Murder Is the Deal of the Day

by Robert J. Randisi

  “So tell me, Gil,” Buxton said, “just why are you buying me dinner?”

  “Jack . . . whoever killed Mary and the other women left tapes of my wife’s TV show in their VCRs.”

  “Your wife’s in TV? What’s her name? Have I heard of her?”

  “Claire Hunt. She’s a hostess on the Home Mall program on TBN.”

  “TV shopping? Mary loved that show. Sometimes she even watched it while we were in bed—after we had done the deed, of course.”

  Gil stared at Buxton for a moment, remembering that Bonnie Nolan had said there was nothing sexual about her sister’s relationship with this man.

  “I’m sorry,” Gil said, “did you say you went to bed with Mary?”

  “Oh, yes. Well, I suppose you think it strange that Mary would be turned on by an old fart like me. Actually, I’m still quite . . . active in that area. A man my age, however, has to be choosy about his partners, what with all the diseases going around. Mary fit into my life quite nicely.”

  Well, Gil supposed that a man in his sixties could have sex several times a month.

  “And she never conflicted with the others.”

  “Others?”

  “Yes,” Buxton said.

  “Several women? Several times a month?”

  “I suppose that doesn’t seem like much to a young man like you, but it was satisfactory for me. And for the ladies, I hope.”

  The waitress appeared then and asked, “Who had the riblets?”

  “Oh, uh,” Gil stammered, still stunned by Buxton’s announcement, “that, uh, that would be, uh, me.”

  “Then you’re the steak.” She placed the large plate in front of the older man, setting his salad down as well. “Can I bring you gentlemen anything else?”

  “No, we’re fine, aren’t we, Gil?”

  “Yes. Fine.”

  As she left, Buxton repositioned his plates and said to Gil, “It’s just an old habit of mine, eating my salad with my meal instead of before it.”

  Gil picked up a riblet with his fingers and bit into it. He decided to forget about Buxton’s sex life and continue with his questions.

  “Jack, because of the tapes left at the scene, Claire’s the main focus of the police’s attention. I was hoping you might be able to tell me something about Mary that I could pass on to them. Anything. Frankly, I’m scared to death of what might happen to her.”

  “Well, Gil, I surely do understand. I surely do. Why, if I were in your shoes, I’d do the same thing for my wife . . . if she were still alive. God, how I loved that woman. No one woman could ever replace her, and she’s been dead many years now.”

  “Will you help me, then?”

  “I’ll try, Gil,” Buxton said, smiling, “because I trust you. Maybe it’s the look in your eyes when you talk about your wife, but I know you’re good people.” He speared a tomato, then a piece of meat, and popped the whole thing into his mouth. “Ask away.”

  “What did Mary like to do besides watch home shopping . . . and go out with you, uh, several times a month?”

  “The operative word here, Gil, is shopping. She loved it, no matter how she got it done. Formed a club with some of her lady friends—called themselves the Shopping Fools. When there was a holiday coming up, about five or six of them would take off for Chicago or Kansas City. Once they even flew out to L.A. They’d get a nice hotel and go shopping for days, eight hours at a stretch. They shopped Rodeo Drive, Beverly Hills, the Mall of the Americas in Minneapolis, Michigan Avenue, Country Club Plaza. Then they’d come home all happy with themselves, their suitcases bulging.”

  “Did Mary belong to any other organizations?”

  “I guess it won’t matter if I tell you now, with her gone, but yes, she belonged to Gamblers Anonymous. She dearly loved those riverboats. So do I, but I had to find someone else to go with once Mary told me she had a problem. Pity, too, she was so intelligent. Loved the theater, concerts, art museums. Just couldn’t control herself when it came to those casinos.”

  Just as they were about to leave, Gil asked one last question. “Jack, was Mary seeing any other men?”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m positive,” Buxton said. “None of my ladies are seeing other men.”

  Gil couldn’t be sure if this was true or just wishful thinking on Buxton’s part.

  “I give them all they need whenever they need it. They want someone to go to the movies with, someone to lie with every once in a while, and then they go on with their lives. That’s how it was with Mary. You see, they’re all in their forties, or early fifties; they’re not looking for a home or children. Some of them had that. And most of them value their time alone. It’s just that, once in a while, they need someone.”

  It made sense, the way Buxton explained it. But Gil couldn’t help wonder what Claire’s reaction would be when he told her about it.

  Gil paid the bill and he and Buxton walked out to the parking lot together.

  “I hope I was of some help to you and your wife. Maybe you could call me and let me know what happens? I’d be interested in the details.”

  “Of course I could do that,” Gil said. “And, Jack?”

  The old man looked up at Gil. “Yes?”

  “Thank you.”

  Buxton nodded and patted Gil on the arm.

  Gil watched the man drive away, then got into his car, thinking about Claire, missing her. He was suddenly anxious to get home.

  Chapter 25

  Claire didn’t like Myra Longfellow. She hadn’t from the start and now, sitting in the straight wooden chair next to Longfellow’s desk, she still didn’t. Claire knew the detective was deliberately making her wait—squirm. It certainly wasn’t a secret that the woman thought Claire was guilty; everything about her said so. Her cold stare, her body language—Claire had noticed it all and remembered it, but she still agreed when Gil suggested she go to the detective with their progress.

  He’d brought up the subject after returning from Applebees, she from St. Charles, and they had compared notes.

  “Woman to woman, you know, maybe you can win her over,” he had said, trying to convince her. “After all, I’ve bonded with my detective.”

  “You don’t have to give me any more reasons. I’ve been thinking the same thing—but I don’t have to go happily, and I certainly don’t expect to bond with her.”

  Claire checked her watch again. Another ten minutes had gone by, making Ms. Longfellow now twenty-five minutes late for their appointment.

  The female detective had not agreed readily to the meeting.

  “What could we possibly have to talk about, Mrs. Hunt?” Unspoken at the end of that sentence was, Unless you want to confess.

  Claire had taken a deep breath and said, “I think we got off on the wrong foot, Detective, and I think I have some information that might interest you.”

  In the end, Longfellow had agreed, but she had made the entire matter sound like a dreaded chore.

  Claire looked around for the obligatory two-way mirror she’d seen thousands of times in cop shows, but there was none, just drab green walls and gunmetal gray desks. She could smell coffee and noticed an empty doughnut box in a nearby wastebasket. Massaging her neck she thought, Okay, I can wait just as long as you can.

  When Longfellow finally did show up, she had a cup of coffee in each hand. Extending one to Claire, she asked, “Do you take cream or sugar?”

  “Sugar.”

  The woman walked around and sat at her desk, opened the middle drawer, and pulled out two packets of sugar. Probably swiped from some restaurant, Claire thought.

  Longfellow sat back in her creaky armchair and let out a bored sigh. “Now, Mrs. Hunt, what can I do for you?”

  Claire definitely did not like this woman. Deciding to return the patronizing attitude, she tossed the picture of Kathleen Sands and a piece of paper printed with Jack Buxton’s name, address, and phone number onto the desk. Then she sat back and stirred t
he sugar into her coffee with a red plastic stirrer.

  Longfellow picked up the picture Stella had “borrowed.” After studying it for a moment, she said, “A picture of the second victim, taken at a casino. What am I supposed to do with this?”

  Putting her cup down, Claire folded her arms across her chest. “Are you aware that two of the three women frequented riverboats in the area? That one of the three women had a problem and belonged to Gamblers Anonymous? That a visit to the GA meeting place might help solve this case?” Then Claire waited for the stone-faced woman to react in some way to the news.

  But instead, Myra Longfellow folded her large hands on the top of her desk. “All three women belonged to GA, Mrs. Hunt. We’ve been putting in some time on this case, too, you know.”

  Claire refused to be deterred.

  “Did you or your people know that Mary Dunn was seeing a man named Jack Buxton?” Claire slid the phone number closer to the detective. “And that Mr. Buxton told my husband that Mary belonged to a power-shopping club?”

  “Which leads us back to you, doesn’t it? If what you’re telling me is that the common denominator here is shopping.”

  “For heaven’s sake. Everybody shops! We live in a consumer-oriented society. Look around, Detective Longfellow, there’s a strip mall on practically every corner; each city has some sort of galleria crammed with high-end stores. Why, there’s even—”

  “Home-shopping junkies?” Myra Longfellow finished.

  Claire couldn’t help herself and moved closer, bumping the detective’s desk, causing some of her coffee to spill. Neither of them acknowledged it.

  “We’re a video catalog. People have been ordering from mail-order houses for more than a century now.”

  Longfellow seemed to enjoy seeing Claire’s temper flare and said nothing.

  “Look,” Claire said, calming herself, “I just thought we could work together on this thing. Isn’t there always a manpower shortage in police departments? My husband and I are more than willing to cooperate in any way we can. I came here today to discuss our progress and maybe compare notes.” Longfellow stared at Claire for a few moments before she finally spoke. “Two things.” She held up her index finger. “Number one, if we did need help, we certainly wouldn’t solicit or accept it from amateur detectives—especially one who is a suspect.” She held up a second finger. “Second, if you and your husband dare interfere with a police investigation, I’ll see you both get some jail time, and some very bad publicity. Have I made myself clear, Mrs. Hunt?”

  “Perfectly clear, Detective Longfellow.”

  Claire stood and reached for the picture and piece of paper with Jack Buxton’s information on it. Longfellow put her hand over the material.

  “I’ll just hold on to this for a while.”

  “Fine,” Claire said, turning to leave, then stopping. “Oh, by the way.”

  “Yes?”

  “I like your shoes. I recognized our style number twenty- nine fifty-one immediately.” With that, Claire marched out of the squad room.

  Myra Longfellow sat frozen until she was certain Claire was out of the building. Then she crossed her feet at the ankles, scuffed them under her chair, and muttered, “Bitch.”

  Chapter 26

  “You’re going to pee in your bathrobe?”

  Exasperated, Claire called out to Gil, who was in the living room, “No, I said I’m going to be in the bathroom. ”

  Gil had no problem interpreting Claire’s body language when she had walked through the front door, passed him, and walked down the hall toward their bedroom. She was definitely angry. And his strong sense of survival told him to sit tight until his wife was ready to talk.

  When she finally did come out, she sat down on the sofa with Gil and glared straight ahead.

  “Well?” he asked after a few minutes.

  She looked at him incredulously and said, “You know what that bitch did? She kept the photo and Buxton’s information after acting like none of it was important.”

  “She didn’t want to trade information?”

  “Trade? That would involve cooperating. No. She threatened me—well, us—said we could go to jail if we interfered with her police investigation.”

  Gil leaned back into the cushions. “Didn’t she appreciate anything we’ve done?”

  “They knew most of it already. She said that all three women were in Gamblers Anonymous.”

  “Had they talked to the GA people at their meeting place?”

  Claire reached for a handful of popcorn from a bowl Gil had been eating from. “I don’t know.”

  “Did they already know about Buxton?”

  She chewed angrily. “I don’t know.”

  “Did they know about the power shopping?”

  “Gil . . . darling . . . I ... don’t . . . know.” She looked at him. “Why don’t you call your good friend Holliday and ask him? After all, you two have bonded.”

  “Well, I just might do that, but not right now. For all we know, Longfellow may have had time to turn him against us, too.”

  “And you know what makes me even madder?”

  “What?”

  “She made remarks about home shopping while she was wearing a pair of our shoes! The woman shops with the Mall show.”

  “That explains how she recognized you on the tapes left in the murdered women’s apartments.”

  “Gil,” Claire said, “she kept me waiting for half an hour and then had the nerve to point her fingers at me like I was a bad little child she was trying to potty train.”

  “Well,” he said with a sigh, “I guess that wasn’t a very good idea. I’m sorry I made you go.”

  Claire couldn’t help but laugh. “Aw, sweetheart, it’s so cute that you think you could make me do anything. I hate to spoil your macho illusions, but it was my idea, too. I just didn’t figure on meeting up with such a bullheaded human being.”

  “You, uh, didn’t tell her about the letter and photo Mary Dunn sent you, did you?”

  “God no! You think I want her believing I lied right from the beginning and actually recognized a murder victim when they first showed me her picture?”

  “You’re a smart lady.”

  She dropped a few kernels of popcorn back into the bowl and turned to face him with her body. The anger was starting to drain away and be replaced by—what—amazement— puzzlement?

  “Do you honestly think she suspects me of killing those women? I never took it seriously until she called me a suspect.”

  “When?”

  “She said she wouldn’t accept help from a couple of amateurs, especially when one of them is a suspect.”

  “She called me an amateur?”

  Claire’s eyes widened. “She called me a suspect.”

  “I know, I know,” he said, “I was joking. Sorry.”

  “I wish I could approach everything with humor, the way you do.”

  “It’s a defense mechanism with me,” he said. “You know I’m just as scared as you are.”

  “But you’re scared for me from out there,” she said. “It’s different when I’m scared for me inside here.” She tapped her heart.

  “I know,” he said, then amended it and began again. “No, maybe I don’t, but I do know how terrified I am at the thought of anything bad happening to you while I’m powerless to help.”

  She rested her cheek against the back of the sofa. Reaching out to touch his shoulder, she said, “So let’s just do something to fix this.”

  “Well,” Gil said, “if they’re going to be stubborn and not accept our help, then we’ll just have to keep at it ourselves until we can prove to them how ridiculous their suspicions are.”

  “How are we going to do that?” she asked. “We’ve been to Susie Kennedy’s home and can’t find any relative to question. What’s our next move?”

  “I’m glad you asked; I’ve been thinking about it all day. Gamblers Anonymous!” he said. “Didn’t you take that number down when you saw the pos
ter on the boat?”

  “That’s right, I did.” She got up and walked to the dining room, where she had hung her purse on one of the chairs. She rummaged through it and came out with the slip of paper the number was on. Carrying it back to the sofa, she handed it to Gil.

  “This is our only lead, now,” Gil said. “I’ll call and find out where the next meeting is. We’ll go there and nose around, see if anyone knew Mary Dunn or either of the other women.”

  “When will you call?” she asked.

  “Tomorrow.”

  She gave him that look that always worked on him, cocked her head, and said, “Call now?”

  He smiled. “I’ll call now.”

  Chapter 27

  St. Louis is known for having more than its share of churches, representing every denomination. It seems you can’t drive a mile without seeing one.

  The church Gil and Claire were looking for was on a street called Eddie and Park, on the corner of Sappington Road. As Gil pulled the car into the parking lot, he couldn’t help but notice the large letters chiseled into the granite facade.

  “The Church of the Persistent Dreamer,” Claire read aloud. “I wonder what that means?”

  “You got me,” Gil said, unfastening his seat belt, “but for our purpose, it really doesn’t matter, does it?”

  “No, I guess not.”

  When Gil had called the Gamblers Anonymous number Claire had given him the night before, he’d been surprised twice. The first time came when he got a taped recording telling when and where the next GA meeting would be held. The second time occurred when he found out the meeting would take place the following day, at 5:00 p.m.

  During the ride, Claire had asked, “Which one of us is the gambler in need of saving?”

  “You are,” Gil had said without one moment of hesitation.

  “Why me?”

  “You went to the boat with Stella the other night, didn’t you? ”

  “So? You’ve been to Vegas, and racetracks.”

  “But I’ve never been on a boat,” Gil said innocently. “You, at least, have had that experience. And haven’t you seen those news stories about the floating dens of iniquity scattered up and down the river?”