things were back to normal.
They sat in a corner, drinking coffee and nibbling complimentary peanuts.
“What about your table?”
Gil shrugged. “Guess I’ll have to write today off.”
“You didn’t do too badly.”
“Really?”
She nodded. “I made some nice sales. None of the expensive stuff, but a lot of Westerly’s books.”
“That figures,” he said. “Well, so maybe the day wasn’t a total loss—businesswise, I mean.”
“Is the dealers’ room open tomorrow?”
“It’s supposed to be, but who knows what I’ll be doing then.” When she didn’t take the bait, he asked, “Have you decided to go with me to meet Graciella?”
“Still thinking about it. I’ll let you know in the morning.”
Gil looked up and saw Donovan enter the hotel. The detective stopped just inside and scanned the lobby.
“There he is. I better go.”
She reached out and put her hand on his arm. “Meet me here for breakfast tomorrow?”
“Sure. How’s nine?”
She nodded. “Be careful. I know you want to help Wendell, but you really don’t know him. Running into someone once a year doesn’t make you buddies. And you don’t want to end up in jail yourself, do you?”
“The answer to that is a definite no,” he said, then added to himself, Especially not now that I’ve found you. “You’re really kind of amazing, you know?” he said aloud, surprising himself.
“Of course I know! You can’t be this amazing and not know it, can you?” She hoped her attempt at humor hadn’t come off sounding egotistical.
He returned her smile and then went out to the lobby to meet Donovan.
Gil was left to cool his heels in an interrogation room that was painted such a horrible drab green, he swore it almost smelled moldy. When Donovan finally entered, he was carrying two containers of coffee. He sat across from Gil and placed one in front of him.
“I’ve got sugar in my pocket, if you want it,” he said. “Sorry, no milk.”
“I take it black.” Gil would have liked to ignore the offer, but he needed it. He removed the plastic lid and took a healthy sip. It was lukewarm and bitter, but at least it was coffee.
“I’m sorry you’ve had to wait so long, Mr. Hunt,” Donovan said.
“I’m sure there was a reason.”
“There’s always a reason,” the detective said. He had a folder with him and opened it now. Gil wondered if it was a prop. He looked around and didn’t see a mirror on the wall. Of cour
se, that didn’t mean someone else wasn’t listening.
“Mr. Hunt, I’d like you to tell me where you and Wendell Payne went today, and what you did.”
“Where did he say we were?”
“I’d like to hear your version before I tell you that.”
“Well, he didn’t kidnap me; if you’re still considering that theory, you’re dead wrong.”
“Glad to hear it,” Donovan said. “That clears up some of this. If that’s your statement, then we can’t very well charge him with kidnapping.”
“So you’ll let him go, then?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“He’s still a suspect in the murder of Robin Westerly.”
“That’s crazy,” Gil said. “Why on earth would he want to kill him?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out. Why would he, or his girlfriend, kill a mystery writer staying at a hotel where they both work?”
“Are they the only ones you’re considering for the crime?”
“The investigation is still wide open,” Donovan said. “There are a lot of suspects.”
“A hotelful, Detective?” Gil asked.
“Well,” Donovan said, “not quite that many. And maybe you can help me narrow it down even more.”
Chapter 44
Gil didn’t have a story.
He didn’t want to tell Donovan where he and Wendell had gone. And he wasn’t ready to turn Graciella over to the police. It would be better for her if she turned herself in.
“So?” Donovan asked.
“The track.”
“What?”
“I had Wendell take me to the track.”
“The racetrack?”
“Yes,” Gil said. “Ak-Sar-Ben.”
“I know the name of the track in town, Mr. Hunt,” Donovan said sarcastically. “You mean to tell me you left your business, not to mention Mrs. Duncan, to go to the track?”
“That’s right.”
“That sounds—”
“Inconsiderate?” Gil suggested. “Irresponsible?”
“Yes. And it also sounds like a lie.”
Gil sat back in his chair. “Why would I lie to a police detective?”
“That was going to be my next question.”
“What did Wendell tell you?”
Donovan hesitated, then said, “He told me he took you to the track. You two must have worked this story out ahead of time.”
“Why? Because somehow we knew you’d be waiting for him back at the hotel? And we also knew that as soon as we walked inside you were going to arrest him? We’d have to be mind readers, wouldn’t we?”
Gil couldn’t believe his luck. The lie had been all he could come up with, because it was all he and Wendell had ever had in common. Wendell coming up with the same story was more than he could have expected, but sometimes things just worked out.
“You obviously didn’t stay for all the races,” Donovan said, “so why did you have to go to the track at all?”
“I had a horse I liked.”
“What horse?” Donovan asked, opening his notebook. “What race?”
“Fifth race,” Gil said off the top of his head. “Horse number eight.”
“What was the horse’s name?”
“I don’t know.”
Donovan studied him. “So, you got a tip on a horse and you don’t remember the name?”
“Who remembers horse’s names?” Gil asked. “I got a tip to play number eight in the fifth race. I did it.”
“And?”
“And it lost, so we came back.”
“Why did Wendell stay with you?” Donovan asked. “Why didn’t he drop you off and go back to work?”
“When I told him I was just going to play one horse in one race because I had a tip, he decided to stay and put some money on it, too.”
“And it lost.”
“Yes.” Gil shrugged. “Those’re the breaks. Not every tip comes in.”
“How did the horse run?” Donovan asked. “Where did it finish?”
“Look, Detective,” Gil said, “all I know is that I played the horse to win and it didn’t. Where it finished doesn’t matter to me.”
“How it ran doesn’t matter to you? Did it go to the front? Come from behind? Was it blocked in the stretch?”
“I don’t live here,” Gil explained. “It’s not like I’m going to follow the horse and play it again.”
“Well, I do live here,” Donovan said. “Maybe I’d like to follow it and play it.”
“Be my guest. I’ll get the name for you.”
“No,” Donovan said, “that’s okay.” He closed his notebook and put it away. “I’ll check the results and find out the name for myself.”
“Suit yourself.”
Gil wondered how long he had before the lie fell apart. Would Donovan go to the track to check the results? Make a call? Or check the papers in the morning? He just wanted the lie to last long enough for him to meet with Graciella the next day and bring her here to the police station.
Donovan stood up.
“Are we done?” Gil asked.
“With the questions,” the detective said. “There’s no point in asking any more until I know whether or not you lied to me. I do need you to write down your statement, though—that you went to the track with Wendell Payne willingly and were not kidnapped.”
“I can do that.”
“I’ll get you a pad,” Donovan said; “then you’ll have to wait while I have it typed up, so you can sign it.”
“How long will that take?”
“Not long.” Donovan left to get Gil a pad and pen.
Gil wondered if that would be long enough for Donovan to call the track. And he hoped that horse number eight had not won the fifth.
Chapter 45
While Gil was at the police station, writing out his statement, Claire had gone home to calm down. She put on her favorite blue robe and curled up on the sofa with a cup of hot tea. Half an hour into an HBO movie, her son, Paul, came bursting into the room. “There you are!”
“Here I am,” she said.
“You could have called, you know.”
Claire laughed. “Hey, I thought that was my line.”
“Come on, Mom, you know what I mean. It’s all over the news. That writer guy getting killed. Why did you even have to go back there today? It’s not safe!”
“Slow down. I was doing a favor for a friend.”
“Gil Hunt, right?”
“Yes, I told you about him. And there probably isn’t a safer place in town now, what with all the police around that hotel. Everyone’s on their best behavior. It’s like I have my own personal bodyguards.”
“This isn’t funny,” he said. “How do you know who to trust? There’s a psycho out there killing people—not like on TV, Mom, real people. You’re doing everything you tell me not to,” he complained, plopping down next to her. “You’re trusting people too soon.”
She put her cup down on the coffee table and hugged him. “Paul, sweetie, I know it’s been tough on you since Dad and I split up. But you’re a kid.”
“I’m starting college in the fall, Mom.”
“Honey, I don’t need a father or a husband right now. I need a son—a seventeen-year-old son. I need him to be happy and have fun at his prom. I need him to inspire me with all kinds of great stories about college and girls. So please, stop worrying about your old mother.”
“You’re not old!”
“And you’re sweet. And smart enough to flatter me into spending the next few days safe on this sofa instead of out having a life. Like you have.”
“Fine. So you’re okay?” He looked at her with those china blue eyes of his.
“Just tired.”
“Then I’m going to the movies.”
“Good. Have fun. Get outta here.”
Paul started for the door. “Oh, old Mom, have you told your boyfriend about your bouncing baby boy yet?”
“Yes.�
�
“Just checkin’.”
She listened to his footsteps shuffling across the porch and down the steps. The engine in his old car finally turned over, and he drove off.
Would Paul like Gil? she wondered. Or would her son feel threatened by this man who was so different from his father? Gil Hunt was unlike anyone she or her son had ever known.
And now he wanted her to go with him and talk to Graciella. What if the woman had really killed Robin Westerly? That meant Gil was asking her to meet with a murderer. The prospect both thrilled and repulsed her. She shivered and drank more tea to chase the chill away.
But what if Graciella was innocent? And turning herself in to the police was the only way to prove it? And what if she would do that only if a woman showed up with Gil tomorrow? Then Claire would be helping an innocent woman avoid a murder rap.
Rap? She was starting to sound like some dame in one of those noir films. Claire found that funny and almost laughed out loud, but she felt silly.
She reached for the remote, searching for another movie—that was just starting. Maybe something on TCM. She found exactly what she wanted—The Big Sleep—and settled back into the cushions to watch it, thinking it wouldn’t be such a bad thing to have Gil Hunt sitting on the other end of the sofa watching it, too.
Wendell Payne sat in the cell with his hands hanging down between his knees and his head bowed. He was worried about what Graciella would do if the police kept him in jail too long. They weren’t going to let him talk to Mr. Hunt, so he could only hope that the man would be decent enough to meet with Gracie anyway, even without him. And he had to hope that Gracie wouldn’t panic when she saw Gil Hunt drive up to the warehouse alone.
He wondered how much trouble he might have gotten Gil into by telling that lie about taking him to the track. It was the only story he could come up with. He was so nervous about his Gracie, he couldn’t think straight.
Gil waited impatiently for his statement to be typed up. He hoped Donovan was not going to reenter the room and shove a results chart under his nose for that day’s races at Ak-Sar-Ben. If Donovan found out about his lie while he was still in custody, he might decide to keep Gil in jail overnight. Gil had never been in jail before. In fact, he’d never even thought about being in jail before.
Same Time, Same Murder: A Gil and Claire Hunt Mystery Page 14