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

by Robert J. Randisi

  “What—” Gil said.

  “She found that in the dead man’s room. She said she picked it up off the floor just before you came in.”

  “On the floor?” Gil asked. He turned it over in his hand and then brought the pin closer to examine it.

  “What is it?” Claire asked.

  “This pin was Spense’s lucky piece.”

  “Spense? Then how did it end up on Robin Westerly’s floor?”

  Gil clenched it in his fist. “He told me he lost it.”

  “But if he lost it in Westerly’s room—”

  “Jesus,” Gil said, “Spense must have killed him.”

  Claire couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “But why?”

  “They argued,” Wendell said.

  They both looked at him. Gil asked, “When?”

  “That first night at the hotel. I drove them to dinner, and on the way back they argued about whose fault it was that more people weren’t cornin’ to their convention. Mr. Westerly said it was the other man’s fault because he didn’t know what the hell he was doin’. The other man said that Mr. Westerly wasn’t important or famous enough to make people want to come.”

  “That would be enough to make Spense kill Westerly?” Claire asked.

  “Mr. Westerly said he knew about something in the other man’s past,” Wendell said. “Something that would keep him from putting on another convention ever again.”

  “Spense told me about a problem he’d had with money at a past job. And he was hoping to put on a Bouchercon in Seattle.”

  “He could have made a lot of money doing that,” she said. “I mean, with the size that Bouchercon has become, even back then he could have made some money.”

  “It isn’t like people haven’t been accused of stealing in the past,” Gil said. “Another thing, Spense seemed real . . . on edge that weekend.”

  “So you think he was . . . unstable enough to kill his guest of honor? Sabotaging his own convention?”

  “Why not?” Gil said. “If it meant saving his chance for a big payday at a huge convention? Too bad for him he never had the chance to do it.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t you remember? About two years after that Omaha convention, he committed suicide. Shot himself in the head, right in his own kitchen.”

  Her eyes widened. “I completely forgot.”

  “I’ve worried about that for years,” Wendell said. “Worried and prayed that it wasn’t my fault.”

  They looked over at him again.

  “How could that have been your fault?”

  “I was . . . angry about Gracie bein’ in jail, and I couldn’t do nuthin’ to get her out. I didn’t have money for another lawyer, for an appeal. So I started . . . callin’ him. Got his name and address from the hotel.”

  “You called him? Why would you do that?” Claire asked.

  Wendell shrugged his big round shoulders. “Just kept callin’, botherin’ him all times of the day and night, tellin’ him I knew he was the killer.”

  “But you didn’t know that,” Gil said. “Why would you do such a thing to him?”

  “I knew there was a better chance he was guilty than my Gracie.”

  “So why didn’t you take the fedora pin to the police?” Claire asked. “Wouldn’t it have been better to give them evidence than to stalk a man?”

  “I tried tellin’ Detective Donovan, but he wouldn’t hear nuthin’ I had to say. He said the case was closed an’ I should leave him alone.”

  They fell into silence again. Wendell continued rocking Graciella while Gil and Claire tried to make sense of everything they’d just heard.

  “Claire, why don’t you go back and call for help?”

  “All right.” She touched his shoulder. “Don’t try to move, or your feet will start bleeding again.”

  “We’ll wait here.”

  She nodded, stood up, and started back up the steep hill.

  Wendell reached down and stroked Graciella’s face. “She really wasn’t a bad person, Mr. Hunt.”

  Gil had known her back then, and he’d experienced the person she’d become after prison. He didn’t think he could ever think of her as a “good” person in either incarnation. But what he said was, “I’m sure she wasn’t, Wendell.”

  Epilogue

  St. Louis, One Year Later

  Gil came out on the balcony of their condo, where Claire was staring down at Brentwood Boulevard.

  “Happy anniversary,” he said, handing her a cup of tea.

  She accepted the cup, kissed him, and went back to leaning on the railing.

  “What are you thinking about?” he asked.

  “Same thing I always think about this time of year.”

  “Conventions in Omaha.”

  “But this anniversary, we’ve got Big Cedar, as well as Wendell and Graciella, to add to the list.”

  “I guess you were right about not going back there to celebrate this year,” he said, standing next to her.

  “Too many memories.” Then she looked down and said, “Your poor feet.”

  It had taken weeks for the soles of his feet to heal once they had returned to St. Louis. And the scratches and bruises they each had suffered took just as long.

  “Our life has become like that movie, Same Time, Next Year,” she said. “Only instead of meeting at the same romantic place every year, we’re haunted by the same murder.”

  “We’re never going to be free of the memories.”

  “You know, on one hand, I felt so sorry for Graciella,” she said, “but on the other hand, I hated her. She was a royal bitch who got everything she deserved—well, except for being sent to prison.”

  “Yeah, I guess the only good thing you can say about her is that she wasn’t a murderer.”

  “No one would have ever known that if it wasn’t for you,” Claire said. “And poor Wendell... he saved our lives, but at what cost?”

  “I think he came out all right,” Gil said, putting his arm around her shoulder. “Look, why don’t we just concentrate on our date tonight to celebrate eight years of marriage?”

  She leaned her head against his shoulder. “You’re right. Too bad we both have to work, or we could spend the whole day together.” Claire was due to be on the air in two hours. Gil had not been able to find anyone to watch his bookstore, so he had to go in to unpack several shipments he was expecting.

  “That’s okay,” he said. “We’ll meet back here tonight, get all dressed up, and go out on the town.”

  “I can hardly wait.” She leaned forward and kissed him. “But now I’ve got to go dress and get out of here.”

  She had to be at the station by 9:00 a.m., while he didn’t have to be at the bookstore until 11:00.

  “Okay, I’m gonna stay out here awhile longer.”

  She touched his cheek, then his shoulder, and went inside. He stared down at the street, alone with his thoughts. . . .

  Upon their return to St. Louis a year ago, Gil had put in a call to Detective Jason Holliday of the St. Louis Police Department. After he explained the situation, Holliday remained silent for a few moments before speaking.

  “This sounds like a lot of hassle. Why would I want to do what you’re asking?”

  “Because I happen to know you hate unsolved crimes,” Gil said, “especially murders. And you really hate seeing the wrong person go down for a murder. This is a case of both.”

  Another hesitation, and then Holliday said, “All right, I’ll make some calls.”

  Several days later, Holliday called Gil and they arranged to meet at his bookstore on Delmar.

  When Holliday arrived, Gil asked, “Will you let me buy you lunch? We can go to Fitz’s or Blueberry Hill . . .”

  “Right here is fine for me,” Holliday said.

  “How about a cup of coffee, then?”

  “Sure.”

  Gil went to the front door, locked it, and flipped the open sign to the sign that said back soon.

  “
Follow me.”

  He took Holliday to the back of the store, where he had a coffeemaker going. He got two mugs, poured them full, and handed the detective one.

  “You remembered I take it black. I’m impressed, Mr. Hunt.”

  “No problem.”

  They sat down, Gil in an overstuffed chair he’d placed back there for when he wanted to relax, and Holliday on a metal folding chair. The detective took out his notebook and opened it.

  “It wasn’t easy, but I talked to a detective in Seattle and to your buddy Donovan in Omaha. He’s a real asshole, by the way.”

  “I know.”

  “He’s also a lieutenant now,” Holliday said. “Seems his rise to the top began with the arrest of Graciella Sanchez, which means he’s not a happy camper right now, and neither are his superiors.”

  “You mean—”

  “Yep,” Holliday said. “We were able to check the bullet that killed Dave Spenser against the bullet that killed the writer Robin Westerly.”

  “And?”

  “They matched perfectly,” Holliday said. “A check of Spenser’s background revealed problems with several employers. He was involved with missing funds, and his erratic behavior caused a great many headaches. Your friend pissed off a lot of people.”

  “He wasn’t my friend,” Gil said. “I mean, not really. We’d see each other once or twice a year at conventions. We were just acquaintances, really. And how can you tell someone’s state of mind from that?”

  “Apparently, you can’t,” Holliday said, “but the people who dealt with him on an everyday basis in Seattle certainly could. The word is he was a whack job. Nobody up there was surprised when he shot himself.”

  “So,” Gil said, “after all this time, we finally know that the same gun killed both men.”

  “It looks pretty solid that your frie—uh, this Spenser guy killed that author. And Ms. Sanchez got sent up on a bum rap.”

  “Donovan did that,” Gil said. “He took the easy way out.”

  “Well, that conviction is gonna be overturned and there are some Omaha people—judges, jury members, and especially Lieutenant Donovan—who are all gonna end up with egg on their faces. If I were you, I wouldn’t be going back there anytime soon.”

  “No problem,” Gil said.

  Holliday closed his notebook. “Can I ask a question?”

  “Sure. Anything.”

  “Why’d you do this? What do you get out of it?”

  “It’s a favor for a friend,” Gil said.

  “Are we talkin’ acquaintance or friend now?” Holliday asked as he got up from the chair.

  “Friend—definitely. Someone my wife and I owe our lives to.”

  Gil came back to the present, left the balcony, and started getting dressed for work. He remembered how grateful Wendell had been when he’d called that day to tell him Graciella had been cleared. He’d felt so good being able to do that for the man. What he still couldn’t fathom, however, was why Wendell had stood by Graciella all those years, even to the point of going to Big Cedar with her. What was it that had bound them together so tightly for so long, in spite of Graciella’s obvious disregard for Wendell as a man? Thankfully, he’d come to his senses in enough time to keep her from killing them.

  Wendell Payne still couldn’t believe it, even a whole year later. That nice Mr. Hunt had been able to get him a job in St. Louis at a big hotel downtown, a place that was grander than the one he’d worked at in Omaha. After Graciella was buried, he couldn’t stay in that city anymore. Too many memories.

  He left work that day as he usually did, drove to a small South St. Louis neighborhood, and pulled up in front of a brick building. A bell sounded, signaling dozens of children to run through the large doors, which had been propped open. One child, a small girl of about eight, waved and ran to the car. She opened the passenger’s door and got in, smiling a gap-toothed smile.

  “Hi, Daddy.”

  “Hi, baby girl. How was your day?”

  “Okay.”

  “Just okay?”

  “I got in a fight. Robert Pixley said something really mean and I punched him.”

  “Why did you do a thing like that?”

  “He called me a bad name.”

  Wendell shook his head. “You got your momma’s temper, baby. We got to work on that.”

  “Yes, Daddy.”

  “And how many times do I have to tell you?” he scolded gently. “Put your seat belt on when you get into the car, Gracie.”

  Acknowledgments

  Our sincere thanks to Tony Shill, the big kahuna at Big Cedar. And to his wonderful, cooperative staff: Debbie Bennett, Shari Beckley, and Sam Crockett. You were all so generous with your time and information, we hope we did your beautiful resort justice. And if we misplaced a lake, a tree, or a cabin, please forgive us.

  A Look At: Eye In The Ring

  By Robert J. Randisi

  Miles Jacoby is torn between a career in the ring and his new ticket as a private investigator. When his sleuth mentor is murdered, it's bad enough that Miles's brother is charged. Worse, Miles finds himself in love with his brother's wife.

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  Thank you for taking the time to read Same Time, Same Murder. If you enjoyed it, please consider telling your friends or posting a short review. Word of mouth is an author's best friend and much appreciated.

  Thank you.

  Robert J. Randisi and Christine Matthews

  About The Authors

  Randisi was born and raised in Brooklyn, N.Y., and from 1973 through 1981 he was a civilian employee of the New York City Police Department, working out of the 67th Precinct in Brooklyn. After 41 years in N.Y, he now resides in Laughlin, NV, 90 miles South of Las Vegas, on the Colorado River, with his 25-year partner-in-life-and-crime, Marthayn Pelegrimas.

  He is the author of the “Miles Jacoby,” “Nick Delvecchio,” “Joe Keough,” and “Dennis McQueen,” mystery series, and the co-author of the “Gil & Claire Hunt” series. He has been nominated four times for the Shamus Award from the Private Eye Writers of America, in the Novel and Short Story categories.

  For more information:

  https://wolfpackpublishing.com/robert-j-randisi/

  Christine Matthews has published over sixty stories under her real name, Marthayn Pelegrimas, as well as her “Matthews” mystery pseudonym. She has appeared in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, Deadly Allies II, Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, Lethal Ladies, For Crime Out Loud I & II, Mickey Spillane’s Vengeance Is Hers, Cat Crimes On Holiday, Till Death Do Us Part, Hollywood and Crime and Crime Square. Her stories have been chosen five times for Ed Gorman and Martin H. Greenberg’s Best of the Year books, the most recent being the 2011 edition. She is the author of four novels and the editor of several anthologies.