Murder Is the Deal of the Day Page 5

  “You don’t like her much, do you?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Can’t blame you,” Holliday said. “She’s hard to like.”

  Gil was surprised at the detective’s candor. “Do you like her?”

  “I never ask myself that about a partner,” the man said, “but if you’re gonna pin me down, I guess I’d have to say yeah, I like her—but I’ve got my own reasons.”

  “That’s fine,” Gil said, “and I’ve got mine, too.”

  Holliday thought a moment and then said, “Well, I guess it’s not fair. I know your reasons, so you might as well know mine. See, besides being a good cop, she’s the only woman I talk to now that I’m divorced—and the only woman who’ll talk to me.”

  “I guess that means you don’t date.”

  “Jeez, no,” Holliday said. “Who wants a busted-down old cop like me?”

  “I better not tell my wife that. She’d try to fix you up with one of her friends.”

  “Really? That might not be so bad . . . if they’re as good- looking as she is. I hope you don’t mind me saying that you’re one lucky man, Mr. Hunt.”

  “I don’t mind at all. But Claire has to stay out of jail if she’s going to play matchmaker for you.”

  “So, that’s what this is all about, huh?”

  “That’s what it’s about.” Gil leaned forward. “Big surprise, huh?”

  “Not really,” Holliday said as the waitress arrived with their drinks.

  Gil hoisted his mug. “Here’s to keeping my wife out of jail.”

  Holliday raised his glass. “I’ll certainly drink to that. But then you’re assuming that I want to put her in jail,” he said, setting his glass down.

  “Not really, but someone wants you to suspect her of those murders, or else why leave the tapes behind?”

  “I really can’t talk about the case too much, Mr. Hunt-—”

  “But that’s why I asked you to lunch, Detective,” Gil said, cutting him off. “To talk about it.”

  “I guess you’re wasting your mon—you are paying for this, aren’t you?”

  Gil had to laugh. “Of course. I invited you.”

  “Well then, I guess you’re wasting your money.”

  “Not really.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Talk to me off the record.”

  “You mean like a newspaperman?”

  Gil nodded. “Yes.”

  “Why would I do that, Mr. Hunt? For lunch?”

  “No,” Gil said, “for justice.”

  Holliday sat back in the booth and stared at Gil for a moment. “You said that real well,” he remarked finally, “with a straight face and everything.”

  “Okay,” Gil admitted, “so it sounds corny.”

  “Let me ask you something, Mr. Hunt.”

  “We are sharing a meal, so I guess you can call me Gil.”

  “Fine, Gil, let me ask you this. Are you planning on playing detective?”

  “No,” Gil said, “I wouldn’t call it that . . . exactly.”

  “Because if you are, I gotta tell you, it’s not a very good idea,” Holliday warned.

  “Let me ask you something, Detective—”

  “Hey, Gil, I think it would be okay if you called me Jason, or Jace. You are buying me lunch, after all.”

  “Jason,” Gil asked, “do you think my wife killed those three women?”

  “Truthfully,” Holliday said, “I don’t.”

  Gil heaved a sigh of relief.

  “But I don’t have any evidence, either way,” the detective went on, “and I gotta tell you, my partner likes her for it.”

  “Jason, I can’t just sit by and not do anything, you know?”

  “I understand, Gil,” Holliday said. “You love your wife, and you want to protect her.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Look, if she’s innocent and you start poking around, there’s a killer out there who might not like it. And if she’s guilty— whether you know it or not—”

  “I know she’s not,” Gil said, cutting him off. “There’s no question about that.”

  “If you start messing in an active police investigation,” Holliday warned, “you could get yourself in a lot of trouble.”

  “Not if you help me.”

  Holliday laughed. “Then I could get in a lot of trouble.”

  “Jason—”

  The waitress came with their food and Holliday suggested, “Why don’t we eat, Gil. We can talk about this after lunch.”

  “But—”

  “I’d like to think it over while we eat,” Holliday said. “Maybe we could talk about something else for a while. You like sports?”

  Chapter 12

  They talked about sports and then about books. Holliday told Gil that he had been doing a lot more reading over the past eighteen months, since his wife left him.

  “She found herself a man who paid more attention to her,” Holliday went on, “a younger man—a lot younger. To tell you the truth, I don’t know what he sees in her. Don’t get me wrong—I married her and I loved her, but she was never a raving beauty. Now she’s fifty and living with a guy twelve years younger than she is. I don’t get it.”

  “I have the opposite situation,” Gil said. “My ex-wife cheated on me with a man eighteen years older than she is. Now they’re living together; she’s working and he’s retired. I’ll never get that one. What could she possibly see in someone old enough to be her father? And on top of it, the guy looks like a pit bull.”

  They both shook their heads in confusion and had to laugh. Then Holliday said, “Well, you’re doing pretty good now, and I’m getting more reading done. I’ve just started a book by this Tom Clancy guy....”

  After lunch, they had some coffee and got back to the subject that had brought them together.

  “So, what do think about my advice, Gil?”

  “I guess it’s probably pretty good.”

  “But you’re not gonna take it, are you?”

  “I don’t want to interfere with a police investigation, Jason, but I don’t see any other way.”

  “You’re gonna—what do they call it?—run afoul of my partner.”

  “Not if you run interference for me.”

  “I’ve known her a lot longer than I’ve known you, Gil,” Holliday said. “Tell me why I should do that?”

  “Because you don’t think Claire’s guilty, and because you want to find out who is.”

  “And you can find that out?” Holliday raised his eyebrows.

  “Maybe I’ll stumble over something,” Gil said. “And if I do, I’ll let you know.”

  “So . . . what do you want from me?”

  “Just tell me about the three women. Who they were, what they did, what they had in common.”

  Holliday leaned back in his seat. “Those are pretty good questions. Maybe you’re a natural-born detective, huh?”

  “I’m sure you’re probably more of one than I am, Jason. Why do I get the impression you’re a lot shrewder than you make out?”

  “Shrewd? Me? Don’t go thinking I’m some kind of Columbo, Gil. Myra’s the brains; I’m just the muscle.”

  “Uh-huh,” Gil said, “right.”

  “Look, maybe I can answer a few questions without compromising the whole investigation—but just a few, mind you.”

  “That should be enough.” Gil smiled his gratitude. “I’d really appreciate it—thanks.”

  Holliday suddenly seemed embarrassed. “Never mind, just start asking. You’ve got until I finish my coffee.”

  The waitress came and refilled their cups three times before they were finally done and Gil had most of the information he’d been after. He didn’t want to push his luck by taking written notes, so he had to memorize most of it.

  “There’s something I want you to remember before we part company,” Holliday said.

  “What’s that?”

  “I’ll deny I ever gave you any of this info.”
<
br />   “You don’t have to worry. I won’t tell anyone where I got it. I swear.”

  “Guess I’ll have to trust you. Oh, one more thing, Gil.”

  “Yes?”

  “You can’t get involved in an active police investigation of a murder,” Holliday said. “If you do, you could end up being the one in jail, and how would that help your wife?”

  “But how can I—”

  “Well,” Holliday said thoughtfully, “there is the question of where those tapes of your wife’s shows came from. I imagine there’s material on there that is copyrighted?”

  Gil knew anyone watching the Home Mall program was free to record any portion of it, but he understood what Holliday was suggesting.

  “And,” Holliday continued, “I’m sure her boss would be interested in finding out where the tapes came from.”

  “Sure he would,” Gil said eagerly, “and it would only seem logical that I ask around.”

  “No conflict there with a police investigation that I can see,” Holliday said with a shrug.

  They left Fitz’s together. Holliday had parked in the adjoining lot; Gil had only to walk half a block to get back to his store.

  “You’ll have your wife call me when she returns?” Holliday

  asked.

  “I will,” Gil said, “I promise.”

  “And you’ll get me some more of those Clancy books?”

  “As many as I can.”

  “That Jack Ryan, he’s a helluva character.”

  So are you, Jason Holliday, Gil thought as the detective walked to his car. So are you.

  Chapter 13

  “Wouldn’t that blouse look darling with my pink suit?” Judy Belmont glanced over her shoulder. “Well, Whitey, what do you think?”

  “Give me a break—I’m tryin’ to read.”

  “You’re always reading.”

  “And you’re always watchin’ the goddamn TV.”

  “Well, it’s certainly more company than you are.”

  The celebration of her twenty-first anniversary, last spring, had brought with it the realization that Judy Belmont had lived with Whitey one year longer than she had lived with her parents. And that meant she had spent the majority of her life being defined as a wife. To say anything had turned out the way she expected it to would be a lopsided exaggeration.

  Oh, sure, they owned their own home, but not the Colonial she’d always dreamed of, down on Ladue Road. But then Whitey wasn’t the doctor she’d hope to marry. She’d never had to work after saying “I do,” but that wasn’t because they had enough money to live comfortably, or even someone to help out a few days a week. No, Whitey was old-fashioned, believed his wife should be at home—with the kids. And, knock on wood, they did have two gorgeous girls—Gloria and Barbara Ann. (Whitey had insisted on naming them after his favorite songs.) But both girls were married now, living out of state; they had their own lives, populated with husbands, children, and in-laws.

  Money problems had slowly eased up after Judy and Whitey had recuperated from the expense of two weddings. The house would be paid for in five more years. And for now, both were in good health, with many more anniversaries still ahead of them. Judy had hoped they would travel, maybe take a cruise. But Whitey had ten more years until he could retire, and while his wife’s routine had drastically changed, his had not. So Judy Belmont occupied herself with Bible-study class on Wednesday nights, church on Sundays, and, when her friends weren’t available for lunch, home shopping on TBN.

  Sliding off the sofa to get herself a cup of coffee, she walked by her husband’s chair and felt a smidgen of guilt in her stomach. Whitey was a good man. He never asked anything unreasonable of her. He never hit her, never cheated, drank, hardly ever swore, and almost never mentioned that she had gained twenty pounds during the past year. All her friends told her how very lucky she was to have a good man at home who loved her the way Whitey did. She supposed they were right—about the love part. He’d told her over and over that he wasn’t the sentimental kind and she should know, just because he came home every night, how much he loved her. He shouldn’t have to tell her.

  “Can I get you something?” She rubbed his arm.

  “No.”

  “What are you reading?”

  He looked up at her, happy for the chance to discuss his book. “It’s a biography of General Patton.”

  “Oh.” She smiled. “George C. Scott.”

  “No, the real General Patton, not the actor.” He looked back down at his book.

  “Sorry.”

  Balancing her coffee, a plate covered with a slice of chocolate cake, a fork, and a napkin, she rushed back to her place on the sofa. Spread out in front of her on the coffee table was a pad of paper, a pen, and a card with her Home Mall membership number embossed on it. The cordless phone lay on the cushion next to her.

  A menu came up, as it did at the top of each new hour. The next segment would be Household Helpers. One of the newer hosts came on. He was handsome, blond, somewhere in his late twenties, and wore those small kind of glasses they used to call “John Lennons.” He looked so nice and tan in his light-colored suit; she wondered how many hours a day he worked out.

  “Welcome back, I’m your host, Lane Allison. Today I’ve got something that’ll blow you away.”

  Judy sat back to enjoy the program, and her cake.

  “A three-in-one reading lamp. You got to see this to believe it. It’s a must for anyone who reads.”

  Judy looked over at Whitey, then back at the set.

  “This is our deluxe model; you’ll find it in those high-end catalogs for double the price. It’s the latest in modern technology. At first glance, it looks like a regular lamp sitting on a table, but watch this.”

  While the host demonstrated how the table collapsed and folded back into a new configuration, Judy decided against using the phone beside her and went to the bedroom to order the lamp as a surprise for her husband. His birthday would be in a few weeks, and if she charged the gift, she would have it in time.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Belmont,” the TBN operator said, “but your credit card has been denied.”

  “Wait a minute.” She grabbed her purse from the dresser. “Try this one.” She gave the operator her Visa number. “Hold on while I check.”

  It took only a minute for the operator to return. “No, I’m sorry but that one has been denied also.”

  Judy Belmont couldn’t understand. She’d always handled the family finances. “I know, how about if you put the lamp on the easy-payment plan? That way, you only need a third of the total amount now. Right?”

  “Of course we can do that, Mrs. Belmont. Hold one moment.”

  Before she could figure out still another solution, just in case the last one didn’t work, the operator was back.

  “Everything’s been approved. Item number two thirty-six four eighty-one, will be shipped to your South County address. You should be receiving that in seven to nine working days. Is there anything else I can help you with, Mrs. Belmont?”

  “As a matter of fact, there is. I was wondering if you could send me an application for the TBN credit card.”

  “Of course, I’ll have it in the mail to you today.”

  “All the operators there are always so nice.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Belmont, but it’s our customers who are the nice ones. Have a good day and enjoy your lamp.”

  “Oh, I will. Good-bye.”

  Judy hung up and hurried back into the living room before she was missed. Sipping her coffee, she found it difficult to sit still. “I know something you don’t know,” she said to her husband.

  He studied the back of her bobbing head for a minute.

  “Uh-huh.”

  Chapter 14

  Rain had been coming down in heavy drops since she hit Springfield. Claire was usually glad for any excuse to visit her hometown of Chicago, but after talking to Gil the night before, she was anxious to get home.

  The trip seemed to
take forever: Road construction on I-55 slowed traffic, the rain caused her tires to skid occasionally, and because of all the talk shows, she couldn’t even find any music on the radio. The black vinyl box containing tapes for the cassette player was somewhere on the floor in the back, but she didn’t have the patience to struggle to find it. So she distracted herself by reading signs posted alongside the highway.

  ILLINOIS, THE LAND OF LINCOLN.

  WHILE IN SPRINGFIELD VISIT THE HOME

  OF OUR SIXTEENTH PRESIDENT.

  How many times had she visited the old Lincoln home? She tried taking a mental count. Three school trips, the time she and Frank took Paul there when he was eight, two book- buying trips with Gil, and once with Rose.

  Claire thought about her mother-in-law with admiration. Coming to the United States when Gil was a child, working in a factory to support her two children after her divorce, she had been determined and confident her entire life. Rose had also taught Claire more about generosity and kindness than any of her own family members ever had.

  Another sign, this one for Lincoln’s tomb.

  Claire wondered about foreign tourists. Did they travel to the small town of Springfield, Illinois, to tour the home of Abraham Lincoln and wonder how its citizens could pass by such an historical spot every day of their lives and be so nonchalant? Were they aware that Americans wondered how the Italians, for instance, could not marvel each and every day at the great art and architecture surrounding them? She supposed it was all in getting used to things. Getting numb to the beauty—the originality. Was it possible to get numb to anything?

  As she sat in her air-conditioned car, the windows and doors tightly closed around her, she watched history roll by while she remained insulated. Yes, Claire supposed she had gotten used to her surroundings. But if she had grown indifferent to any aspect of her life, she had been abruptly awakened from her complacency when she had become involved in a murder investigation.

  Pulling into her parking spot in the garage beneath the condo, Claire grabbed her small suitcase out of the trunk and headed for the elevator. The walk was a short one and yet she was uncomfortable, feeling unusually vulnerable. She hated the tension swelling inside her stomach and even the relief once the doors closed. She hated being so aware of her feelings.