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

by Robert J. Randisi

  “What if the police released Wendell?” Claire asked.

  “He’d probably go looking for me at the hotel, and when he didn’t find me, he’d go to meet Graciella himself, hoping I’d show up.”

  “You never told me exactly why Wendell picked you to talk to her.”

  He shrugged. “I really don’t know. I guess he thought I was a decent guy. Maybe he just doesn’t know anyone else he can trust.”

  “So he trusted you. A guy he sees for a few days once a year?”

  “I guess so,” Gil said. “I can’t explain it.”

  She studied him for a few moments, then stared out the windshield. “I think I can.”

  Chapter 49

  It was 5:50 when Gil pulled Claire’s car into the parking lot of the Sparkling Clean Laundry Service.

  “Do you see her car?” Claire asked.

  “I don’t even know what it looks like,” Gil said. He studied the other vehicles in the lot but didn’t know if they were the same ones that had been there the last time. Maybe the Ford Taurus, but he couldn’t be sure.

  They sat there for a few moments, waiting to see if another car would pull up.

  “If she’s inside, can she see us?”

  “I think so.”

  “Then maybe we’re making her nervous by just sitting here.”

  “You’re right,” he said. “We better go in. If she got here first, it’ll be unlocked. Wait for me.”

  Gil got out of the car and rushed around to the other side to open Claire’s door. If someone started shooting, he wanted to be able to protect her.

  “Thank you,” she said. As she got out, she realized how tense every muscle in her body was.

  “Stay behind me,” he said as they approached the building.

  When they got to the entrance, they found it unlocked. Gil started for the office, taking the same path he had last time. Claire followed, never taking her eyes off the office door in front of them. But before they reached it, someone opened the door a crack.

  “Stop there!” Graciella shouted. “Where’s Wendell?”

  Claire looked around, but the only cover she could see were pallets piled with bundles of sheets and towels. She wondered if they would stop a bullet.

  “Graciella, listen,” Gil said. “The police picked Wendell up yesterday when we got back to the hotel. They were waiting for us.”

  “How come they didn’t pick you up, too?”

  “They did,” he explained. “They questioned me and let me go, but they’re holding him.”

  “What for?”

  “Well, they thought he had kidnapped me.”

  “That’s crazy!”

  “I explained everything to them, though.”

  “So why the hell they still got him, then?”

  “Because he won’t tell them where you are.”

  There was silence; then she said, “And you didn’t tell them, either?”

  “I don’t know where you’re staying, remember? I only know about this place.”

  “Who’s that with you?”

  “A friend of mine. Her name is Claire Duncan. She’s attending the same convention I am.”

  “Why is she here?”

  “I thought maybe you’d feel better talking to another woman,” Gil said. “You can trust her. She wants to help.”

  “Yeah, you wanted to help me, too, and now Wendell’s in jail.”

  “But I didn’t put him there.”

  “Graciella,” Claire said, “I was with Gil when he found you with Mr. Westerly.”

  “Oh,” Graciella said, “you’re that lady?”

  “Yes. And Mr. Hunt’s telling you the truth. It’s not his fault Wendell’s in jail.”

  “Then whose is it?”

  Now they were stumped, wondering what they should tell her. They looked at each other.

  Gil was about to speak, but just then Claire shouted, “It’s your fault.”

  “Mine?”

  “He refuses to cooperate with the police. They want to know where you are and he won’t tell them.”

  Gil tensed, not knowing how Graciella would take what Claire had just said.

  “He won’t talk?”

  “No,” Claire said. “He loves you and thinks he’s protecting you. Please, can we come in and talk? Maybe the three of us can figure something out.”

  They waited while Graciella made her mind up. Gil was also looking around for cover, formulating an emergency plan. He could push Claire behind the pallet on his left if—

  “All right,” Graciella said at last. “I guess you’re okay. Both of you. You can come in.”

  She swung the door wide open but did not appear in the doorway. Obviously, she was going to wait for them inside.

  “I’ll go first,” Gil said to Claire; “just stay behind me.”

  “If her gun is as big as those women said it was, it’ll probably shoot a hole right through both of us.”

  “Thank you, Claire,” Gil said. “That never occurred to me.”

  Chapter 50

  Cautious, Gil entered the room, followed closely by Claire. Graciella was seated behind the desk, staring down at it morosely. Gil could not see her hands, so he didn’t know if she was holding a gun or not.

  “Graciella?” he said.

  He and Claire stopped just inside the door. He wanted to be able to push Claire out of the room if he had to.

  “I don’t know what to do,” she said, without looking up. “I don’t have any money, Wendell’s in jail, and . . . I’m all alone.”

  Claire brushed past Gil, and when he tried to stop her, she pushed his hands away.

  “Graciella,” she said, approaching the desk, “come with us. We’ll go to Detective Donovan and you can turn yourself in. That will look much better for you than if you run and they have to hunt you down.”

  Graciella looked up at Claire with pain in her eyes. Her face was haggard. “It’s not fair, is it?” she asked pitifully.

  “What?”

  “Life.”

  “No,” Claire said, “it’s not fair. I have a divorce behind me to prove it.”

  “I came up here with such dreams. I wanted to begin a brand-new life. But they don’t let you. It’s hard, very, very hard.” She looked at Claire then. “I wasn’t always poor. My grandfather was an important man in Mexico City. We had money, but my family lost all of it. My father . . . he killed himself, and my mother died only a year later in the gutter. So I came here to succeed. . . .”

  “Gra—” Claire started forward to comfort the woman, but she stopped when Graciella brought the gun up from her lap. Quickly, Claire’s heart leaped into her throat. Behind her, Gil experienced the same sensation.

  “Do I look like a success?” Graciella asked both of them. “I clean toilets to make my money! And now because I was unlucky enough to be in the wrong place, I will be hounded.”

  “No one is going to hound you,” Claire said. “Not if you give yourself up and tell your story.”

  Suddenly, Graciella smiled. “You’re a nice lady. Very simpatico.”

  “Put the gun down, Graciella, please,” Claire said.

  Gil was impressed with Claire. He knew she had to be as terrified as he was, but he couldn’t hear one quiver in her voice.

  “You know,” she said, “Wendell brought me this gun for protection, but sometimes I just feel like usin’ it on myself.”

  “And what would that accomplish?” Claire asked. “Do you want them to win?”

  “‘Them’? You mean the police?”

  “Yes,” Claire said, “and everyone else who has treated you unfairly. Show them you can succeed in spite of everything you’ve been through.”

  “But I can’t.”

  Then Claire surprised Gil by asking Graciella the question he had never thought to ask her himself: “Did you kill Mr. Westerly?”

  “No, I did not,” Graciella said, turning the gun over in her hands. It was a big black automatic—Gil and Claire knew at least tha
t much from watching cop shows. A man’s gun, Gil thought.

  “Gracie,” Gil said, taking a couple of tentative steps forward, “why not give me the gun and then we can all figure out what to do next? You don’t want to take the chance of someone getting hurt, do you?”

  Graciella switched her gaze from Claire to Gil. Her grip on the gun loosened, causing it to drop slightly toward her lap.

  “I don’t want to hurt nobody. But I don’t want to go to jail, neither.”

  “If you’re innocent, it will come out,” Gil said. He moved closer still, until he was even with Claire. This close, he could feel the tension in her body.

  “Come on, Gracie,” Gil said, “give it to me.”

  He got close enough to be able to reach across the desk and accept the gun, if she was willing to give it up, when all hell broke loose.

  Suddenly, the room was filled with uniformed police officers as they came charging through the doorway, guns drawn. Gil and Claire were shoved roughly aside.

  “Drop it! Drop it!”

  “Hands up!

  “Don’t move!”

  Graciella was yanked out of her chair and the gun torn from her hands before she could do anything. They got her down on the ground the same way they’d taken Wendell down the day before. Then they cuffed her. When that was done, Donovan came walking in.

  “Graciella Sanchez, you’re under arrest,” Donovan said. “Take her out.”

  The cops pulled her up off the floor and she glared venomously at both Gil and Claire.

  “You told me to trust you, and you brought the police!” she spat. “Cabron! Puta! I’ll make you regret what you’ve done to me. I’ll get both of you! No matter what I have to do, I’ll—”

  “Get her out of here!” Donovan shouted.

  As they dragged her from the room, still shouting epithets in Spanish, Gil faced Donovan.

  “You son of a bitch, you followed me?”

  “We’ve had you under surveillance all day, Mr. Hunt. By the way, real smooth move by the fountain.”

  “You bastard—” Claire began, but Donovan cut her off.

  “Don’t make me arrest the two of you,” he said, “because believe me, I can come up with some charges.”

  “She didn’t kill anyone,” Claire said.

  “That’s for a court to decide, not me,” Donovan told her. “My job is to bring her in.”

  “Jesus,” Gil said to nobody in particular, “she thinks we gave her up. . . .”

  “What does it matter what she thinks?” Donovan asked. “Or what anybody thinks? You folks are through with this. Right here and right now! Go home and forget about it. Read your books. Leave solving the mysteries to the professionals.”

  Gil and Claire, speechless in their anger and frustration, glared at Donovan as he started toward the door.

  At the door, the detective turned and said, “Oh, and Gil? You should have played that horse, man. Number Eight horse in the fifth? It won and paid sixty-eight dollars!”

  Chapter 51

  If that good-for-nothin’ wasn’t there when she got out, there’d be hell to pay. But she couldn’t piss him off until after. Then she’d punch it into his thick head, if she had to, show him just how much better off he’d be if he realized she didn’t need anything from him except to drive her out there. And if she had the money, she wouldn’t even need him for that.

  She didn’t need anyone—especially not no man. She could take care of herself. There were a couple of bitches and one guard in particular who were carrying around the scars to prove it.

  Poor sap, writing all those damn letters. Still goin’ on and on about love and that kind of bullshit. The only thing interesting at all in any of them were the newspaper clippings he’d stuck inside. Like the one announcing that couple was getting married. What a cheesy-ass picture, with all them teeth and smiles. It made her wanna puke. And then the announcement that they were living in St. Louis. Her with that fancy job on TV and him and all his bookstore shit.

  Oh, yeah, there was one letter she’d kept. Wendell’d told her about a conversation he’d had with one of his brain-dead friends, the guy who worked out at that resort—the one where those Hunts were going to be staying.

  So, after they saw to it that she got locked up—good and tight—they went off and got rich and famous. Good for them. That’d make the payoff even better. Maybe they’d have some of that money stashed in their fancy room. And maybe she’d just take it when she was done.

  Chapter 52

  Gil stopped talking and poured himself another cup of coffee.

  “Wow!” Tucker said.

  “I never imagined . . . I had no idea you two went through something like that,” Reagan said.

  The coffee had gone cold and Gil put his cup down abruptly.

  “I can make some more,” Claire offered, but he waved her away.

  “No, it’s fine,” he said. “I’m dry after all that talking. I’ll just have some water.”

  “Do you mind a few questions?” Reagan asked.

  “You must be tired of the sound of my voice. Claire can take over now.”

  “So what happened to Graciella?” Reagan asked.

  Claire handed Gil a glass of water and then sat down next to him. “She went to prison. We don’t know all the details, but apparently her lawyer plea-bargained and the charge was reduced to manslaughter.”

  “In jail for how long?” Tucker asked.

  “We’re not sure.”

  “But . . . do you think she did it?”

  Claire looked at Gil, who simply shrugged.

  “To this day,” Claire said, “we don’t think they had enough evidence to prove she did anything.”

  “She had a gun,” Reagan pointed out.

  “But it wasn’t the same caliber as the one that killed Westerly,” Claire replied.

  “She was going to run,” Tucker said.

  “Out of panic.”

  “And what about Wendell?” Tucker asked.

  “Still in Omaha,” Gil said. “He kept his job.”

  “Do you suppose he and Graciella stayed in touch?” Reagan asked.

  “We don’t know,” Claire said.

  “We’re talking about two love stories here,” Reagan commented, “yours and theirs.”

  “I thought we were talking about murder,” Gil said.

  “That, too, but Reagan’s a romantic. She would zero in on the romantic part of any story,” Tucker said.

  Reagan playfully punched her husband in the arm but didn’t deny the accusation.

  “I get the feeling you two think she was innocent,” Reagan said.

  “It doesn’t matter what we think,” Gil said. “She ended up in prison anyway.”

  Claire leaned over and rubbed Gil’s back.

  Reagan thought a moment and then asked Gil, “Do you feel guilty?”

  “Of course I do. That damn cop used me, followed me—”

  “Followed us,” Claire interjected.

  “—and as a result, Graciella ended up in jail. I tried talking to Wendell, but he wouldn’t have anything to do with me. And that bastard Donovan never returned one of my calls.”

  “Graciella wouldn’t see us, either,” Claire said.

  “So she must still blame you, even after all these years,” Reagan said. “That’s so sad, for you and for her.”

  They all fell silent for a few moments and it became obvious that the evening had finally come to an end.

  “Well,” Tucker said, “it’s getting late.”

  The four of them stood, and Gil and Claire walked their guests to the door.

  During a hug good-bye, Reagan said to Gil, “It wasn’t your fault, you know. How could you have possibly known you were being followed?”

  “He couldn’t,” Claire said, putting her arms around her husband. “Neither of us could.”

  Tucker hugged Claire, and Reagan said, “Thank you two for sharing your story with us. And don’t worry, I promise not to use one wor
d of it in my book.”

  After their guests had left, Gil offered to help Claire clear away the mess, but she shooed him out to the deck, where he could enjoy the night air. When she came out, he was leaning on the railing, staring out at the water. She had two glasses of wine with her and handed him one.

  “A nightcap,” she said.

  “Thanks.”

  She stood next to him, enjoying the absolute stillness that surrounded them. “Good memories connected to bad ones, huh?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “But I think the good far outweigh the bad, don’t you?” she asked.

  He turned to look at her, then smiled and snaked an arm around her waist. “Definitely, because the good means I got to spend the past seven years married to you.”

  “And there are still many more to come.”

  “I’ll drink to that.”

  They touched glasses, then went inside to have their own private anniversary celebration.

  Chapter 53

  Claire was the first to wake up the next morning. She got out of bed without Gil—not a very hard thing to do, since he always slept soundly—pulled on her robe, slid into her slippers, and padded out to the kitchen. Pushing aside the curtains covering the large windows, she was again struck by the beauty of Big Cedar. Colors seemed so much more vivid in the Ozarks. Watching three squirrels dash through a pile of leaves, she couldn’t resist sliding the patio door open and sitting outside a moment before fixing breakfast.

  There were never moments like this back in St. Louis. Everything was so pumped up in the city: traffic, music, people. She was thinking how easily she could get used to this place, especially as she remembered the day they had moved into their condo in the city.

  The balcony had seemed such a nice feature. And that first morning, after all the boxes were unpacked, she’d gotten up and gone outside, trying on her new surroundings for size. But then the construction workers spotted her up there and her neighbors tried carrying on a conversation from one floor overhead. That first outing became the last.