Murder Is the Deal of the Day Read online

  She walked him to the door.

  “Will you please think about a lawyer?” he asked.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  He turned to face her at the door and took hold of her elbows. He started to say one thing, then stopped and said something else. “That’s all I ask.”

  She hugged him tightly, then kissed him.

  “I’ll be at the store until six, and then we can go to dinner.”

  “Sure.”

  He kissed her again and left.

  On the way down in the elevator, he thought about how people always panicked when the police came into their lives. He guessed it was much the same reaction they had toward the IRS.

  As he exited the elevator and walked through the lobby, he wondered if they needed a criminal lawyer. And if so, how would he go about getting one?

  Chapter 6

  The weekend had relaxed them. Flower boxes on the balcony were crowded with dozens of daffodils and the mid-April days were warm enough to sit outside. Unconsciously, they had insulated themselves—no television, no newspapers, no complications. And it had worked . . . at least for two days. When Monday eventually dawned, Gil and Claire were forced out into the rain to begin a new week.

  Getting up at 4:00 a.m. and making it to the studio by 5:30 was the pits. But the morning show was Claire’s baby. She had worked hard to secure the 7:00 a.m. spot for five consecutive programming days each week. Once she arrived at the studio, she went directly to her small cubicle behind the set, next to the dressing rooms, and reviewed the product lineup for her shows. After finishing her third cup of tea, she combed her hair and did her own makeup, with barely enough time left to gulp down her orange juice. Then she headed for the set.

  The Home Mall theme song started up and while a promo for an upcoming program was being aired, Harve shouted to her. An assistant grabbed the paper cup from Claire’s hand, another adjusted her microphone. For a second, there wasn’t a sound, everyone froze in place. Then the prerecorded tape concluded, the large hour hand of the station’s clock touched the very top, and it was showtime.

  “Good morning, St. Louis, it’s a dreary day, but that makes it all the more fun to stay home and shop. I’m Claire Hunt and I’ll be your host for the next four hours. This morning, we’ll be talking about western jewelry.” She smiled into the camera.

  Dressed in a denim shirt, seated behind a waist-high table, Claire held up a turquoise ring. Each segment of her program had been researched and was meant to entertain as well as to sell products.

  “I bet you didn’t know that turquoise is called ‘the guardian gem.’ The American Indians used to put pieces of the stone in the beams of their homes for good luck. The blue of the turquoise was believed to represent the sky. Medicine men used turquoise in healing ceremonies; this particular ring was made by the Navajo. We have it in sizes five through nine.”

  A small clock was displayed in the lower right-hand corner of the viewer’s screen. Ticking down two minutes, it urged customers to call in before supplies ran out.

  Hosts on the Home Mall show not only had to be friendly but also able to ad lib, relate personal anecdotes that tied in with featured items. It had always come easily to Claire, who was well traveled, well read, and well liked.

  “Now remember, when cleaning your turquoise jewelry, don’t use any harsh detergents or commercial products. The vivid blue of the stone can change color. Just polish it with a soft cloth.

  “I remember a little charm I received from my grandmother when I was about ten years old.” The memory of her eccentric grandma always made Claire happy. “Whenever she traveled, she never forgot to bring me a souvenir for my charm bracelet. I thought I was being so careful and dipped it in some of my mother’s silver polish. I still have the bracelet, but that particular charm turned a funny shade of blue.”

  Harve’s voice spoke to her from the small earpiece hidden by her hair. “There’s a woman calling from Chicago; her name is Helen.”

  Without missing a beat, Claire slipped the ring on her finger and said, “Hi, Helen, how’s the weather in Chicago today?”

  “Pretty wet, Claire.”

  “Guess that’s to be expected this time of year. So tell me, what do you like about this ring?”

  The caller went on with her comments and Claire monitored the seconds clicking away. Knowing how very precious airtime was, Claire thanked Helen from Chicago for calling and was about to say good-bye, but the caller wasn’t quite ready to hang up.

  “Claire, you’re my very favorite host.”

  “Well, I thank you for that. It’s always nice to—”

  “I don’t know if you remember me or not, but we met when you were at the Fox Theater with your family. My husband and I drove down to St. Louis on business and decided to see Cats. I was the lady with the big corsage. It was Mother’s Day. Remember?”

  “Of course I do. You were wearing a lilac suit.”

  “That’s right!”

  Even though Claire had been an on-air celebrity for more than three years, it still surprised her how thrilled people were to just speak to her or meet her on the street. It was all baffling in a wonderful way.

  “Well, Helen, I don’t mean to rush you, but we do have to move on.”

  “Oh, that’s all right. You take care, and, honey, don’t worry about those awful stories in the paper; we’re all behind you.” She didn’t show her surprise over that last comment; after all, Claire was a professional. “Thanks, Helen, and I hope you enjoy your ring. Remember everything here at the Home Mall comes with a thirty-day money-back guarantee.”

  Claire knew there was no way she could find out what had appeared in the papers until her time slot wrapped up. Quickly, she reassured herself that while Chicago reporters might find the story of a murder in a neighboring city newsworthy, other cities had much more important items to concern themselves with. Besides, it was so early in the morning that her viewers were busy eating breakfast and getting ready for work; they probably hadn’t even picked up on what Helen was referring to.

  “Our next item is a beautiful black onyx and sterling silver pair of earrings. Onyx is believed to increase concentration and devotion. It’s supposed to get rid of nightmares and ease tension.” I should cover myself in this stuff, Claire thought, but she said, “I love the jet black richness of these earrings. The stones are round-cut and centered between two silver petals.” Time seemed to move along fast enough; Claire loved her job and jewelry was one of her passions. She often thought she would have loved to be a designer, but that occupation would have to wait for another lifetime.

  There were bracelets and more rings, pendants and pins. Before the hour came to an end, another call was taken.

  “Hi, you’re on the air with Claire. Who’s this, please?”

  “Loretta from Denver.”

  “Ah, the Mile High City. You live in a beautiful part of the country, Loretta.”

  “I sure do.”

  Sometimes the callers had to be coaxed, and sometimes it was hard to get them to stop talking.

  “Don’t you just love western jewelry?” Claire asked.

  “Yes, I do. It’s beautiful.”

  “And which item did you purchase today?” Claire watched the hands of the studio clock, swearing they had stopped.

  “The man’s ring for my husband. The one with the eagle.”

  “What a nice choice, Loretta; I hope he enjoys it.”

  Suddenly, the woman became talkative, evidently more interested in gossiping than shopping. “I heard what that last caller said, and, Claire, I just wanted to tell you we’re all out here for you. You’re one great lady and we love you.”

  Please, don’t say any more, Claire silently begged, but the woman was too quick. “We all know you could never hurt anyone. Why, you’re like a member of our own family.”

  Claire’s smile never wavered, not one bit. “Thank you, Loretta. Tell your husband we say hi.”

  “Well,” she said int
o the camera, “that about wraps it up for our western-jewelry hour. Please stay tuned while Beth Anne tells you what’s coming up later today. I’ll be right back with today’s deal of the day—the lowest price we’ve ever had on our luxurious one hundred percent silk jackets.”

  As soon as the tape started rolling, Claire dashed for her dressing room to change into the deal of the day. While she was fretting over which color would look best, Harve came charging toward her.

  “Claire, Ben says he wants to see you.”

  “I thought so,” Claire said. “Tell him I’ll be up around eleven.”

  “He says now, Claire.”

  “But I’m on in a minute, Harve; you know that.”

  “Beth is doing a special presentation of the deal—it should take fifteen minutes—so get upstairs, now.”

  “All right already.” Claire started to hang up the jacket in her hand, so as not to wrinkle the fabric.

  “Run, Claire. Hurry!” Harve seemed crazed.

  “Okay, okay!”

  Chapter 7

  Gil used to feel guilty about being able to stay in bed for hours after Claire headed down to the station. But as time went by, he reasoned that his wife loved her job almost as much as she loved him. And keeping that job meant turning in early as well as getting up early. It really didn’t have much to do with him at all. Besides, he loved his books—almost as much as her—and the quiet time, late at night, when he could just sit and read. Friends used to tell them that their arrangement wouldn’t work out, that the couple that went to bed together stayed together. But their relationship had defied most all of the other rules, so why not that one, as well?

  After stretching out onto Claire’s side of the bed, Gil slowly opened his eyes, remembering it was Monday. Getting up, he took a quick shower then headed for the kitchen. On his way through the living room, he turned on the television set to check in on his wife. It had gotten past the point of being strange, the idea that he could see how Claire looked and what she was doing just by turning on the television set.

  He noticed she was holding up some kind of ring—all jewelry looked the same to him—and she was wearing what appeared to be a cowboy shirt. He smiled, thinking she looked good in anything she wore.

  Gil was finishing up his breakfast when the phone rang. He hated talking with anyone before noon. Even though his business dictated that he socialize the minute he opened his store, that didn’t mean he had to be polite while still in his bathrobe. He started to let the answering machine take the call until he recognized his mother’s voice.

  “Gil? I see you sitting there! Come on, darling, be a good boy and pick up.”

  He couldn’t help himself, and he walked to the phone. “Are you sure you got the right number, lady?”

  “It’s nice to hear you so happy . . . considering.”

  “Considering what?”

  “Enough with the jokes, Gil; I called to find out how you and Claire are holding up. I tried to hold off until you called me, but I just couldn’t wait any longer. So? Tell me,” Rose Hunterelli implored her son. Hunterelli was Gil’s family name. When he first opened his bookstore, he realized that with his mail-order business, he’d be on the phone a lot, explaining not only how to pronounce his name but how to spell it. Shortening it to Hunt for business purposes seemed the thing to do.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Ma. No kidding.”

  “Honey . . .” Rose began slowly, not quite sure how to ask her question, or if she even should. “Do you have the television on?”

  “Yes, I’m watching Claire’s show.”

  “Well, maybe you should turn to a real channel. Try ABC; they’re having the local news in a minute or so.”

  “But, Ma—”

  “Go do it, Gil. I’ll hang on.”

  He didn’t want to tell her—again—that the kitchen phone was a cordless model and he could talk to her while he walked. Instead, he silently picked up the remote control and pushed number 1 first and then the 2. Walking back to the dining room table, he positioned himself in such a way so that he had a good view of the screen.

  “Now what? What am I watching for?”

  “Be patient,” his mother said. “Ever since you were a little boy, you never liked to wait for anything. ...”

  While Rose chattered into the receiver, Gil watched the television. Finally, a familiar anchorwoman in a red jacket came into focus. Gil expected the story to feature the two murdered women the police had questioned Claire about. He knew sooner or later it would all get into the news. But he was caught completely off guard when the panic started pulsing in his temples as the television screen was filled with Claire’s latest publicity photo.

  “I’ll call you back, Ma; I want to hear this.”

  The anchorwoman was already into her story when Gil turned up the volume.

  “Sources have informed us that Claire Hunt, host on the popular Home Mall, has been implicated in the murders of two women found slain in their homes. Videotapes of Hunt’s shopping program were found at both scenes, leading police to target her for investigation. We’ll have more on this story as the facts come in. Just to recap, a St. Louis television personality has been brought in for questioning in the murders of two women.” As she continued, the reporter looked up into the camera and smiled, confiding to her audience. “Scandal has been known to advance many careers. Could Claire Hunt be headed for fame or infamy? Watch tonight after our regular ten o’clock broadcast for a special report on ‘Scandal: Stepping-Stone or Headstone.’

  “In other news—”

  Gil switched back to TBN. A different hostess was talking about a jacket. Gil dialed the station and asked for Claire. “I’m sorry, Mr. Hunt, your wife is in a meeting right now.”

  “But she’s supposed to be on the air.” Gil couldn’t understand the change in schedule. “Okay, then, let me talk to Harve Wilson, please.”

  “Just one moment.”

  “Gil”—Harve sounded out of breath—“this is not a good time. I’ll have Claire call you as soon as she gets out of Thurman’s office.”

  “A minute, Harve. Come on, I need to know what’s happening.”

  “If I knew something, I’d tell you, Gil. Honest. You’re just going to have to find out when the rest of us do.”

  “It’s just that—”

  “I know, Gil, and I’m real sorry.”

  “Thanks anyway.”

  “No problem.”

  After looking at the receiver for a moment, Gil reluctantly hung up. The only thing he could do now was open the store and wait.

  “What do you mean, ‘keep it up’? Do you think I enjoy being put in a situation like this?” Claire sat down, trying not to raise her voice.

  “Ya’ll didn’t kill anyone, did you, Claire?”

  “What? How on earth can you ask me—”

  “Then I don’t see why you’re getting so upset.” Benjamin Thurman leaned against the wall, balancing on two legs of his large wooden chair.

  She massaged the side of her neck. “I am getting upset because I’m the one out there trying to smile while our customers—”

  “Correction, Claire, your fans. They aren’t just customers— that’s the whole point. That sweet lady from Chicago, she loves you. Didn’t she say so?”

  “It was the woman from Denver who said she loved me. And, Ben, I don’t see how that has anything to do with murder.”

  “Denver, Chicago, Fort Wayne, or Houston—there are people out there who care about you. The other day, when you asked me if I was planning on pulling you off the air, I wasn’t sure what I was going to do. It’s not like this sort of thing happens every day. But now, hearing the concern out there, I know how important it is that you go on every day. That you show your public you’re dealing with everything just fine. After all, Claire, honesty is what we here at TBN are all about.”

  “And I just thought it was all about sales and percentiles.”

  Thurman let his chair drop bac
k onto the floor. “I’m not gonna lie about that. We’re running a business here. But we’re selling the truth as well as our products. There isn’t one item out there that I wouldn’t stake my reputation on. How can you expect anyone to trust you if you don’t give them the truth? Why, people can read a lie in your eyes.”

  For a moment, Claire felt guilty. It was Benjamin Thurman’s integrity that had convinced her to take the job hosting the Home Mall show in the first place. “I suppose you’re right about me facing all of it.”

  “That’s a girl. Now go back down there and show ’em what you’re made of. I was thinking that maybe we should increase our calls from three an hour to five or six.”

  Gil walked to the back of the store, savoring the sound of creaking floorboards and the scent of paper and leather bindings. He never got tired of the way the store smelled. But even being surrounded by his beloved books could not comfort him this morning; all he could think about was his wife. When the phone rang, he jumped for it, startled.

  “Old Delmar Bookstore.”

  “Gil? It’s Paul. How are you guys doing? Is my mom okay?” Paul Duncan lived in Kansas City. After graduating with a degree in criminal justice, he had decided any job requiring a tie or suit was not for him. One interview with social services, and he got himself hired as head guide for the Gangster Tour, happily spending his days pointing out old bullet holes left by Prohibition tommy guns. Paul was a six-foot-tall twenty-three-year-old—as far as earth years were concerned. Physically, he looked more like he was eighteen, and spiritually, he was Yoda.

  “She’s fine, Paul; not to worry. The police questioned her a few days ago; that’s all that’s happened so far.”

  “I was driving to work this morning and when I turned on the radio, there she was, all over the news. Gosh, my dad would never be involved in anything this cool.”

  Claire’s first husband, Frank, had remarried and was living in Anaheim, right next door to Mickey Mouse. Theirs had been such an easy divorce. But then, their marriage had been so calm, so uneventful that now, years later, Claire had a difficult time remembering much about it.