Murder Is the Deal of the Day

by Robert J. Randisi

  “I’m waiting to call her when she gets off the air.”

  “Well, I was kinda worried.”

  Gil had liked the kid from the very beginning. “We’re fine. Why don’t you call your mother tonight after things calm down a bit.”

  “Okay. And, pseudo-Dad, take care of yourself, too.”

  “I always do.” Gil was unexpectedly touched by Paul’s concern and found it difficult to keep his voice even.

  “Do not,” Paul joked.

  “Do too.”

  Chapter 8

  Over the course of the next ten days, Gil and Claire did not hear a word from the police. They were relieved enough even to stop thinking about a lawyer. There was nothing more in the newspaper about the two women who had been murdered. Everything seemed right with the world.

  Except for a woman named Susie Kennedy.

  Susie was excited. In all her thirty-two years, she had never won anything. Her life—except for the few years back in her early twenties, when she used to follow the Cardinals down to Florida for spring training—had been dull, dull, dull. Now suddenly, she’d won a contest and had a chance to appear on the Home Mall show with Claire Hunt.

  The call had come out of the blue, a complete surprise. She argued that she hadn’t entered anything, but the man on the phone told her it was a random drawing. You didn’t even have to be a fan of the program. She wasn’t, but it was still exciting to think about appearing on television. He also said she would get two hundred “Home Mall dollars.” She couldn’t turn that down.

  She looked at her watch, then checked her hair again in the bathroom mirror. A representative was coming over to see if she presented a “telegenic appearance.” She loved that phrase. She could tell her friends and family for the rest of her life that she had once been “telegenic.”

  It was 7:00 p.m., the time the man was supposed to arrive. She smoothed her green skirt over her thighs, ruffled the front of her lavender silk blouse, and turned her head to check her amethyst earrings. She’d agonized over what hose to wear, then decided she couldn’t go wrong with black.

  At 7:10, her doorbell rang. She caught herself rushing to answer it, then slowed down. When she reached the door, she took a deep breath before opening it.

  There stood an odd-looking man in the hall. He had a mass of curly hair and the bushiest mustache she had ever seen. He was tall, trim, but not exactly the kind of guy she’d ever think of going out with.

  “Are you from TBN?” she asked.

  “That’s right.”

  She put on her hundred-watt smile. “Please, come in. . . .”

  “We just want you to watch a particular segment of the show and give us some feedback,” the killer said.

  “You mean I get to pick my own segment?” she asked as the man popped a tape into her VCR.

  “Oh, yes, we want you to be as comfortable as possible, Miss Kennedy.”

  “But . . . am I telegenic enough?” she asked hopefully.

  The killer hadn’t even known if that was a real word when he’d first contacted her. He turned and looked at her, sitting there on the sofa, knees clenched together, all dressed in green and purple, and fought to keep from laughing.

  “Oh, yes, you’re just what we’re looking for.”

  He pressed the play button on the VCR, then walked around to stand behind her.

  “Just watch. . . .”

  There was some static, and then Claire Hunt appeared on the screen.

  “Today is fashion day and we’re going to show you some fantastic items to help spruce up your wardrobe.” As Claire spoke, Susie visualized herself standing next to the hostess, on television, with thousands, maybe millions of people watching.

  “Is this the part—” she began, but the man shushed her.

  “Just watch, please.”

  He looked to his right and then his left. There were velvet pillows scattered the length of the sofa. All of them were purple. Must be her favorite color, he thought, picking one up. He held it a moment, just behind her head, and then repeated, “Justwatch. . . .”

  Chapter 9

  “Two weeks,” Myra Longfellow said, “two weeks to the day. Coincidence?”

  “Probably,” Holliday said, looking around. “It wasn’t two weeks between victims one and two, though, so it doesn’t appear to be a pattern.”

  There was a lot of activity in the apartment: detectives, technicians, photographers, all moving about, doing their jobs. It was Holliday’s job to catch this bastard, so it looked like he was the only one who wasn’t getting it done.

  “What do you want to do about the tapes?” Longfellow asked.

  Holliday sighed. “Let’s call Claire Hunt in again. We know she’s not a coincidence.”

  “I think she’s dirty, Jace. I told you that two weeks ago.”

  “I know you did. But I didn’t understand it then and I still don’t. How come you’ve never even considered the idea that she might be the next victim? I know I have.”

  “Don’t be silly.” Longfellow laughed at the thought. “We should have put surveillance on her.”

  “We didn’t have enough probable cause, or manpower,” he reminded her.

  “How about now?”

  “Probable cause, maybe,” he said, “but we still don’t have the manpower.”

  Holliday looked down at the dead woman, who still seemed to be watching the television. The bastard. Even if she had died with her eyes closed, he was willing to bet the killer had opened them again. All of it was his trademark. This guy was trying to slice himself a piece of history. Son of Sam, Ted Bundy, the Hillside Strangler—what were the newspapers going to call this one?

  “What are you thinking?” Longfellow asked.

  Holliday rubbed his hands over his face before answering. “I was wondering when I had my last vacation.”

  “Last year, same as me.”

  He looked at her. “I’m wondering why I bothered coming back.”

  “Huh?”

  He shook his head. “Never mind.”

  He got one of the photographers who was taking pictures with a Polaroid to take an extra one of the woman. He wanted to keep it with the others.

  “What are you gonna do with that?” his partner asked. “You collecting them?”

  He ignored her question. “Come on, let’s go and see Claire Hunt ourselves.”

  “Now you’re talkin’.”

  Chapter 10

  Holliday and Longfellow didn’t find Claire Hunt at home, and she wasn’t at work. They talked to a couple of technicians at the studio, but they didn’t know anything regarding her whereabouts. Thurman wasn’t in his office at the moment, so there was no one else at TBN for them to talk to.

  That was the reason they walked into Gil’s bookstore at three o’clock that afternoon and found him sitting at his desk, talking on the phone.

  When Gil spotted the two detectives, he motioned to them, asking for a moment of patience.

  “That’s right, Mrs. Daly,” he said into the phone, “I would do an evaluation on the spot. No, I wouldn’t make you wait like some of the others are doing. Yes, Saturday would be fine. No, I’m afraid I’m not up that early. How about one o’clock? Fine, I’ll see you then.”

  Hanging up the phone, he looked at Detectives Holliday and Longfellow.

  “The lady’s husband died, leaving behind a large book collection. I’m just one of several dealers hoping to examine it, and possibly bid. She, uh, wanted me to stop by her house at eight A.M. on Saturday.”

  “I don’t understand why older people get up so early,” Holliday said. “It’s not as if they have someplace important to go. I got an aunt started getting up at five A.M. soon as she hit sixty. Me, when I hit fifty, I started getting up earlier, though not that—”

  Longfellow cut her partner off by clearing her throat.

  “Right,” Holliday said. “Mr. Hunt, we’re looking for your wife. She’s not at home, and she’s not at her studio. Do you know where she mi
ght be?”

  “I’d be a poor excuse for a husband if I didn’t.”

  “Lots of husbands think they know where their wives are, Mr. Hunt,” Longfellow said. “But it’s been our experience that this isn’t always the case.”

  “I know where Claire is, Detective Longfellow.”

  “Well, that’s good,” she said. “Would you might enlightening us?”

  Gil found it easy to dislike the woman, so he turned his attention to her partner.

  “What’s this about?”

  “We just have some more questions for her,” Holliday said.

  “Concerning what?”

  “Mr. Hunt—” Longfellow began, but this time it was Holliday who interrupted her.

  “Myra,” he said, and she backed off with a scowl. “Mr. Hunt, we found another murdered woman.”

  “Oh no.” Gil said, sincerely disturbed by the news.

  “Yes,” Holliday said, “and there’s another tape in the VCR at the scene.”

  “Jesus ...”

  “Is your wife in town, sir?” Holliday asked.

  “No, she’s not,” Gil said. “She’s on a . . . well, a sort of buying trip. Sometimes the station sends their hosts into the field to look at items; Claire’s in Chicago today.”

  “When did she leave?” Longfellow asked.

  “Early this morning.”

  “Did she fly?” Holliday asked.

  “She prefers to drive. She enjoys road trips.”

  Longfellow looked at Holliday. “Enough time,” she said.

  Gil shoved his chair across the wooden floor and bolted to his feet. “Now wait a minute—”

  “Don’t get upset, Mr. Hunt.” Holliday held his hand out like a traffic cop. “That’s not gonna do anybody any good.”

  “But you can’t possibly think—”

  “We’re just here to ask a few questions, Mr. Hunt,” Holliday said reasonably. “If you answer them, this will go real smooth.”

  Gil, naturally protective of the woman he loved, realized he had to back off a bit before he ended up incriminating her somehow.

  “Okay,” he said, “ask your questions.”

  “The dead woman was Susan Kennedy. Does that name ring a bell?”

  “No. I don’t know any Susan Kennedy.”

  “Her neighbors tell us she was called Susie.”

  “Sorry,” Gil said with a shrug.

  “What about your wife?” Longfellow asked. “Would she have known a Susie Kennedy?”

  “She might.”

  “When will she be home, Mr. Hunt?” she asked.

  “In three days—on Sunday.”

  “And you didn’t go with her because you have to look at this book collection on Saturday?”

  “That’s right.”

  “So, she’s in Chicago, all alone until Sunday, huh?” Longfellow asked.

  “Yes, detective, she is.”

  “Guess you must trust her a lot, huh?”

  “I love her,” Gil said, “and yes, I trust her—we trust each other.”

  “Hmm,” Longfellow said, looking around the store.

  “Don’t mind my partner, Mr. Hunt,” Holliday said. “She’s a little on the cynical side. Comes with the job, I guess.”

  “And you’re not cynical, Detective Holliday?” Gil asked.

  “Oh, sure I am.” Holliday shifted his weight uncomfortably. “I just don’t let it show as much. Do you still have my card, Mr. Hunt?”

  “I have it.”

  “Good. Would you have your wife get back to me when she returns? We’d like to set up a time to talk to her about Susan Kennedy.”

  “I can ask her about it tonight, when she calls me.”

  “From Chicago,” Myra Longfellow said.

  “That’s right,” Gil replied sharply, “from Chicago.” Turning toward the woman, he asked, “Has it ever—even once—occurred to you that Claire could be the one in danger here?”

  “Hmm,” Longfellow said, and walked out.

  “Yes, it’s crossed our minds, Mr. Hunt,” Holliday said, “that’s why we want to keep an eye on her.” He followed his partner.

  Gil watched them through his front window as they got into their car, Holliday doing the driving. He scolded himself for letting the female detective get to him with her snide remarks.

  That night, when he spoke with Claire on the phone, she sensed he was upset.

  “She’s only trying to get under your skin, sweetie.”

  “I know.”

  “You can’t let her do that.”

  “I know, I know. I just don’t like anybody thinking bad things about you.”

  “I love you,” she said.

  “I love you more.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “Okay.”

  “Pig.”

  “Claire? Are you sure the name doesn’t sound familiar at all?”

  “Susan—Susie Kennedy?” Claire repeated the name. “No, it doesn’t. Did they show you a photo?”

  “No,” he said. “They’ll probably save that pleasure for you.”

  “I’ll look forward to it. What’s going on, Gil? Is someone trying to . . . to hang something on me by leaving these tapes at the murder scenes?”

  “I don’t know, hon. I don’t know what to think, but when you get back, maybe we better do something about finding out.”

  “You mean investigate?” She sounded excited.

  “I mean ask some questions and see if we can’t find out what’s going on.”

  “I think that’s called investigating, Gil.”

  “You call it what you want,” he said. “I just call it keeping the woman I love out of jail.”

  “Would you wait for me? If they put me in jail?”

  “Well, I guess I could. Would I have to go visit you?”

  “You’re damn right you would,” she said. “I’d want my conjugal rights.”

  “Okay, then.”

  The banter was forced, and they both knew it.

  “Gil, we’ll figure this out.”

  “Sure we will, honey.”

  “Should I come home early?”

  “No,” he said. “Let’s not let them change our routine. You do your job, visit Maryjane—the two of you always have a great time together—and then come home.”

  “Maybe you could nose around while I’m gone.”

  “You know,” he said, “I was just thinking the same thing.”

  Chapter 11

  Gil awoke Friday morning earlier than usual. He fixed himself some coffee and raisin English muffins and ate out on the balcony. He stared down over Clayton without seeing any of the people walking the streets on their way to work. It was obvious someone was trying to involve Claire in murder, if not frame her for the death of three women. But if they wanted to frame her, why weren’t they leaving something more in the way of evidence at the scenes? Why just those videotapes?

  Gil knew that if he was going to start poking around, he would have to cultivate one of the investigating detectives. The choice of which one was easy, since he now had an active dislike for Detective Myra Longfellow. He decided to call Jason Holliday and invite him to lunch. He did it right away, setting his half-eaten muffin and unfinished coffee down on the dining room table as he passed through on his way to the bedroom. He dug Holliday’s card out from his wallet and dialed the number. To his pleasure and surprise, the man agreed, and they set the time for one o’clock and the place to be Fitz’s, a restaurant down the block from Gil’s bookstore.

  Fitz’s was a brewery as well as a restaurant, but instead of alcoholic beverages, what they brewed was their own blend of soft drinks. Their cream soda was delicious, but the root beer was what they were most famous for, and it was carried in fast- food restaurants as well as supermarkets all over St. Louis.

  Gil was first to arrive and arranged to have one of the oversized booths against the wall on the first level. He sat facing the door so he could catch Holliday’s attention when he walked in. Whi
le he waited, he studied the stainless-steel brewing equipment visible behind a glass wall to his right.

  Holliday spotted Gil immediately, as the lunch crowd was sparse that day. Making his way to the booth, the detective appeared almost melancholy as he sat down.

  “You know,” Holliday said, “my wife used to buy this stuff by the gallon, but in all my years in St. Louis, I’ve never eaten here.”

  “Used to buy? Is she . . . deceased?”

  “Dead? Hell no. She, uh, moved out awhile back.”

  “Kids?”

  He nodded. “One boy. She took him with her. Do you and your wife have kids?”

  “From previous marriages,” Gil said. “Claire has one boy; I have two.”

  “You see your kids much?”

  “I see mine a couple of times a year. My ex took them to New York.”

  “How old?”

  “Twenty and twelve.”

  “And Mrs. Hunt?”

  “Her son, Paul, is twenty-three. He lives in Kansas City, works as a guide on one of those gangster-tour outfits.”

  “Ah,” Holliday said thoughtfully.

  A waitress came over then and Holliday took a quick look at the menu while Gil ordered a pasta dish.

  “How’s the meat loaf?” Holliday asked Gil.

  “Well, my father always told me never to order meat loaf in a restaurant because you never know what they put in it. But he was definitely wrong when it comes to this meat loaf. It’s great.”

  “With respect to your father, I think I’ll try it. And a root beer,” he told the waitress.

  Gil ordered Boulevard pale ale but asked the waitress to please bring him a root beer with lunch.

  “Well,” Holliday said, folding his hands on the table, “this is nice. Suppose you tell me why we’re here, Mr. Hunt.”

  “I wanted to talk to you.”

  “To me?” Holliday asked. “You mean, without my partner?”

  “That’s right.”