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

  Same Time, Same Murder

  A Gil and Claire Hunt Mystery

  Robert J. Randisi

  Christine Matthews

  Contents

  Books by Robert J. Randisi and Christine Matthews

  Your FREE eBook

  Authors’ Note

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  A Look At: Eye In The Ring

  Get your FREE copy of The Eye in the Ring (A Miles Jacoby Mystery)

  About The Authors

  Books by Robert J. Randisi and Christine Matthews

  Murder Is the Deal of the Day

  The Masks of Auntie Laveau

  Same Time, Same Murder

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  Same Time, Same Murder is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018, 2005 Robert J. Randisi and Christine Matthews

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Wolfpack Publishing, Las Vegas.

  Wolfpack Publishing

  6032 Wheat Penny Avenue

  Las Vegas, NV 89122

  wolfpackpublishing.com

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-64119-458-7

  Paperback ISBN: 978-1-64119-459-4

  For Ellen Burstyn and Alan Alda

  Authors’ Note

  There are some real people in this book. You’ll recognize the names of other writers. We thought this would be fun. But there are no thinly veiled depictions of real people. If you think you see yourself, or someone you know, within these pages, you’re wrong. Any resemblance the fictional characters in this book have to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. No, really.

  Same Time, Same Murder

  Prologue

  No! No, no, no. The words slammed against the inside of her head with sledgehammerlike precision. There was pain in her head, and no sound in her ears except her beating heart. It was as if she were existing in a vacuum suddenly.

  I can’t look at this. Please, no. Don’t make me look at this!

  She covered her eyes.

  Please . . . please . . . p . . . l . . . eeee . . .

  But she had to look. It was as if she had no power over her own body. She pried her fingers apart, forced open her eyes.

  Have to look. Maybe he’s not . . . not . . . really . . . dead . . .

  But there was so much blood. Thick, red, congealing there on the pink carpet. So much blood . . . How could he not be dead?

  He was!

  He was . . . dead.

  The question hung in the air then: . . . Now what?

  But before she could think any further, make any kind of decision, there were people talking, shouting, crowding into the room, screaming. . . .

  “Someone call the police! Hurry. Somebody call nine one one!”

  “Who is that?”A man shoved her, and then another. In trying to get a look, they forced her closer to the dead man.

  “Oh, my God. Is he dead?” one asked.

  “Who are you?” the other man asked. “Did you see anything? Anybody?”

  They were looking at her, but there was no accusation in their eyes. But there would be. . . .

  I have to get out of here, her brain shouted. Get out! Run! Run, for Chrissake!

  And then she was running. Running harder than she had ever thought she could.

  Running.

  Pushing.

  Stumbling.

  Couldn’t stop.

  Running until stomach cramps squeezed upward, burning her lungs, sending pain biting into her thighs. Running until she thought she would die!

  Can’t stop, her brain shrieked.

  Run! Faster! Faster! Fasterfasterfaster . . .

  Chapter 1

  “So? Ya got the itch?”

  Claire looked across the room at her husband. “Oh no, don’t you dare tell me you stepped in something that gave you a rash. We’ve planned this trip for months. You can’t get sick. You can’t! You know the rules—no getting sick on a vacation. Especially this—”

  As Gil walked toward her, he held up his hands. “I was making a joke. You know, we’ve been married seven years? Isn’t that supposed to be the time we get the itch to, ah, see if the grass is greener . . .”

  “It’s not a joke, Gil,” Claire told him seriously. “I heard that they did a study—”

  “Is this the same ‘they’ who did all those other studies?” he asked. “Like the one about coffee? Elixir of life—or death in a cup? And the one on wine? One glass with a meal keeps the heart pumpin’, but two—or is it three?—are lethal? ‘They’re’ always studying bats or pigs or drunken college students, trying to uncover a secret that will fix global warming, cure cancer, or magically remove ten years’ worth of wrinkles.”

  She grabbed his face and kissed him deeply. Not just because she adored that face of his but mostly to shut him up. And when she released him, he had that dazed look in his eyes. Even after seven years of marriage. She playfully patted his cheek. She still had it.

  “Next,” she said. It was the signal that the subject had been closed. Move on. Get over it.

  He smiled, stood there holding her for a moment, and then led her outside.

  Their Knotty Pine Cabin was situated on a forested ridge near Devil’s Pool in the Ozarks, at Big Cedar Lodge. They had gotten married in the fall, seven years ago today. It was the second marriage for both. And now in their forties, with all that youthful confusion and anxiety behind them, they both considered these to be the best years of their lives.

  Claire inhaled deeply. “I love the autumn,” she said as Gil deposited her into a worn Adirondack chair. “I know a lot of people think this time of year is sad. It gets
gloomy and cold and everything dies, but I always think of it as a breather—a time-out.”

  Gil pulled a matching chair up beside her and stretched out. “I never thought of it that way, but you’re right. Summer is always frantic—everyone expected to run and have fun.”

  “And it gets so hot in St. Louis,” Claire said, “that I don’t know why people even want to go outside when the humidity melts the life right out of them.”

  “Winter used to be the best. Until I got too old for snowball fights and had to shovel, scrape, and defrost. Spring, though, now spring’s a beautiful time.”

  “Spring break,” Claire moaned. “Spring break reruns all year long on MTV, spring training, spring into action, spring cleaning.”

  Orange leaves drifted until caught in a gust and then were swept upward. When they finally landed, they covered the yellow and red ones, making the grass look as if it were a crazy quilt. November in Missouri was most often mild. Temperatures still climbed into the high seventies. But the air seemed more breathable. Instead of the heavy fragrance of cut grass or bushes loaded with roses, burning leaves, and smoke rising up from chimneys and fireplaces scented the crisp air. Hot dogs and hamburgers being grilled, fermenting apples, the first blast of heat from a furnace restarted after long summer days—all of it filtered through the trees and back to the couple.

  “Happy anniversary, Claire.” Gil reached out his hand.

  She wove her fingers into his. “Happy anniversary, sweetie. Coming here was certainly one of your best ideas. It feels like we’re all alone, lost in the woods.”

  She watched as he leaned to examine a pinecone. His red flannel shirt fit snugly, his hair was freshly cut, wispy around the ears and thinning on top. If someone had taken the time to look closely at the creases in his face, they would have said age complimented him.

  “So,” she asked, “do you want your present now?”

  “I thought we’d wait until after dinner. Isn’t Tucker taking us to Top of the Rock? He mentioned something about a new chef.”

  “You mean we have to wait almost the whole night?” she groaned.

  Gil turned, hiding his grin. Disconnecting his hand from hers, he reached in a shirt pocket for the car keys. He wanted her to stew awhile and so took his time counting silently to ten. He had only made it to five when Claire spoke.

  “Well, maybe you can wait, but I can’t.”

  “Here you go, you big baby.” He tossed her the keys. “Go look in the trunk.”

  Playing with the silver key chain, she pretended to be thinking very seriously about something. “No. You’re right. We should wait until later.”

  “I hate when you do that.”

  “What? You hate when I admit you’re right? You must be the only man in captivity who—”

  “Claire, just go get the present.”

  She stood up. “If you insist.”

  Running to the car, she couldn’t resist calling back to him over her shoulder, “After all, you are the boss around here.”

  “Tell me another one!” he shouted back.

  When she returned, she was holding two packages. “Oh, look what I found in the trunk.” Reading the name written across a small tag, she said, “and this one seems to be for someone named Sherlock.” It had become one of her pet names for him ever since their first meeting at a mystery convention. “Is there a Sherlock here?”

  “That would be me!” He raised his hand.

  “Me first.” Sitting back down in her chair, Claire turned the present over in her hands several times. The wrapping was red and metallic silver. A bunch of silk roses had been attached to the top.

  “This is almost too pretty to open. Note the word: almost. And no card—very edgy, Gil. No one can say you’re traditional.”

  “Just wait,” he said. “The week’s not over.”

  Carefully sliding her fingernail across the back, she sliced through the tape and the paper fell gracefully into her lap. Opening the box, she stopped and stared down at the book enclosed. Lifting it up, she couldn’t hide her excitement. The dust jacket had been doctored with one of her head shots from the studio. There she was, big as day, smiling back at herself. And in large white letters across the top was the title: C Is for Claire, instead of C Is for Corpse, as intended by its author.

  “Where did you ever . . . I can’t believe how thoughtful . . .”

  “It’s a first edition. The real cover’s at home, so don’t worry. And I had Sue Grafton sign it for you. Look on the title page.” His excitement was always the best part.

  Claire eagerly flipped the pages, stopping at the inscription. “C is for celebrate! Happy anniversary, Claire. Here’s to seven more years of good things for you and that wonderful husband of yours. Love, Sue.” She hugged the book to her chest, unable to look at Gil, sure that tears would spill down her cheeks. She hated being the emotional one. “I love it. Thank you.”

  “Now me?” he asked holding up his gift.

  Claire nodded.

  His present had been wrapped in children’s birthday paper. Bugs Bunny and Daffy Duck were holding cakes and mugging it up. “Ah, you certainly know what I like, don’t you?” He laughed. “And there’s no card on this one, either.”

  “I know,” she said. “It’s spooky how alike we are.”

  “You still think it’s spooky? By now, I think it’s normal.” He ripped the paper off, turning the large sheet into confetti. When he came to the box, he lifted the cover off and shouted, “All right! I was hoping you’d get the hint.”

  “How could I miss?” she asked. “For the last three months, you’ve been leaving catalogs all over the house. And the red circle around item numbers—you’re not very subtle, Gil.”

  Holding the boxed set up, he read, “‘Midsomer Murders. Set in the seemingly benign villages of Midsomer County. Detective Chief Inspector Barnaby and his brash assistant, Sergeant Troy, find that bucolic charms hide a multitude of sins.’” Gil patted the box. “Ever since our last trip to England, I can’t get enough of these British mysteries.” Then, reading all the fine print on the side panel, he said, “Oh, Claire, these are DVDs.”

  “Really?”

  “We can always exchange them for VHS.”

  The car keys came sailing back into his lap. “Maybe if you run your little self back to the car, you’ll find the second half of your present in the backseat.”

  “A DVD player? But we both agreed we didn’t need one, that our tapes are good enough.”

  Claire pulled her chair closer to his. “We don’t need anything, Gil. As long as we have our life together, we don’t need any of that other stuff. But I wanted you to have it. Just because. For fun, you know?”

  “I know,” he said, then kissed her.

  Chapter 2

  “So,” Tucker asked the couple sitting across from him, “didn’t I tell you?”

  Gil had only taken two bites of his steak, but from the appetizer to the salad to the main course, he had been impressed. “Delicious. Everything’s great, Tuck.”

  “My trout is perfect,” Claire said. “But you know me. The proof is in the—”

  “Pudding? We have crème brûlée and a wonderful rice pudding with brandy sauce.”

  “You really love this place, don’t you?” Gil asked. “It’s great seeing you so happy.”

  “Not like the first time we met, huh, Gil?”

  Claire had heard the story countless times. How on one particularly bright spring morning, Tucker Bowen had wandered into Gil’s bookstore in University City, back home in St. Louis. Freshly divorced, unemployed, and displaced, he missed his kids, his friends, and the comfort of something—anything—familiar. Gil had recommended a few books, they’d talked, and their discussion led to lunch. That had been almost ten years ago.

  “No.” Gil shook his head. “Thank God for that. By the way, how’s Reagan?”

  “Good. She sends her regards. She really wanted to join us, but her mother’s been ill.”

  �
�Don’t you two have an anniversary coming up?” Claire asked.

  “February. It’ll be our fifth.”

  Gil sipped his wine and glanced at Claire, admiring how the flickering light from the fireplace made her blond hair sparkle.

  “So, Claire, how does it feel being a big-time celebrity?” Tucker asked. “Reagan loves watching you on that home-shopping show of yours.”

  She laughed. “I wouldn’t know about the ‘big-time,’ but I do love my job.”

  “And she’s damn good at it,” Gil chimed in. “According to the latest stats, her morning show is the most popular on the network.”

  “We’re both lucky guys, Gil,” Tucker said thoughtfully. “I don’t know how, but we managed to convince two great ladies to marry us.” He raised his wineglass. “One more toast.”

  Gil and Claire put down their silverware and went for their glasses. “This is the last one, Tuck. Okay?” Claire said.