Murder Is the Deal of the Day Read online

  “Of course; I tape all my programs.”

  “Well, that’s what Detective Holliday is interested in, I’m sure.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Hunt,” Holliday said. “Mr. Thurman, we’d like to view that tape.”

  “Of course,” Thurman said. “It’s already loaded into the machine.”

  There was an elaborate setup against one wall, virtually a home entertainment center gone mad. Thurman picked up his remote control and pressed a button. Claire appeared in the center of the screen, just moments before the call came in. They all settled down to watch.

  CLAIRE: You’re on the air with Claire.

  CALLER: It’s your fault, you know?

  CLAIRE (laughing): I—I’m sorry? What did you say?

  CALLER: I said it’s your fault they’re dead.

  CLAIRE: What?

  CALLER: Are you shocked? That I blame you, Claire?

  CLAIRE: Yes, I am. Why would you?

  CALLER: Because you made me do it. You made me kill them.

  CLAIRE (eyes darting about for a moment, then realizing she won’t be getting any help): Are you telling me that you killed those three women?

  CALLER: With my own two hands.

  CLAIRE: Then why is it my fault?

  CALLER (forcefully): Because I said it is!

  CLAIRE (calm now): All right, all right, take it easy.

  CALLER: You seduce people.

  CLAIRE: What people?

  CALLER: The women who watch you. You seduce them into buying things they don’t need. You make them spend all their money, money that’s been earned by—

  CLAIRE: By you?Are you saying those women were spending your money?

  CALLER: Of course not! They made their own money, but they made—

  CLAIRE: Yes? They made somebody else spend your—

  CALLER: That’s enough. I just called to tell you that even though I’m onto you, there won’t be any more women killed.

  CLAIRE: Well, that’s a relief.

  CALLER: Once you’re dead, Claire!

  Click!

  Everyone in the room watched Claire, whose feet were riveted to the floor by what she had just heard on the TV. “Wasn’t she great?” Thurman asked.

  Gil moved closer to his wife. “I hate to agree with him,” he said softly, “but you were.”

  “You did real well, Mrs. Hunt,” Holliday said.

  The one dissenting vote in the room came from Detective Longfellow. “Not one thing on that tape proves you were actually speaking to the killer.”

  “I’m afraid my partner’s right,” Holliday said.

  “You weren’t able to trace the call,” Gil said, “so what’s the difference?”

  “Actually,” Thurman said, “that’s not really true.”

  They all turned and looked at him.

  “What do you mean?” Holliday asked.

  “I’m not as cheap as most people think I am.”

  “Meaning?” Claire asked.

  “There are three main phone lines coming into the building. Our general ordering number has almost one hundred extensions. But customer service and the management offices have only five phones each.”

  “Are you saying you monitor all the calls on those last two lines?” Holliday asked. “You’re a little bit of a control freak, aren’t you?”

  Thurman smiled at the detective and said, “There’s no little bit about it.”

  “So you were in on the call from the start?” Longfellow asked. “How does that help us?”

  “That doesn’t help us at all,” Thurman said, “but this does.” He pointed to a little white box on his desk.

  “What’s that?” Holliday asked.

  But Gil knew. “Benjamin Thurman, you son of a bitch,” he said, shaking his head. “You’ve got caller ID on every line.”

  Chapter 39

  Claire stretched to reach the shelf. “I don’t see why I have to be on this wobbly ladder and you get to sit safely on the floor.”

  “First of all, it’s not a ladder; it’s a dinky little step stool. Second, I have to unpack and log in the books before I hand them to you. And third—”

  “I know, I know. I asked to come in and help, so I deserve what I get,” she said, looking down at him.

  “No, I was going to say that I get a better look at your legs from here.”

  She turned back to the shelf. “Everything in our life is going crazy and you still take time to notice me . . . or at least joke about it.”

  “Like I keep telling you, it’s my job.”

  It had been just one day since the incident at TBN. Benjamin Thurman had shown no emotion about putting Claire in such a precarious spot, other than the embarrassment when she’d slapped him. At Holliday’s suggestion and Gil’s insistence, he ended up giving her a two-week vacation, all expenses paid. Even though viewer response had been overwhelming and kept circuits jammed all day, Thurman hadn’t succeeded in business by dumb luck. No, he knew a great thing when he saw—or heard it—and he wanted to keep Claire happy anyway he could. If it made her husband feel more like a man, thinking he was protecting her, so be it. Claire Hunt’s predicament was temporary, but her marketability, Thurman knew, was permanent.

  “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” she said.

  “Look at it this way, we get to spend more time together. You get to relax and bum around in your jeans and that horrible T-shirt I hate so much.”

  “Hey! This was a gift from my fan club in Omaha,” she said, pulling at the restaurant logo printed beneath a red heifer.

  “It’s still ugly,” he said. “I know! How about if we take a trip? There’s that B and B you’ve been wanting to stay at up in Wisconsin. We could take long walks, stay in bed all day, eat too much. . . .”

  “Back up to the bed part.”

  He handed her another book. “Get your mind out of the gutter, Mrs. Hunt. Right now, we have work to do.”

  “What a slave driver,” she playfully complained. “Talking about slave driver . . . what do you think I should do about Ben? ”

  “Isn’t that the point of this whole leave of absence? To keep you out of sight awhile and let things cool off between you and Ben? I think he did as much as he could by way of apologizing,” Gil said.

  “But I don’t feel the same toward him now.”

  “You always said he was a jerk.”

  “Yeah, but he was a decent jerk, you know? A character,” Claire said. “We didn’t have to see eye-to-eye to have a good working relationship; I respected him. But now . . .”

  “Now what?”

  “I don’t trust him and I don’t think I like him very much. Maybe I never will.”

  Gil reached up and rubbed her leg. “You know whatever you decide is okay with me. Besides, I could always fire Allyn and hire you. I’d even give you two dollars above minimum wage.”

  “My hero.”

  When the phone suddenly rang, Gil let the machine take the call. Officially, the store wouldn’t be open for a few more hours.

  “You have reached the Old Delmar Bookstore; we do not open until noon. Please leave a message or call back then. Thank you.”

  Beep.

  “Mr. Hunt? Mrs. Hunt? Are you there? This is Detective Holliday. Gil? If you’re there, pick up.”

  While Gil made a dash for the phone, Claire jumped down to the wooden floor.

  “Yes, Detective, I’m here.”

  “Good. Is Mrs. Hunt with you? I called your condo and got the machine.”

  “Yes, she’s here.” He motioned for her to pick up the extension on his desk in the back of the store. “Why? Has something happened?”

  “Well, we traced the number of the caller on Mr. Thurman’s ID box. It came from a private residence in South County. The phone is listed with Southwestern Bell under the name of George Belmont.”

  “That’s great! So now you can go pick him up?”

  “No, Gil, we can’t do that.”

  Claire couldn’t believe what sh
e had just heard, and she asked, “Why can’t you?”

  Holliday hesitated a moment, surprised to hear her voice. “Mrs. Hunt?”

  “Yes, Detective Holliday, I’m on the extension. So, tell me why you can’t haul this lunatic in?”

  “Well, ma’am, anyone in that house could have used the phone, with or without the owner’s knowledge.”

  “But he admitted he killed three women. You’re going to let him get away with that? Without even questioning him?”

  Gil asked. “And what about his threatening Claire?”

  “Who do we question? Some man made a call from a phone at that address. That does not mean he is a killer and that does not mean he even resides in that house.”

  “So that’s it?” Gil asked.

  “No, we’ve made a great deal of progress.”

  “How do you figure that?” Claire asked.

  “We now have a general location where the killer might live or work. We’re establishing a stakeout today and will keep an eye on all males coming and going at that residence. We don’t want to tip anyone off just yet and give them a chance to change their routine.”

  “So, other than having a vacation forced on me, and my life threatened in front of thousands of people, we’re right back where we started,” Claire said, disappointed.

  “Don’t forget that you’re not a suspect anymore, hon,” Gil added.

  “Very funny.”

  “Right now, Mrs. Hunt, all you and your husband can do is try not to worry. Let us do our jobs.”

  “Easier said than done,” Gil said.

  Claire had heard enough and hung up the phone. She slowly walked toward the front of the store while Gil finished talking with the detective.

  When he finally hung up, she asked, “What do you think?”

  “Everything he said makes sense. I guess we should do what we’re told and stop worrying.”

  Claire looked at him as if he had just said the dumbest thing she’d ever heard.

  It turned out to be a busy day at the store. Gil helped customers and rang up quite a few sales. Armed with her love of mysteries and extensive sales experience, even Claire found herself waiting on customers in between dusting and straightening.

  Around dinnertime, a young man with long green hair came in. He asked for a book by Andrew Vachss. While Claire searched the shelves, she couldn’t help but notice the cup in his hand. It was from the St. Louis Bread Company, just down the street. She could smell the hazelnut blend wafting up through holes in the plastic lid. Without warning, the aroma triggered off a memory she must have been trying to keep buried. After handing the book to the man, she excused herself and ran to where Gil stood.

  “Coffee! The GA meeting! Francine! Francine told us about a woman at the meeting. A quiet woman who kept to herself.”

  “Yes. Her name started with a J. I’m sure of it.”

  Claire started to run through a list of names: “Jane? Jill? Joan?”

  Gil shook his head.

  “Jackie, Judith—”

  “No . . . Judy! Definitely Judy! Judy Belmont!”

  “You’re right. Do you suppose she’s related somehow to this George?”

  “There’s only one way to find out,” Gil said.

  “No . . .” Claire whined.

  “Sorry, sweetie, but it looks like we’re going to another GA meeting.”

  Chapter 40

  The Hunts parked across the street from the Congregation of His Almighty Power. They had arrived an hour before the Gamblers Anonymous meeting was scheduled to begin, hoping to catch Francine on her way inside.

  “There she is.” Gil honked the horn.

  “She sure doesn’t look very happy to see us,” Claire said, waving at the woman.

  Francine hurriedly approached them, her head down, hoping the encounter would be brief. The Hunts had seemed nice enough, especially Gil, but she certainly didn’t want to be seen with them. Not now. God forbid if they decide to come inside, she thought. Carlos would throw a fit.

  “You’re not planning on attending, are you?” Francine asked as she stood in the grass by the passenger’s side of the car.

  “Why don’t you get in?” Claire asked, and started to open the door.

  “No, I can’t.”

  “What happened?” Gil asked.

  Crossing her arms over her chest, Francine talked out of the corner of her mouth. “Delgado. He’s furious. Ever since he saw that newspaper story about Claire and the on-air phone call, he goes on and on about how you both came to our meeting under false pretenses.”

  Claire had almost forgotten the Post-Dispatch article. There had also been a report on Channel 5. Prime Time had called, wanting to do a segment, but she had refused to talk to anyone.

  “Francine, we don’t want to upset you. If you can help us with one thing, we’ll leave,” Claire said, trying to reassure the woman.

  “What is it?”

  Gil leaned over closer to the window. “Judy Belmont—what is her husband’s first name?”

  “I think it’s Whitey. Yeah, I’m sure of it. Whitey.”

  “Not George?” Claire asked.

  “I told you, it’s Whitey. Now I have to go.” Francine turned to leave.

  Claire called out “Thank you” at the same time as Gil.

  Francine waved them off as she walked away.

  “So much for that,” Claire said. “Now I feel horrible, as if I let her down somehow.”

  “It’s not you,” Gil said, starting the car. “They’re a tightly knit group and don’t appreciate outsiders, that’s all. Even if I was a real compulsive gambler, I don’t think they would have ever liked me . . . or you.”

  “It’s not them liking me or not; I can handle that. It’s feeling as if I’m contaminated somehow. I feel dirty every time I think about that phone call, that man—those poor women.”

  Gil pulled onto Highway 40 and kept to his driving, knowing that he had to let his wife talk through her mood.

  “Why is this happening? I can’t even say ‘to me’ or ‘It’s not fair.’ I’ve lived long enough to know nothing’s fair, and why should something this horrible not happen to me? It’s all luck and timing. I guess it’s my turn—”

  “Our turn,” Gil said.

  “Our turn for some of the bad. We’ve had so much of the good. At least since we’ve been together, huh?”

  He smiled. “We sure have.”

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “A surprise. I figured we could catch a late lunch, early dinner . . . whatever you want to call it.”

  “When Paul was little, he used to say ‘linner.’ ” Claire smiled at the thought of her grown son as a child. She suddenly missed him more than she could convey to Gil.

  “Here we are.” Gil stopped the car outside of the Botanical Gardens.

  “What a nice idea. Thank you, Gil.” Claire hugged him tightly.

  They got out of the car and walked into the main building. Gil paid for their admissions; then the couple headed for the restaurant. From the cafeteria-style arrangement, they each selected a cold plate and a soft drink; Gil tossed a huge cookie on Claire’s tray and winked. While the cashier rang up the last of Gil’s order, Gil motioned Claire to grab a table outside.

  The late-afternoon sun felt great on her face. She pushed a straw through the lid of her cup and sat back sipping the cold Pepsi while she waited for Gil.

  “Now this is nice,” he said, clearing a place for his tray on the table. “The roses look great.”

  “So many colors. I love the statuary by the ponds.”

  “I knew this would help you relax a bit.”

  She kissed his cheek.

  When they had finished their meal, they decided to walk the grounds, heading toward the Japanese garden.

  “Are you feeling better now?” Gil asked.

  “I’m fine.” She took his hand.

  “Then let’s talk this through.”

  “Good idea. Sometimes I t
hink my head’s going to explode, everything’s getting so complicated.”

  “Okay,” Gil began, “it’s been three days since Detective Holliday started watching the Belmont house, and so far he has nothing.”

  “Right. The Belmont house. Should we just suppose— because I know how much you hate coincidences—that Whitey is George, which makes him Judy Belmont’s husband?”

  “Yes,” Gil said, “we’ll start there. Now if we can match Judy Belmont up with each victim, indirectly that would connect George to them, too.”

  Claire thought a moment, bending over to touch the leaf of a flowering bush. “I like that; it makes sense. So victim number one was Kathleen Sands, right?”

  “Right. And we know that she was a waitress who attended Gamblers Anonymous meetings.”

  “Because Disco King told us,” Claire said. “And Judy Belmont attended GA meetings. Victim number two—”

  “Mary Dunn, she watched the Mall show, loved to go to the boats, and belonged to a shopping club.”

  “The Shopping Fools,” Claire continued, “which may or may not be the same shopping club Judy belongs to but which makes shopping the connection there.” She stopped to sit on a bench overlooking a rock garden.

  Gil sat down next to Claire. “Which leaves the last victim, Susie Kennedy.”

  “Whom Millie talked to and met on the boat.”

  “Two are connected through the boats, two are connected through home shopping, and Judy Belmont can logically be connected to all three,” Gil said.

  “So, if the killer really is Whitey, remember what he said to me about seducing women to spend money and buy things they can’t afford?” Claire looked at Gil.

  “Yes, and he also said that you made them spend money earned by . . .”

  Together, they finished the thought. “Him.”

  “Can he really be that crazy to think that his wife is spending all his money and I’m the reason? Would that drive someone to kill innocent people?” Claire asked, puzzled.

  “Money is the root of all evil and all that jazz,” Gil said. “Well, it seems to me that it all comes back to finding out if George and Whitey Belmont are the same person.”