Murder Is the Deal of the Day Page 9

  “Right. So if we find out that she gambled, then that’s what the three women had in common.”

  “Which means . . . nothing,” Claire said, “because the police found tapes of me at the scene of all three crimes. So we’re back to the beginning with each victim having me in common. What do the boats have to do with anything?”

  “For now, we don’t know,” Gil said. “All we can do is keep looking, Claire, keep poking around; we’ll eventually come up with something.”

  “Spenser does that, in the Robert B. Parker books,” she said. “He keeps poking around.”

  “Yeah, until somebody tries to kill him.”

  She tightened her grip on the steering wheel. “Or until he

  kills them.”

  Chapter 23

  “Come on,” Stella Bartlett coaxed, “we’ll have dinner at the buffet; I have a coupon—two for one—and then we can spend

  some money. I know that always makes me feel better.”

  It had been almost a week since Claire had gone with Gil to question Bonnie Nolan. During that time, they had tried finding Mary Dunn’s friend Jack Buxton. Gil had just computerized his store’s inventory, and after figuring out how to go on-line, had found a way to access phone directories covering every state. Starting with cities within a sixty-mile radius of St. Louis, so far he had found one Jack Buxton in Pacific, Missouri, and two in Collinsville, Illinois. Before attempting to contact any of the men, however, Gil and Claire had decided that Gil should check further to see just how many Jack Buxtons he could find. Aside from the thoroughness of the plan, it also afforded them both more time to decide what they would even say to the strangers out there. But a day into the search, Gil suddenly realized he should also be checking Johns as well as Jacks.

  While Gil tried to keep his business in order and surf the Internet, Claire had worked four uneventful days in a row, but she was starting to feel anxious, as if she was waiting for that horrible other shoe to drop.

  “Stella,” Claire wailed in her best Marlon Brando voice.

  “What did I do now?”

  “Gave me a great idea, that’s all. You’ll never guess what a coincidence this is, you calling now, asking me to go out to St. Charles with you.”

  “No.” She didn’t try to hide her sarcasm. “If I heard from you once in a while, I guess I’d know what you’re talking about.”

  “Sorry. Gil and I have been kinda busy, you know.”

  Stella let out a loud sigh. “I know that; it’s just that I get so worried about you, Claire. So when this envelope came from the Station Casino St. Charles, I thought it would be something fun for us to do and a chance for me to see you. Why don’t we just go out there tonight. . . . Gil can tag along, too.”

  “He’s working on something at the store and tomorrow he’s got to get things ready for a signing; John Lutz has a new book out.”

  “Oh, I liked that last one of his you lent me, Dancing with the Dead. ”

  “I knew you would.”

  Stella had been an actress in her twenties and early thirties. She had performed on Broadway in countless bit parts and tapped her way across stage in dozens of chorus lines. But when she turned thirty-five, she decided that the toll endless auditions and rejections had taken on her self-esteem just wasn’t worth any of it. It didn’t take her very long after that to pack up her scrapbooks and return to her hometown. Now she lived in a small house in Webster Groves, an area that looked as if it had inspired a Norman Rockwell painting. She kept in shape by taking aerobics classes and competing in ballroom dancing. She was vivacious, charming, and made her living organizing benefits for various groups in town as well as in New York.

  Stella started again. “Okay, so you and I will drive over the bridge and try to break the bank. Call that adorable husband of yours and tell him I’m picking you up around six-thirty.”

  “But it’s out of your way to come here.”

  “Forget it. Tonight, you’re getting the royal treatment. I’ll be your chauffeur, your bodyguard, your friend . . . whatever you need me to be.”

  Stella could always lift Claire’s spirits. “Sounds great.”

  It was a hot, humid evening, so muggy that their clothes stuck to them as they walked toward the elevator in the parking garage. The air felt almost too heavy to breathe. It was typical weather for late spring in the St. Louis area.

  Construction hammered on all around them. But once they entered the main lobby, Claire was surprised at the spaciousness and elegance. Directly across from the main doors was the entrance to the Feast buffet. A line snaked in front of it within a roped-off area. Located at the far end of the lobby was a more intimate restaurant, featuring steaks. To the right were escalators leading to and from the dockside casino.

  While the women stood in line, Claire people-watched. She noticed that the majority of the crowd seemed to be made up of colorfully dressed senior citizens. A three-piece Dixieland band played “Bye, Bye, Blackbird” while a little girl no older than two danced in front of the clarinet player. Her delighted parents and grandparents applauded. The atmosphere felt more like a state fair than a gambling casino.

  By the time they were third in line, Claire could see an entryway for the gambling boat, which ran parallel with the wall of the restaurant. Two security guards were checking the IDs of four young men.

  After dinner, Stella and Claire got their boarding passes and waited in another line as a television screen electronically counted down the minutes until boarding began. By offering two separate gambling venues, forty-five minutes to board, and staggered boarding hours, patrons never had to wait longer than fifteen minutes.

  A security guard opened the gate at precisely eight o’clock. People began pushing through a turnstile after an attendant tore off a portion of their passes. As they rode the escalator up, noise assaulted Claire’s ears before she could even get a good look around. Bells and coins clanked; music blasted over speakers as it competed with the excited shouts of gamblers.

  The long room was lined with banks of slot machines, the middle arranged with blackjack tables and roulette wheels. Cocktail waitresses in revealing black outfits glided among the crowd, their trays loaded with cups of soft drinks and beer. Change people pushed carts that reminded Claire, in a strange way, of ice cream men. There were jackpots being paid out, cameras snapping pictures of the respective winners. It was immediately evident why anyone entering the room would get caught up in all the excitement.

  Stella had been to the boats several times but knew that Claire had only gambled in Las Vegas, so she instructed, “Be sure you give the cashier your pass each time you get change.”

  “Won’t the machines take my money?”

  “Not in Missouri they won’t. You have to get casino tokens and then they mark off that amount on your pass. That way, your gambling is limited to no more than five hundred dollars a session.”

  “Gee, just five hundred?” Claire rolled her eyes. “But what if I wanted to spend more, couldn’t I just use your pass? Or buy one from someone else?”

  “Bad girl. You’re not supposed to do that; it’s against the law or something.”

  They decided to split up when Stella spotted a Keno machine she claimed was calling her name. Claire wandered around a few minutes before giving a cashier a twenty-dollar bill in exchange for two rolls of quarter tokens.

  “Good luck, now,” the pretty blonde said.

  “I think I’ll need it,” Claire joked.

  There were so many different kinds of machines that it took Claire ten minutes to decide which one she wanted to play. Getting comfortable on the stool, she unwrapped her first roll of tokens and started playing a Wild Cherry slot. The red symbol paid off whether it landed directly on the line or above or below it. She didn’t see how she could lose.

  The simple rhythm of inserting a coin in a slot, pushing a spin button, waiting, and then repeating the sequence again and again calmed her. After ten minutes, she realized she had almost be
en in a trance and felt more relaxed than she had in weeks.

  But no matter how complacent she became, she couldn’t help notice the people around her. Down two stools, to her left, sat a large woman dressed in gray pants and matching sweatshirt. Out of the corner of her eye, Claire watched as the stranger rubbed a green rabbit’s foot across the front of her machine before pulling the handle with such force that it shook the others in the row.

  A man, sitting near the aisle, chewed on a cigar while talking to himself. Rings on each finger made his hands sparkle as he worked the Double Diamond machine. Claire could only make out a miniature gold horseshoe design on his index finger and a pair of dice studded with what looked to be rubies on his pinkie.

  After another ten minutes, the money she thought would be impossible to lose was gone. Deciding she might have better luck playing poker, Claire pushed herself away from the stool. A large sign suspended from the ceiling pointed the way to the ladies’ room, and remembering her mother’s advice always to take advantage of a clean rest room, Claire went inside.

  A poster was taped to the wall. It’ bold red letters read KNOW WHEN TO STOP. Beneath that in smaller black type was a question: Think you have a gambling problem? At the very bottom, again in red, was a number for the local chapter of Gamblers Anonymous, urging the reader to CALL NOW—ALL INQUIRIES HELD IN STRICTEST CONFIDENCE. Claire wondered if she was staring at the same poster that had convinced Mary Dunn and Susie Kennedy to join.

  Rummaging through her small purse for a pen, Claire quickly copied the phone number onto the back of a receipt she had kept for no good reason. She hoped that maybe this number could lead to some answers where at least two of the murdered victims were concerned.

  Back out in the casino, Claire continued to search for that lucky poker machine that would send her home a winner. Commotion at the other end of the room, however, caught her attention first. Curiosity directed her toward the area, but it was the anxious crowd that pushed her along. It took her only a second to recognize Stella’s shrill scream.

  “I won! I can’t believe it! Claire! Can someone page my girlfriend?”

  “I’m here, Stell.” Claire pushed to the front. “What happened?”

  “Look!” Stella pointed to the blue screen on top of the Keno machine. “All six of my numbers came up, and with four quarters in, I get sixteen hundred dollars! Isn’t it beautiful?” The white light on top flashed and a bell rang; change people gathered to congratulate Stella. A white-haired security guard, accompanied by another change person, walked over to Stella and ceremoniously counted sixteen one-hundred-dollar bills into her hand. With each bill that hit her palm, Stella squealed with joy.

  By the time all the people had lost interest and milled back to their spots, Stella grabbed Claire’s arm. “Time to leave.”

  “But I didn’t get to play all my money.”

  “Save it for next time or cash it in, but we have to leave now.”

  Claire was confused. “Why? What’s the hurry? You act like you did something illegal.”

  “No.” Stella quickly walked Claire toward the escalator. “It is a wise man who knows his limitations. And I know that if we stay, I’ll play back my winnings.”

  Claire could see there was no sense in debating the issue of willpower, so she stopped at the cashier’s booth just long enough to trade in her roll of tokens in exchange for ten dollars.

  Stella was so excited that she never noticed Claire had left her side for the moment. But by the time she was pushing the main door open, it was evident she was alone.

  Seeing Claire running to catch up, she asked, “Where’d you go?”

  “You’re in such a fog!”

  “Sorry. Come on, I’ll buy you a drink. Hell, I’ll buy you two.”

  “Anything as long as it’s cold,” Claire said as they stepped out into the humidity.

  The wooden-covered walkway leading back to the parking garage looked temporary, as though it had been thrown up until the real one was finished. Bright lights blazed against the white-painted surface; pictures and potted plants were arranged at even intervals the entire length. Claire stepped up to inspect one of the frames, looking closely at what it displayed.

  “Those are the big winners,” Stella said. “If I’d played the dollar machine, I’d be hangin’ out here with the greats.”

  Claire read the name beneath the picture out loud. “Rosemary Johns, Arnold, Missouri, ten thousand dollars.”

  Stella stopped to have a look. “A dollar red-white-and-blue machine. Those are always hitting.”

  Claire walked to the next photo. “Here’s a man in front of a Wild Cherry machine.”

  Stella read this time: “Fred Warner, St. Louis, Missouri, twenty-five thousand dollars.”

  They were almost to the garage elevator when they stopped to study the last photo on the long wooden wall. Stella read, “Kathleen Sands, Soulard, Missouri, twelve thousand dollars.” Both women froze.

  “Could that be your Kathleen Sands?” Stella asked.

  Claire stared at the picture without answering.

  “Well, not your Katherine Sands, but you know what I mean.”

  “I wonder.”

  Stella reached into her purse and pulled out a gadget that looked like a combination screwdriver, bottle opener, and nail clippers. “Is anyone coming?”

  “What are you doing?” Claire asked, amazed.

  “Getting some proof for you to take to the police.”

  “But isn’t that—”

  “Vandalism? Yeah, so what? With all that’s going on in your life right now, you’re worried about borrowing a tacky picture that no one will miss?”

  Chapter 24

  Gil taped the note to the answering machine. He knew Claire’s routine, that she always checked for messages the minute she walked through the front door. He stood back and read out loud. “Claire, I found Jack Buxton. He lives in Kimmswick; we’re meeting halfway. I should be home early. Don’t worry. Love you to pieces, Me.”

  Gil still couldn’t believe his luck. Not only had he found Jack Buxton on the second call he made but the man had been more than willing to talk about Mary Dunn. While they went back and forth, trying to arrange a meeting time agreeable to both, Gil was surprised when the older man suggested they meet that very evening.

  “I don’t sleep much these days. Too damn hot” was Buxton’s reply to Gil’s concern that maybe it was too late. “Fact of the matter is, I’m a night person. Good thing, too. The sun’ll kill you.”

  Gil couldn’t tell from the man’s tone if he was aware of what had happened to Mary Dunn or not, but why else would he have agreed to meet? He’d have to wait until he looked directly into the man’s face to know for sure.

  Applebees was a family restaurant/bar chain. There were hundreds of them scattered throughout the Midwest. Decorated with sports and movie memorabilia or collectibles, they stayed open until 1:00 A.M. on weeknights and later on weekends. The crowd was usually made up of young married couples with or without small children and, in the bar, yuppies stopping in for happy hour or couples on dates. Their specialty was barbecued riblets, and Gil’s stomach growled at the thought of the tender meat. A good eater with more than a healthy appetite, it wasn’t like him to miss a meal opportunity.

  While he drove, he popped in a cassette and harmonized with the latest Wynona hit. Claire loved almost any kind of music but could not understand her husband’s fondness for all the country-western songs that, these days, seemed to be considered mainstream.

  The setting sun streaked the sky with pinks and oranges. He thought about traveling with Claire to Ireland for a month when all this horrible murder business was over. He’d always wanted to see the thoroughbred racetracks there, compare the green of their fields with those in Missouri.

  A thin elderly man, dressed in a crisp white shirt, waved as

  Gil surveyed the restaurant. He was seated at a table on the upper level.

  “Good thing you mentioned hav
ing a beard,” Buxton said, “or I’d never have spotted you.”

  Gil extended his hand. “Nice to meet you, Jack.”

  “Same here, Gil, although I’m not quite sure if I should be.”

  Gil slid his chair closer, careful not to hit his head on the heavy Tiffany lamp suspended over the center of the table. “Like I said on the phone, I wanted to talk to you about Mary.”

  A perky waitress dressed in a purple polo shirt and black shorts approached. “Hi, my name’s Cindy; I’ll be your server. Can I take your drink orders while you look at the menu, or are you ready to order?”

  “You did say we’d be eating, didn’t you?” Jack seemed more interested in the menu than the stranger across the table from him.

  “Anything you want.” Gil smiled. “My treat, of course.”

  The old man’s pale blue eyes lit up as he ordered a full meal, taking great care in asking the waitress to please bring his salad (extra dressing on the side) with the main course. After he was finished and Gil had ordered riblets and a Killian’s Red, Jack watched appreciatively as the attractive teenager walked away from them.

  Gil faked a cough to get the man’s attention.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. You were saying?”

  “I believe Mary Dunn was a friend of yours?”

  “Yes, yes she was. It was a terrible shock seeing the report in the newspaper that way, not to mention the TV coverage.” He paused a moment, then said, “Poor Mary.”

  “Oh, then you know she’s dead,” Gil said, relieved that he didn’t have to break the news to the man. “I was wondering . . .”

  The waitress arrived with their drinks—Buxton had ordered iced tea—and once again the older man was distracted. Gil took the time to study him then. He looked pretty damned good for sixty-eight. He could easily have been ten years younger. He kept himself clean and fit. Claire was always commenting how some older men let themselves go, while others took excellent care of themselves. It was no secret the kind of old man she wanted Gil to be, when the time came.