Murder Is the Deal of the Day

by Robert J. Randisi

  “You’re so sweet,” Claire said, reaching over and taking his hand. “What else did this psychic artist tell you?”

  “She said I was very much in love with my wife and that it showed.”

  “Is that true?”

  “Would I lie?”

  “No, I know you love me,” Claire said, “I meant, is it true that she said those exact words?”

  “Of course.”

  “Hmm,” she said, withdrawing her hand and reclaiming her fork again. “I’d like to meet this woman.”

  “Once you get past the stun gun, she’s very nice.”

  Claire laughed. “I’m liking her more and more. So Holliday agreed that I’m not a suspect?”

  “Well, not as far as he’s concerned.”

  “But to his partner, I am.”

  “He doesn’t know what her problem is,” Gil said, finally paying attention to his dinner, “but they don’t agree on you, that’s for sure.”

  “Well, I don’t want to come between them—but good. I don’t like that woman, Gil.”

  “And the feeling is definitely mutual.”

  “I only wish I knew what’s behind her horrible attitude toward me.”

  “Well,” Gil said, “it should ease your mind just knowing that Holliday doesn’t suspect you.”

  “If not me, then who?”

  “He candidly admitted they have no suspects.”

  “That doesn’t put my mind at ease at all,” she said. “Some crazy person is still out there, and they apparently have a collection of tapes with me on them.”

  “Don’t worry, honey, we’re going to keep looking.” Gil knew how lame his statement sounded, but he hoped Claire hadn’t noticed.

  “Looking for what?”

  “Answers.”

  “Gil,” she said, putting her fork down again, “are we looking for the killer? And if so, what are we supposed to do if we find him? We’re not the police.”

  “We’re just trying to get some answers, Claire. Something we can give to Holliday that he can’t ignore. Believe me, I don’t like it any more than you do that some nut is out there who apparently wants to involve you in this.”

  Claire frowned and picked up her wineglass. “I wonder who it is. I think about it every day. Who knows me, and wants to harm me—and will that person suddenly decide to hurt me physically?”

  “Well,” Gil said, “I’m not about to let that happen.”

  “I love you,” she said, “but how effective would either of us be against a killer?”

  “Claire,” he said, taking her hand now, “I will never let anyone hurt you.”

  “I know, but I really think we should leave this to the police now.”

  “But we have a couple of great leads. We have to go to the next GA meeting. And Maureen is going to call us with the name of the restaurant where Kathleen Sands worked. What’s the harm in seeing what develops?”

  “You know what, Gilbert Hunt?”

  He winced. “What?”

  “I think you’re starting to enjoy playing detective.”

  “I think you better start enjoying your dinner,” Gil countered, “before it gets cold.”

  When they returned home, the light was blinking on their answering machine, indicating one message. Gil pressed the button.

  “Mr. Hunt? This is Maureen Concannon. I remembered the name of Kathleen’s restaurant. It was called the King’s Room and it’s out on Lindbergh somewhere, uh, North Lindbergh. I’m sure you can get the address from them, or the phone book. I hope this helps you . . . oh, and your wife. I still intend to drop by your store sometime. Guess I’ll see you then. Bye.”

  “ ‘Oh, and your wife,’ ” Claire repeated breathily. “ ‘I still intend to drop by your store . . . see you then. . . . Bye.’ That was your psychic artist, huh?”

  “That was her,” Gil said. “She came through with that restaurant. We can check it out tomorrow.”

  “And you can bet I’ll be in your store when this psychic friend drops in, so I can check her out.”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  “She wants you,” Claire said, “I could hear it in her voice. You know, I’m a little psychic myself, Mr. Hunt.”

  “Really?” He reached out and pulled her to him. “What am I thinking right now?”

  She hesitated just a moment, frowning as if she were concentrating on reading his mind. “You’re thinking that I look great in my new blouse and I should wear this shade of blue more often.”

  “Well, it’s true, you do, and you should, but that’s not exactly what was on my mind.”

  “You’re no challenge at all.” She took his hand and led him to the bedroom. “No challenge at all.”

  Chapter 37

  Claire woke up early the next morning and, letting Gil sleep, fixed herself an easy breakfast of cold cereal. She kissed him good-bye, causing him to stir but not wake, and left for the studio.

  It was several hours later when Gil awoke. He got up and, seeing the cereal box Claire had left on the counter, decided he was hungry. Slicing a banana on top of his cornflakes, he checked the clock. A sales representative from a local small press was meeting him at the store at nine. There was still plenty of time before he had to leave. Allyn Marcus had classes that day, but the young man had promised to come in after four o’clock and hold down the fort until closing. Gil didn’t mind, though; in fact, he looked forward to being in the store. He had some serious thinking to do and usually was able to concentrate better surrounded by the books—insulated by them.

  When Claire arrived at the studio, she was met by her product coordinator, a pretty young blonde named Kate Pyatt. Kate worked with all the show hosts, but she had a special fondness for Claire and showed it by going the extra mile whenever she could. On this particular day, she greeted Claire with a cup of tea.

  “Thanks, Kate. Nice to have you back. Are you done with classes already?”

  “I took my last final yesterday. But I couldn’t wait to get back; I’ve heard all about the murders, Claire.” Kate’s eyes were always so wide with youthful wonder. Claire couldn’t remember if she’d been that wide-eyed at twenty. “It’s terrible about those tapes.” Kate twisted one of the sterling rings on her finger.

  “Where did you hear about them?” Claire asked.

  “Oh, I’ve been in touch with some of the guys here.” They both walked over to Claire’s makeup table. “Who do you suppose has been leaving them?”

  “I don’t know,” Claire said, setting down her tea and picking up a comb. “The police are working on it.” She didn’t bother to tell the young girl that she and Gil were also.

  Kate gasped. “Maybe it’s somebody who’s jealous of you and wants your job.”

  “I doubt that,” Claire said. “I don’t think anyone would be jealous of me.”

  “But you’re on TV, and excellent at what you do.”

  “Thanks, Kate.” Claire wanted to change the subject. “Could you run and get me the list of items we’ll be showing this morning?”

  “Oh, sure,” Kate said, striking her forehead with the heel of her hand. “I’ve been away so long, I forgot. I’ll get it.”

  Claire was relieved when Kate left. She wanted to work on her makeup and think. Under normal circumstances, she enjoyed the girl’s enthusiasm, but this morning it was just too overwhelming.

  Claire was worried about Gil. He had gotten so wrapped up in his “investigation.” What if the killer noticed him and went after him? What if he—or they—had already crossed paths with the killer, and he recognized them both now? Could he have been at the GA meeting? Maybe Delgado? Or Disco Brad? What if it was a woman? She shuddered to think she might have actually shaken hands with the person who had strangled three women.

  Her thoughts were interrupted when Kate returned. “Here you go. Can I get you some more tea?”

  “Thanks, that would be nice.” Claire handed Kate the cup and watched as the girl walked away. She always reminded Claire of how she
herself had looked all those years ago when her hair had hung long and free and her clothes had been tie- dyed.

  Returning her attention to preparing for the morning show, Claire started reading down the list while applying fresh lipstick.

  Gil finished his breakfast and got himself another cup of coffee. Before leaving for the store, he liked to tune in to Claire’s morning show, just to get a look at her. He was always impressed when he got to watch her doing her job. He wondered if she felt the same. After all, businesses had come and gone in the University City Loop, but he had survived in the same location for years. He might not be a TV personality, but he’d served as president of the University City Merchants’ Association, sponsored many book fairs in town, even been asked to run for mayor. But he’d turned down the offer— which was repeated from time to time—-because it would take him away from the store. Gil had degrees in American and European literature, was an expert appraiser of first editions. But above and beyond the vital statistics, he truly loved what he did. He had experienced firsthand some of the fuss made over Claire by women who recognized her, and he knew he wouldn’t be as comfortable with celebrity as Claire was. No, he was happiest in his store, and going on booking trips with Claire.

  He watched Claire now, seated in front of a set decorated to give the illusion of a cozy country kitchen. She was talking about a canister set on the table in front of her. She had been on the air for about an hour.

  He had to leave in a few minutes to open the store, and he had only a few sips of coffee left in his cup when he realized something was wrong. Gil usually tuned the callers out, but the look on Claire’s face and her demeanor claimed his full attention.

  “I—I’m sorry?” Claire said, her eyes darting from side to side as if she wasn’t sure what to do. “What did you say?”

  The man spoke in a growl. “I said it’s your fault they’re dead.”

  Gil sat up straight. Thurman had been too cheap to install any kind of delay system for phone calls so they could weed out the nuts.

  “People like psychos,” he’d said. “They’ll tune in just to hear one.”

  To date, this hadn’t hurt the station any, because apparently nuts didn’t usually call into shopping shows.

  “Well,” Gil said to the TV, “it looks like you’ve got one on your hands right now, Ben, old buddy.”

  Claire couldn’t believe her ears. She looked at Harve Wilson, who spread his hands, at a loss as to what to do. Cut the guy off! she wanted to shout at him, but the caller spoke again.

  “Are you shocked? That I blame you, Claire?”

  She was getting angry now. “Yes, I am. Why would you?”

  “Because you made me do it,” the caller said. “You made me kill them.”

  Claire felt a chill settle in the pit of her stomach because she knew—she knew—this guy was telling the truth. She just wasn’t sure what to do about it.

  Through his headset, Harve Wilson listened to his boss, Benjamin Thurman.

  “Don’t you dare cut him off!” Thurman shouted. “This is priceless.”

  “Boss,” Wilson said, “Claire’s not gonna—”

  “She’ll be fine. She’ll handle him; she’s a pro. Don’t do a thing, Harve, or your ass is outta here.”

  “Okay, okay,” Harve Wilson said, and once again he shrugged helplessly at Claire.

  She was handling herself wonderfully well, Gil thought. But when the guy actually said he was the killer, Gil could see by the look on his wife’s face that she believed him. He grabbed the phone and dialed Jason Holliday’s number. Luckily, the detective was in.

  “What?” Holliday asked.

  “I said the killer is on TV with Claire right now. Can’t you do something?” Gil shouted. “Trace the call!”

  “All right, all right, Gil, calm down,” Holliday said. “We’ll get on it. I’ll drive down to the station.”

  “I’ll see you there,” Gil said, and hung up on Holliday’s protest.

  Before leaving, however, he went to the TV for a moment and crouched in front of it. Putting his hand on the glass, as if the gesture would somehow let Claire know he was there, he said, “Hang on, baby.” Then he turned the TV off and hurried out the door.

  When Gil got to the station, there were more cars in the lot than usual. He wouldn’t have recognized Holliday’s car, but he assumed the detective must have gotten there before he had.

  Gil entered the building and quickly made his way to the Home Mall studio. Claire was in her chair backstage. Jason Holliday was standing next to her, and Myra Longfellow was off to the side, talking to some of the crew members. Gil marched right up to Claire, who reached out for him with one hand. Gil held it tightly.

  “I knew you were watching,” she said. “Detective Holliday said you called him.”

  “Were you able to trace the call?” Gil demanded.

  Holliday shook his head. “We didn’t have time.”

  “What? You mean with call waiting, call forwarding, caller ID, and all sorts of computers, you still can’t trace a simple phone call?”

  “It takes a while to get a trace going, Gil,” Holliday said, “and the caller didn’t stay on long enough.”

  “How long was he on?”

  “It seemed like forever,” Claire said. “Where’s Harve? I’m going to kill him.”

  But she didn’t move. In truth, her legs were still too weak for her to stand. She was furious with her director for making her go through the whole ordeal, but she was also a little exhilarated at having been able to talk to the killer.

  “Was it really him?” Gil asked.

  “That’s something we’re going to have to try to establish,” Holliday said. “Who’s the director here?”

  “Harve Wilson.”

  “Myra?”

  “I’ll get him,” Kate Pyatt said. She had been anxiously waiting for something to do.

  “Thank you, Miss,” Longfellow said, and resumed her conversation.

  “What about a producer?” Holliday asked. “I’m really ignorant about what goes on here. Do you have one?”

  “Just Ben—Mr. Thurman,” Claire said. “He owns the station, and he pretty much produces everything we do.”

  “Where was he when all of this was going on?”

  “Upstairs in his office, I assume. He usually watches the shows from there.”

  “Here’s Harve,” Kate said, returning to Claire’s side.

  “Mr. Wilson,” Holliday said, “how do you usually handle nut calls?”

  “We disconnect them as soon as we realize they’re not, uh, legitimate.” Harve wiped the perspiration from his forehead with a soiled handkerchief.

  “Would you kindly tell me, then, why you didn’t cut this caller off when you realized what was happening?”

  “Mr. Thurman wouldn’t let me.”

  “Clai—Mrs. Hunt just told me that Thurman was in his office upstairs.”

  “That’s right,” Wilson said, “but he’s in direct contact with me through my headset. When he realized what the man was talking about, he immediately ordered me not to disconnect.”

  “Is there tape on this show?”

  “Yes,” Wilson said. “We make tapes down here, and Mr. Thurman records everything upstairs.”

  “Well, then,” Holliday said, looking at his partner, “I guess we talk to Mr. Thurman next.”

  Gil turned toward the detective. “I’m coming with you.”

  “Me, too,” Claire chimed in. She stood, still holding on to Gil’s hand.

  “Claire,” Wilson said helplessly, “I’m sorry, but . . .”

  “It’s okay, Harve, I’ll take it up with Ben.”

  As the three walked by camera two, Linda Bennett leaned over and grabbed Claire’s sleeve. “I can’t believe that son of a bitch did this to you. Nail his ass to the wall!”

  Claire smiled at the pretty camerawoman. “Thanks, that’s just what I intend to do.”

  Chapter 38

  Holliday paused
to stare at the word janitor on the door leading to Benjamin Thurman’s office. Thurman stood from behind his desk as Gil, Claire, and the two detectives entered. Before anyone had a chance to speak, Claire walked up to Thurman and slapped his face.

  No one moved for a second. Thurman rubbed his reddening cheek and finally said to Claire, “Is this the opening negotiation for a raise?”

  “You son of a—”

  “I think you’ll both have to save this discussion for another time,” Holliday interrupted. “Mr. Thurman, I’m Detective Holliday, and this is my partner, Detective Longfellow.”

  “How do you do,” Thurman said, removing his hand from his face to shake Holliday’s hand. The red imprint was still there. “Won’t you have a seat?”

  “I don’t have time for that right now, sir,” Holliday said. “You’ve had something very unusual happen here today.”

  “I’m well aware of that, Detective,” Thurman said. “It’s not every day I get slapped in the face by an employee.” He glared at Claire.

  “I was talking about the phone call Mrs. Hunt received while she was on the air.”

  “Yes,” Thurman said happily, “a phone call from a killer. That’s a once-in-a-lifetime event.”

  “We don’t know for sure that the man is a killer,” Holliday said.

  “Claire does,” Thurman said. “Don’t you, Claire?”

  Claire turned away from Thurman and looked at Holliday. “It was him.”

  “And how on earth do you know that?” Longfellow asked smugly.

  “I just do,” Claire said. “I felt it—I still feel it.”

  Holliday gave his partner a disapproving glance as she mumbled her disbelief under her breath. “Mrs. Hunt, you’ll forgive us for not being able to take your word for it.”

  Claire simply looked away. She had little use at that moment for any of the people in the room other than her husband.

  “Ben, did you get the call on videotape?” Gil asked.