Same Time, Same Murder: A Gil and Claire Hunt Mystery Page 2

  “Promise.” Then, looking more solemn than he had all evening, Tucker said, “To love.”

  “To love!” Gil said enthusiastically.

  “To love,” Claire repeated, then took a sip from her glass.

  After drinking, Tucker looked at Claire. “Do I detect a note of cynicism?”

  “Well . . .” she began.

  “Claire always insists that men are more romantic than women. I don’t think it’s true, though,” Gil said.

  Claire lowered her knife and raised an eyebrow. “Oh come on! Tuck, you’ve known Gil almost as long as I have. I remember how he plotted to match you up with Reagan. Admit it: He’s a hopeless romantic.”

  “Just because I wanted to see a friend happy? That makes me romantic?”

  “She’s right, Gil. You are a sap for all that stuff. How many times have you seen The Bridges of Madison County?”

  “Clint Eastwood. I’ve seen all his movies.”

  “And Somewhere in Time?” Tucker asked. “You were the one who recommended it to Reagan and me.”

  “The Grand Hotel! I had just been out there and thought you’d enjoy the scenery.”

  “I told you so,” Claire said smugly. “I’m not the only one who’s noticed this flaw in your personality.”

  “Terminal romanticism. Okay, I guess there could be worse things.” Tucker reached across the table to pat Gil’s shoulder. “Never change, buddy. The world needs more like you out there.”

  The threesome had finally finished their entrees and were trying to decide on dessert, when Tucker remembered news he had meant to share with his friends. “Oh, I almost forgot, and Claire, maybe even you will be excited.”

  Claire adjusted her velvet scarf. “What?”

  “Reagan is writing a book.”

  Gil sat back in his chair. “Is she still freelancing? Her travel pieces are some of the best I’ve read.”

  “Given everything up until this book is finished.”

  “Wow. So, what’s it about? Tell us all the details.” Claire didn’t consider Reagan Bowen one of her closest friends, but that wasn’t from a lack of interest. The two women maintained such busy schedules and their work resulted in them having different lifestyles. When Claire was on the air, Reagan was sleeping. When Reagan was eating a late supper, Claire was getting ready for bed. The few lunches they had managed to share had always been enjoyable. Claire considered Reagan her “artsy” friend and envied the free-spirited way she approached everything.

  “It’s called Love at First Sight, or at least that’s the working title. She’s gathered stories about how people met, fell in love, and married. Kinda corny, huh?”

  “I’d read it,” Claire said. “And we both know Gil would love it.”

  “So it’s nonfiction?” Gil asked. “A series of essays?”

  “I think of it more as a sort of factional romance.”

  “Has she always been interested in those kinds of stories?” Claire asked.

  “As long as I’ve known her. She’s got some great ones, too. There’s this couple who met during the war. The woman’s best friend was set up on a blind date but at the last minute got chicken pox. So Mary goes to meet the guy—a soldier—at a dance to tell him the date’s off. They start talking, fox-trot to some Glenn Miller, and the next thing you know they’re in love.”

  “Nice,” Gil said. “You hear about a lot of those things happening during the war.”

  “But here’s the best part,” Tucker continued. “The guy’s getting shipped out and asks Mary to go with him to the train station to say good-bye. He’s planning to propose, but she thinks it’ll be the last time they’ll ever see each other.”

  “Train stations,” said Claire, sighing. “Now that’s a romantic image.”

  Gil agreed.

  “She shows up in her best dress,” Tucker told them, “white gloves, one of those little hats they wore back then. There’re all these soldiers rushing around, porters loading up bags, trains chugging up and down the tracks. The two of them stand kissing, she’s crying, and he pops the question in the middle of all the commotion.”

  “And she says yes,” Gil added.

  “No.”

  “She’s afraid he’ll get killed in combat?” Claire asked.

  “No. She wasn’t quite in the right place, in her heart, as he was. She came from a large family, had never left her hometown, so it all seemed too soon and too foreign.”

  “Some love story,” Gil grumbled.

  Tucker folded his hands on the table. “The guy is crushed. He pushes the ring deep into his pocket, gets on the train. His buddies are all talking and laughing, but he just sits there. Mary is waving good-bye, but he doesn’t even look at her.

  “Finally, the soldier next to him asks what’s wrong and he spills his guts. His buddy spreads the word, and pretty soon all the men are hanging out of the windows, shouting at the poor girl to say yes. ‘Come on, marry him!’

  “The excitement spreads down the line and now they’re all shouting, ‘Say yes! Say yes! Say yes!’ They’re stamping their feet, clapping their hands; even people standing on the platform get into the act. ‘Say yes! Say yes!’ ”

  “I love this!” Claire said.

  “So the train starts to pull out of the station and Mary starts crying. She says she loves him but that she’s afraid. Everyone’s shouting, ‘Say yes!’ ”

  “And she does?” Gil asked.

  Tucker nodded. “All the soldiers reach out, dozens of hands grab for her, and together they pull her up and through the window into the train.”

  “How far did she ride with them?”

  “They got married at the next stop, he came back from the war all in one piece, and they eventually celebrated more than fifty years together.”

  Gil blew out a long sigh. “Are all the stories that exciting?”

  “No.” Tucker said. “Some are tender; some are sad.”

  “Well, I can hardly wait to read the book when Reagan’s finished. Tell her I volunteer my services as a proofreader.”

  “She’d love that, Claire.”

  They ordered a local treat, blackberry cobbler à la mode, and champagne for dessert. And after they finished stuffing themselves, Tucker asked, “So, tell me, how did you two meet?”

  “I’m sure I told you,” Gil said while wiping vanilla ice cream from the corner of his mouth.

  “Refresh my memory.”

  “Oh,” Claire said, “it’s a long, complicated story. And I’m sure that if Gil told you—and he’s told everyone—you’d remember.”

  Tucker smiled. “So, what was the most memorable thing about your first meeting?”

  “Robin Westerly.”

  “He was the guest of honor at the convention where I met Claire,” Gil said.

  “And Claire had a crush on him? Something like that?”

  “No.” Claire said. “He got himself killed.”

  “Now I know I haven’t heard this story before.”

  “Got a week?” Gil asked.

  Chapter 3

  “Killed?” Tucker Bowen looked shocked. “A week? Not this visit, but I can give you a few hours. How about we go over to the lounge at the Devil’s Pool and have a few drinks? At least you can get started. This would make a great chapter for Reagan’s book. Would that be okay? I could take a few notes. Hey, if you give me a minute, I can run out to my car and get a recorder. Better yet—”

  Claire looked anxiously at Gil. “Wait a minute. Tuck, I don’t think the station would like any more publicity focused on my private life. After that whole thing a few years ago with the stalker, all the headlines . . . I almost lost my job. No, definitely not. I’ve been trying to keep a low profile.”

  “But this is about love.” Tucker smiled.

  “No,” Claire said. “Our story is mostly about murder.”

  “And I certainly don’t want tourists coming to the store just to gawk at me,” Gil said. “I know you two think I’m charming and wonderful, b
ut to strangers hearing our story, I’d be just another stop on their way through St. Louis: The Arch, the riverboats, Forest Park, and the lovesick bookstore owner who solved a murder. Besides,” he continued, “it was all over the papers years ago and I still get comments.”

  Tucker thought the two were being overly cautious, but he didn’t voice his opinion. Instead, he said, “Okay, so just tell me the story. From two friends to another. No publicity, no book deal.”

  “Forgive us if we sound like prima donnas,” Gil said, “but we had a few bumpy years when we started out together, and now things have finally calmed down a bit.”

  “I wouldn’t hurt you two for anything,” Tucker said. “So will you just please—no strings attached—tell me the story?”

  Big Cedar Lodge was furnished with custom-crafted items. Artisans from all over the country had been commissioned, and next to Disney properties, Big Cedar and its various resorts employed more craftsmen than any other company. That’s why when Claire entered the comfortable lounge, she was overwhelmed not only by its beauty but by all the work that was evident in every tiny detail: from the chandeliers—hand-carved, adorned with copper miniatures of local animals—to the huge fireplace constructed of local limestone. The overstuffed love seats, covered in navy blue tapestry, were arranged around large oak coffee tables. A huge deer’s head was mounted above the fireplace, and while she had never liked such things, it did look perfect. The smell of cedar chips wafted across the room as the fireplace crackled, and the spice candles scattered throughout created an almost enchanted place to begin their story.

  After they ordered brandy and had settled back, Gil began.

  “It was a dark and stormy night.”

  “Oh Gil. I don’t believe you! You’ll use any opportunity to stick that horrible line in somewhere!”

  “Tucker, it was a beautiful weekend in May—bright, cool, just lovely. Come on, Gil, tell it right.”

  He winked at Tucker. “She’ll end up telling more of this than I will. Guaranteed.”

  Claire crossed her legs. “Well, I was living in Omaha at the time. Several years before, I had read a book, which became one of my favorites: The Mirror, by Marlys Millhiser.”

  “That’s one of Reagan’s favorites, too,” Tucker said, amazed. “Apparently, a lot of women loved it, because I was at a fundraiser one evening and met a woman who later became one of my best friends. We were discussing books and she mentioned The Mirror. “

  “And I was in Omaha as a book dealer for a mystery convention to be held at one of those huge Holiday Inns, the kind with the pool in the middle, under a dome,” Gil said.

  “So my friend Donna reads in the paper that there’s going to be a mystery convention in town and Marlys Millhiser is listed as one of the authors attending.

  “We got so excited, just like two teenagers planning to descend on the Beatles. We both dug out a copy of the book and decided we would go to the convention, determined to meet Marlys and get an autograph.”

  “Do you know this author?” Tucker asked Gil.

  He nodded. “She’s great. But maybe if she’d known that these crazy people were planning to attack her—”

  “Attack?” Claire sounded indignant. “We only wanted to tell her how much we loved the book and ask if we could please buy her a drink or lunch—something in appreciation.”

  “And did you?”

  “We took our positions in the bar—you know how writers like to drink; at least that’s what we’d heard. So we were sitting there and Marlys walked in. We only had the photo on the dust jacket of the book to go on, and that was almost ten years old.”

  “And the name tag,” Gil added.

  “It was under her jacket.”

  Tucker realized the couple had been right. At this rate, it would take a week to hear their story. “Why don’t you skip ahead to the part where you two first met?”

  Chapter 4

  It never left him: how close he’d come to losing her back then at the very beginning, it had almost been their ending. He’d thought he was so desensitized, what with all the news footage he’d watched: executions with dinner, bombings for lunch, murders and rape with breakfast. Movies, reality TV, horror stories passed down from parent to son.

  “I once knew a guy who chewed his fingernails and then swallowed them. Years and years of eating all those nails,” his father once told him. “And you know what happened? He died before his sixteenth birthday. No one could figure out what happened. Jack ran track; everyone loved that kid. But when they opened him up, there were all those sharp little nails stuck to his insides like pins in a cushion. See? You gotta be careful,” his father warned. “Life will kill ya, son.”

  But an honest-to-God dead body. Not all clean and antiseptic like in a funeral home—flowers, music, refreshments in the back. He’d always had time to prepare as he walked from the parking lot to the front door.

  But that day, all those years ago . . . it felt more as if it all had happened only a few hours ago.

  The blood, pooled under the dead man’s head. One bullet to that bald head. Thank God the damaged part had been pressed against that god-awful pink carpet. Pink . . . how he hated pink, and mauve—almost every hotel room back then had come wrapped in that horrible mauve.

  The image had stayed with him; he couldn’t shake it, especially now, talking about how he’d first met Claire. One of his favorite stories always had to come with that kicker.

  A dead guy. A not so very nice guy. An arrogant son of a bitch, in fact. But he hadn’t deserved to die that way. Laid out like that—on display—strangers gawking.

  Gil had wanted to run away and hide until the mess was all cleaned up. But what would Claire have thought of him then, when he’d been trying so hard? He’d had to stand there. He’d had to.

  No matter how he rearranged the facts, the horror of it was always back there, telling him, It could have been you, son. It could have been any one of you. Life will kill you if you don’t watch out.

  He pushed down the image and hoped that even in his dreams the fear would never come out for Claire to hear.

  Chapter 5

  Her last name had been Duncan back then; she had been married to Frank for fourteen years. She once told someone that if she ever wrote her autobiography, she’d call it Everything I Never Wanted To Be and More. She had had a nice house, two cars in the garage, a dog, a yard, even the white picket fence. But except for her son, Paul, she hadn’t wanted any of it. Her father once asked why she wasn’t happy. After all, he’d told her, she had what every woman wanted. Claire often wondered where her father, the most chauvinistic man she’d ever known, had gotten this great insight into women’s hearts. But she’d never asked him.

  When she thought back to that afternoon, she always remembered Gil Hunt as being larger than anything human she’d ever known before. Not in the physical sense. It was his personality. His voice, his laugh. His soul. He would forever claim he’d been drunk that day and could not be held responsible for anything he might have said or done. But she knew he used that as a defense, a way to cover his nervousness.

  “Marlys, can I buy you a drink?” Gil had asked as he approached the small table she shared with Claire and Donna.

  “Got one, thanks,” She held up her glass.

  “Well then, can I buy you lovely ladies anything?”

  Lovely ladies. She thought that expression lived somewhere between corny and old-fashioned. She liked it.

  “No thanks,” the women said in unison.

  “Okay, no drinks. How about an introduction, then?”

  After names were exchanged, Gil sat on a stool across from Claire and studied her, all the while talking . . . entertaining. He made them laugh with stories about his beloved New York City. He was funny and charming. Gil Hunt and Claire Duncan liked each other from the start. . . . Well, they found each other interesting.

  Almost everyone who passed through the bar stopped by the table to talk to Gil. He knew authors, b
ook dealers, editors, and publishers, as well as the bartenders and waitresses. She found out he’d been attending mystery conventions for years.

  He thought she was pretty. He mentioned it at the time and often throughout the next few days. He found her charming, funny, and smart. Weeks later, he realized he couldn’t even remember what her friend Donna looked like. But Claire—blond, green-eyed Claire—he remembered. He said she glowed.

  Their conversation started off light and easy and stayed that way. Each of them was married. Each had children—he had two boys and she had one. Both were in their thirties and wise enough to know nothing could come of their meeting. Not that year. Not then. “So, are you girls going to the banquet tonight?” Gil asked.

  “I’m heading home,” Marlys said. “Family business.”

  “We got tickets weeks ago,” Donna said. “Can’t come to one of these things and not go all the way.” Donna was always throwing out suggestive lines.

  “Well,” Gil said, “I’d love to sit with you, but I’ve got to give a speech. I’m this year’s toastmaster. Maybe I’ll see you later.”

  “Maybe,” Claire said.

  And that was about it.

  “What about the murder?” Tucker asked.

  “There was only sexual tension that first year,” Gil said, smiling at Claire.

  “Well, maybe for him.” She nodded toward her husband. “Sorry, hon, but you seemed more a curiosity than an object of desire.”

  “Fine,” he said playfully. “I guess my boyish charm didn’t work on you right away.”

  “‘Boyish charm’?” Tucker asked.

  “Gil takes great pleasure in reminding me I’m the elder one in this relationship. Only by three years, though. And at our age, I don’t think three years’ difference matters to anyone.”

  “I’m her boy toy.” Gil smiled broadly.

  “Too much information,” Tucker said. “How about you get back to your story?”