Murder Is the Deal of the Day Read online

  “So she gave you a list?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, that’s great,” he said. “We can compare that list of regular customers to these letters—wait a minute.”

  She smiled. “Now you’re thinking what I’m thinking.”

  “Which is?”

  “You’re wondering if the names of the murdered women are on the list?”

  “Well? Are they?”

  “I didn’t have time to read the whole thing. After going off the air, I came right home. I wanted to do this with you.”

  “Ah, you’re such a romantic. Well, let’s have a look.”

  Chapter 17

  They spent hours together, pouring over the letters and photographs. Every so often, one of them would find something worth commenting on and they’d pause to study it.

  When they would finally determine the letter meant nothing, they’d return to the task at hand. Several hours had gone by when they both looked at each other and realized they were hungry. Pausing only long enough to order a pizza, they continued reading until it was delivered.

  Eating in the living room seemed easier than trying to maneuver around the stacks of opened and unopened letters. Taking a break in front of the television, they watched the news in silence, each hoping another victim had not been claimed.

  When they were finished, the leftovers were set aside and Gil and Claire returned to their places. It was almost midnight when they read the last piece of correspondence.

  “Nothing,” Claire said. “The other two women aren’t here. I don’t know whether to be happy or sad.”

  “Since Millie wants to be so helpful,” Gil said, “ask her about the women by name tomorrow. See if she recognizes any of them.”

  “I’ll do that.” She stretched and caught her husband watching her. “What?”

  “I’m just reminded every so often how much I love you.”

  “And what was it that reminded you now?”

  “I like the way you move, and I especially like that little thing you do with your head.”

  She gave him an exasperated look. He had been telling her since they had met that she did “this little thing” with her head. Just a little unconscious movement that he liked but had never been able to duplicate for her.

  “Not that again.”

  He just smiled.

  “I’m going to get ready for bed,” she said.

  “I’ll make some tea.”

  “That sounds good.” She liked nothing better than to curl up on the sofa in her pajamas and have tea and cookies with him at night. Usually, they watched some old rerun on TV together. She thought again—as she had so often since they’d met—how well suited they were for each other.

  While she went into her bathroom and got undressed, he went into the kitchen to prepare the tea. He was pleased to find some chocolate-chip cookies—Claire’s favorite. He hoped they would take her mind off the murders for a while. He was saddened that she would ever think she was responsible, in some way, for the deaths of those women. He was also angered that, apparently, there was someone out there who wanted to implicate her.

  Tonight, he heated the water in a pan, rather than in the microwave, so the tea would be good and hot, the way she liked it. He took out one of their best plates and arranged some cookies on it. After the tea had steeped, he carried her favorite mug and the cookies into the living room, setting them down on the coffee table in front of the sofa, on the left side. She always sat on that side, while he sat on the right. Sometimes at night, after dealing with people all day, they each wanted their own space. But as the evening wore on, she’d stretch her feet out to touch him, or he’d scoot to her side, or she’d lean over, resting her head on his shoulder. Invariably, all this touching led to bed and that—depending on how tiring a day it had been—led to either sex or sleep. While they loved each other more and more with each passing day, sex had become something that occurred when real life didn’t get in the way. But when things overwhelmed them, they’d go away for a few days, where all they had to concentrate on was each other.

  As he carried his own tea to the coffee table, he thought that they were going to need something longer than two or three days when this was over.

  When Claire came out and saw the tea and cookies, her heart melted. “You are so sweet,” she said, sitting on the sofa and touching his arm. He leaned over and kissed her.

  “What will it be tonight?” he asked. “A movie, or Bob?”

  “Bob. I’m too tired to watch a whole movie.”

  “Newhart it is,” he said, but he knew he’d have to wade through an I Love Lucy rerun first. He’d seen enough of those over the years to last a lifetime, but Claire seemed to be rediscovering them.

  Settling back into the overstuffed cushions, Gil thought it really didn’t matter what they watched as long as they watched it together.

  Chapter 18

  In the morning, while Claire got ready to go to the station, Gil decided to ride along with her.

  “What about the store?”

  “Don’t worry about that,” he said. “What’s more important than the store?”

  She gave him a wide-eyed, innocent look, pointed to her self, and asked, “I am?”

  “That’s right, you are.”

  Claire wasn’t scheduled to work that day, so they were making the trip specifically to talk to Thurman about security.

  When they pulled into Claire’s parking space at the station, she said, “I’ve thought about this all the way down here. I think I should go and talk to him alone.”

  “I agree.”

  “You do? Gee, I thought you’d argue with me.”

  “No,” Gil said. “He’s your boss, so you should talk to him about this.”

  “And what will you do? Stand around and chat with the models?”

  “No. I thought I’d talk to Millie.”

  “That’s a good idea,” she said. “Maybe she’ll remember something else. Put on that ‘little boy lost’ routine.” She held the door open for him. “You know, the one that makes women drop everything to help you.”

  He winked at her. “What makes you think it’s an act?”

  Gil waited while Claire went up the stairs to Thurman’s office. When she was out of sight, he walked over to where the telephone operators sat.

  “Gil!” Millie greeted him enthusiastically. She removed her headphones to talk to him. “How are you?”

  “I’m fine, Millie. How are you?” He held her hand gently in both of his.

  “Oh, same old, same old. What are you doing here? Don’t tell me that wife of yours let you out alone.”

  “No, Claire’s upstairs talking to Mr. Thurman. I just thought I’d drive in with her and make her buy me lunch. I also wanted to talk to you. Can you take a break?”

  “Is this about . . . you know . . . what’s going on?” Millie lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

  He lowered his voice as well and said, “Yes, it is.”

  She set the headphones down. “I can take a few minutes.” He followed her to a room where she and the other employees took their breaks. The territory was totally unfamiliar to him. There were vending machines against one wall for soda, coffee, chips, candy, and sandwiches. A microwave oven, refrigerator, and sink lined the opposite wall. Chairs and tables filled in the center of the brightly lit room.

  “Do you want anything, Gil?” she asked.

  “No, Millie, thanks.”

  “I’m going to have a cup of coffee.”

  Gil moved quickly. “Let me get that for you,” he said, dropping in the proper amount of change.

  “Thanks. Hate to rush you, but I only get fifteen minutes.”

  “I just have a few questions.”

  After they were seated, she blew on the hot drink and then said, “Shoot. That’s what they say, right?” She smiled broadly.

  “That’s it,” Gil agreed. “Millie, do you know any of these women?” He took out a small notebook and r
ead off the names of the dead women.

  “Sure.”

  “You do?”

  She tapped her head and said, “I have a great memory.”

  “How many of them do you remember?”

  “Just one.”

  “Which one?”

  “The last name.”

  Gil checked his notes. “Susie Kennedy?”

  “That’s right.”

  “How do you know her?”

  “She’s a—was a customer.”

  Gil’s heart started to beat faster. Finally, a connection! Mary Dunn and Susie Kennedy had both been customers of Claire’s shopping program. “A good customer?”

  “We’ve got three kinds of customers, Gil. Regular, occasional, and new.”

  “Which one was Susie Kennedy?”

  “She was occasional.”

  “Then how come you remember her so well?”

  Now Millie looked sheepish.

  “Millie?”

  “You won’t tell, will you, Gil?”

  “Tell who?”

  “Mr. Thurman.”

  “I won’t tell him, promise,” he said, crossing his heart. “Exactly what is it I’m not telling him?”

  “Well, when we take orders, we’re not supposed to, you know, have real conversations with people. There’s only so much time to take their name and process orders.”

  “But you had one with Susie Kennedy?”

  “More than one.”

  “Why her?”

  “We had a lot in common,” Millie said. “We were both widows, we both worked, and we both—this part, you really can’t tell, okay?”

  “I swear.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to swear, Gil. I’ll just take your word for it.”

  “You have my word,” he said patiently.

  “Well, we both went to the boats.”

  “The boats,” he repeated, and then added, “Oh, you mean the riverboats?”

  “That’s right.”

  There were at least half a dozen casinos within driving distance of St. Louis. Some were legitimate boats that made cruises up and down the river. A few were considered dockside gambling facilities. This meant they were built on the river, as dictated by the law, but were in buildings in no way resembling a boat.

  “So, you both gambled?”

  “Just the slots and a little roulette.” Millie sipped her coffee, staring into the cup.

  “And that’s the part you don’t want Thurman to know about?”

  She looked up, then past him at the door. “No, I don’t want you to tell him that we actually met. Just once.”

  “You and Susie Kennedy?”

  Millie nodded. “We weren’t friends. I mean, I’m sorry she’s dead and all, but we weren’t really friends. We arranged to meet once out at Casino St. Charles, but she really wasn’t my type, you know? I mean my type of friend.”

  Gil ran a hand down the crease of his khakis. “Why not?”

  “Well, I like to gamble, but she had to gamble. Know what I mean?”

  “She was compulsive?”

  “That’s it,” Millie said, “compulsive. She got real hyper about it, too. She was hard to be around, so I made sure we never met again. In fact, some of the other operators started taking her orders.”

  “Millie, are you sure you don’t recognize the name Mary Dunn?”

  “No, I’m sorry, I don’t.”

  “She was apparently a regular customer.”

  “She must not have been very friendly,” Millie said. “Maybe we just never talked beyond giving and taking her order.”

  That was certainly possible, Gil conceded.

  “I have to get back, Gil.”

  “Sure, Millie, thanks a lot for talking to me.”

  “I hope this helps Claire.” Millie got to her feet. “Everyone here just loves her.”

  “I’m kinda fond of her myself.”

  “Lucky girl.” Millie patted Gil on the shoulder.

  After she had left, he walked to the soda machine and got a diet Coke. He took it to a table and drank slowly, going over what Millie had told him and what he already knew.

  Mary Dunn and Susie Kennedy were both customers of the Home Mall, where Claire worked. They knew this because Dunn had written to Claire and sent a photo, and because Millie had spoken to Susie Kennedy, even met her once. What they didn’t know was whether or not the first woman, Kathleen Sands, had been a customer.

  “There you are,” Claire said, entering the room. “Millie told me you were in here.”

  “Want a Coke?” he asked.

  “No. I want to leave.”

  “We can’t yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “I have to talk to Thurman.”

  “He’s already agreed to extra security. Besides, I thought you said I should handle this by myself.”

  He finished his soda and dropped the can in a nearby trash container. “Just how firmly is he behind you on this?”

  “One hundred percent, especially if it means publicity. Probably seventy-five or eighty percent if not, and less if it starts to hurt his station.”

  “Claire, we need access to his records,” Gil said. “Specifically, we need to find out if Kathleen Sands was a customer.”

  “Millie told me she talked to you about Susie Kennedy.”

  “That’s another reason we need Thurman’s customer records,” Gil said. “Susie Kennedy’s address. We already have Mary Dunn’s from her letter.”

  Claire stopped to think for a moment. “But can’t the police give us those addresses? And if they won’t cooperate, can’t we just check the paper? Surely there was something in the obituaries.”

  “We don’t want to get in the way of the police investigation. And if we go to check out newspaper accounts, we’ll be tied up all day at the library. Why not get all the information now? While we’re here? And with any luck, we might find out that Kathleen Sands was a customer and we’ll have all three.”

  “Okay, then what do we do?”

  “We go and talk to their families.”

  “What would we ask them?”

  “I haven’t thought it through yet, but I do know we need to talk to as many people as possible to find out who’s involving you in this. Now, will you take me up to see Thurman?”

  “Of course,” she said. “Come on.”

  “Gil.” Benjamin Thurman sighed. “I’m sure you realize that what you’re asking me to do is unethical.”

  Thurman was seated behind his desk, while Gil and Claire were standing in front of it, double-teaming him.

  “Ben,” Claire asked, “haven’t you ever done anything a little unethical in your life?”

  “Well, of course I have. How do you think I got to be so damn rich? But I’ve always had a very good reason for everything I’ve done. What you’re asking me to do is violate the trust of my viewers. People who trust me when I promise not to give away or sell their names to any other company. They shop with us because they trust us not to invade their privacy.”

  “But we’re not asking you to violate the trust of any customers currently doing business with your station, and we certainly will not give out this information to anyone else.”

  Thurman chewed on the end of his unlit cigar, still not convinced.

  “How about one very good reason for you to help us?” Gil asked.

  “Which is?”

  “To keep the police off Claire’s back and out of your station.”

  Thurman stared at Gil for another ten seconds and then picked up his phone.

  Chapter 19

  When Whitey came home from work, he wasn’t surprised to find his wife, Judy, sitting in front of the TV, watching the Home Mall show. He knew, without looking, that in front of her was a pad with item numbers written on it and next to that was the cordless phone.

  “I’m home,” he said.

  She tore her eyes away from the screen just long enough to greet him. “Hello, dear. Your dinner is in the fridge. Just po
p it in the microwave.”

  He had to give her credit. No matter what she did all day to occupy herself, his dinner was always ready to reheat. Sometimes he wondered why she didn’t just buy frozen dinners and leave it at that.

  “Ooh, God, I’ve got to have that,” he heard her say as he walked down the hall to their bedroom. He wanted to wash up and change his clothes before eating.

  While Whitey was out of the room, Judy wrote down the number of a teddy bear-print T-shirt. She had made note of five items in the past hour, but she knew there was only room on her credit card for one of them. Earlier that day, she’d drawn some cash out of the bank and mailed money orders to MasterCard and Visa, but the payments wouldn’t get to them until next week. Luckily, Whitey didn’t check the bank accounts. From the first day of their married life, it had been her job to manage the finances.

  As she watched the hostess talk about the latest fashions, she thought how much better Claire Hunt was than any of the others. If she had her way, Claire would work all the time, but the poor dear did deserve a day off now and then, especially with everything that was going on. Judy shook her head at the idea of those women being killed, and poor Claire drawn into the whole ugly mess. What a coincidence that Judy had even known one of the victims. She and Susie Kennedy used to sit next to each other at the nickel slots in St. Charles, until the casino replaced the machines with quarter slots. After that, Judy didn’t see Susie all that much. Maybe she had gone to a different casino—maybe that new one across the bridge. That place was supposed to be the biggest gambling complex in the Midwest, but they couldn’t lure Judy away from St. Charles. She was loyal—at least when she was gambling.

  Ever since she had discovered the Home Mall show, though, she’d cut back on her trips to the boats. Actually, it had been Whitey who had made her stop. After that story came out in the papers about the woman in West County who had gambled away all her family’s money on one of the riverboats. She’d been going every day, spending hours in front of a video poker machine. After draining their savings accounts, all three of her children’s college funds, and cashing in their life- insurance policies, she couldn’t face what she had done. One night, she snapped, ran down into her basement, and shot herself in the head.