Stump Speech Murder (17 page)

“Didn’t you say that James rushed home because Stacy called him to come home?  If you can believe him.”

“Right,” she said, nodding.  “Maybe the real killer forced Stacy to call James and beg him to come home right before he killed her in addition to forcing her to call 911.”

“God,” he said, cringing, “how gruesome.  Too bad James didn’t save that call on his cell phone.”

“There are other things that I have been wondering,” she added.

“Like what?”

At that moment, their doorbell rang.

“My God,” she whispered, “Who could that be?  It’s after midnight.”

The doorbell rang again–twice.

“Whoever it is, is persistent and not going away,” said Rocky, climbing out of bed and crawling into his jeans and slippers.  “Probably some kids playing a prank.”  He grabbed a long flashlight from the end table and headed out of the bedroom.  Pamela realized that Rocky intended this as not only a device for visibility but also a defensive weapon if necessary.

Pamela pulled back the covers and alighted from the bed, snatching her robe and slippers in the process.  She followed her husband into the living room, remaining a discreet distance behind him.  Rocky was at the front door, peeking carefully through the small glass pane near the top.

“Good lord,” he exclaimed, opening the front door, then the glass storm door.  “Officer, is something wrong?”

A uniformed policeman stood on the front porch.  Pamela could see him from where she stood, but it was unlikely that he could see her.  She didn’t recognize him.  Thank goodness, it wasn’t Shoop.  The man had shown up unannounced on her doorstep once before when she was not presentable.

“Mr. Barnes,” began the officer.

“Yes,” replied Rocky, somewhat off-kilter that he was being addressed by name.

“Is your wife Pamela Barnes?” asked the office, checking a notepad.

“Yes,” said Rocky.  “What’s wrong?”  Pamela moved closer to Rocky so that the policeman could see her standing behind her husband.

“Mr. and Mrs. Barnes,” he continued.  “Do you know anyone who drives a black Lexus?”

“No,” replied Rocky and Pamela together.  “What is this about?” asked Rocky, now becoming somewhat annoyed and more than a little frustrated.

“Mr. Barnes, Dr. Barnes,” said the policeman, “we’ve been keeping your house under surveillance and there has been a black Lexus parked a few houses down from you for over two hours now.  They just drove away after we drove by in our patrol car several times.  I believe we scared them off.  I’ve reported it to Detective Shoop. . . .”

“What?” cried Rocky, “Shoop?  Surveillance?  What’s this all about?”

“Sorry, Mr. Barnes,” apologized the uniformed man, with a slight grin. “I assumed your wife had informed you that we were keeping your house under surveillance.  Since she got that threatening call.  Detective Shoop’s orders.”

“Pamela,” Rocky said turning to his wife, “did you know about this?”

“Rocky, I, uh, I did know about the surveillance,” she said cringing, “but I had no idea that . . . .”

“That I’d find out!” he exclaimed, crossing his arms and glaring at her.  “Were you ever going to tell me about this threatening call you received?”

“It’s nothing, Rocky, really,” she said with a shrug.

“Nothing,” he noted, “yet we have some unidentified vehicle outside our home watching our every move!”

“Uh, Mr. Barnes,” interjected the police officer, “I’m really sorry if I’ve caused any problem here.  We’re just trying to protect Dr. Barnes.  It’s quite possible that that Lexus was parked there for some totally innocuous reason.”

“Yeah,” said Rocky, “not if I know my wife, officer.”

“Anyway, sir, we’ll run the plates on the car and trace the owner.  And don’t worry.  We’ll keep an eye on your place.  Sorry for bothering you both so late, but I wanted to check to see if you happened to know who that car belonged to.”

“We don’t,” said Rocky, and Pamela shook her head to indicate that she didn’t know either.

“Don’t worry, Dr. Barnes, Mr. Barnes,” repeated the policeman, as he put away his notepad and started to depart.  “We’ll be keeping an eye out.”

Rocky and Pamela watched the man walk down their front sidewalk, get inside his patrol car, and depart.  Then Rocky carefully closed the front door and turned to his wife.

“Pamela, Pamela, Pamela,” he said, shaking his head.  “Now what have you gotten yourself into?”

Chapter Nineteen

It had been a battle when she’d informed her husband that she was attending a meeting at the Grant campaign headquarters the next day.  Rocky was furious.  He had ranted and raved that she should stay far, far away from James Grant and anyone connected to him.  Did a threatening phone call mean nothing to her?  She had replied that Shoop had her back and that a patrol car would apparently be following her everywhere.  She didn’t believe that it would, but she said what she needed to say to appease her husband.  Eventually, he relented and allowed her to go to work with the promise that she call him when she left her office for Grant headquarters and when she left the headquarters for home.  Rocky wanted to be aware when she was driving because he evidently considered those moments the dangerous ones.  After all, in the first case she worked on with the police, someone had tried to run her off the road and Rocky had never forgotten that. 

As added protection, Willard volunteered to accompany her in her Civic to the four o’clock meeting.  As he didn’t live all that far from their home, Pamela could drop him off on her way home and Willard could ride shotgun (so to speak) while they were traveling to and from the meeting.  When she told Rocky that he didn’t need to worry because she had a seventy-some- year-old, handicapped professor protecting her while she was driving, he was not amused.

“My dear,” said Willard, as he hoisted himself into the passenger side of her car, “this is ever so much more exciting than riding in the school’s handicapped van.  I really feel like a useful person.”

She had told Willard about the phone call threat and he was especially solicitous.

“I only wish I had a pistol,” he added, “I would wield it against your attackers should they prevent us from reaching our destination.”

“Willard,” she said, beaming at her dear colleague, “you are my hero.  Not only do you assist me in my investigations, but you protect my well-being too!”

“If anyone should accost you, my dear,” he announced, “I will boff them over the head with the head of my cane.  It is metal and, although my legs are weak, I still have excellent upper body strength.”

“We are a dynamic duo,” she said gleefully, “that is for sure!”  With a passenger on board, Pamela carefully extracted her car from the parking lot, and headed off-campus towards the downtown area.  Crawford Street, she knew, was on a shady, partially, residential street, just south of the center of town. 

When they arrived at the small building, she parked her Civic in a spot immediately in front of Grant campaign headquarters (and the law offices of Grant and Dobbs), and came around to assist Willard in exiting her vehicle.  Joan pulled up in her Taurus soon after and parked immediately beside Pamela’s car; she leaped out and came to join her two colleagues as they entered through the glass-paneled front door of the tiny office in the little strip mall.  A bell tinkled as the door opened.  A voice Pamela recognized as Martin Dobbs called out from somewhere further back in the building.

“Make yourselves comfortable!  We’ll be right there!”

The three found themselves in a small lobby.  Immediately in front, was a desk, obviously a secretary’s desk, but without a secretary at the moment.  To the left, an open area featured some sofas and a few arm chairs encircling the walls.  In the center, a fold-up table stood surrounded by seven or eight folding chairs.  The table was piled with bunting, banners, posters, staplers, boxes of tape, thumb tacks, and other campaign paraphernalia.  Pamela assisted Willard over to the table where he took a seat near the door and placed his cane over the back of his chair.  Pamela seated herself beside him and dropped her belongings on an armchair behind her.  Joan remained standing as she walked around surveying the room.  Martin Dobbs entered the room with a man Pamela didn’t recognize.  The newcomer had coal black hair, thick with oil and a full, thick mustache.  He wore a plaid suit jacket, maybe a size too small.  In his arms he held a six-pack of soft drinks.

“Hello, everyone,” Dobbs said in greeting, placing a tray of sandwiches in the center of the table.  “Willard, Dr. Barnes, Dr. Bentley.”  He and the man with the beverages both took seats across from the three newcomers.  Joan followed and sat down on the other side of Willard.

“I’d like you all to meet Conrad Gates,” said Dobbs.  “Conrad is the investigator I hired.  Conrad, these are the Grace University faculty members who have been assisting with James’s defense.  Dr. Barnes, Willard, uh, Dr. Swinton, and Dr. Bentley.”  Everyone nodded in greeting.

“I brought sandwiches and Conrad has soda pop.  I wanted you all to meet each other,” said Dobbs, “because I think it’s possible we all have information and ideas that might benefit each other.  Instead of me trying to convey what each of you knows or thinks to the other, it just seemed better to conduct a group meeting.”

“That’s fine with me, Martin,” agreed Willard, reaching for a small ham sandwich, “and I think that the first piece of information that must be considered—both from an evidentiary standpoint and a practical standpoint—is the threatening call that Pamela received yesterday.”

“What?” cried Dobbs, “You were threatened, Dr. Barnes?  I had no idea.”  He looked at the investigator, Conrad Gates, who honed in on Pamela with his small beady eyes.

“Yes,” she confirmed as she took one of the colas.  Joan followed suit.  “Someone called my office yesterday and ordered me to have nothing to do with James or you, Martin.  Of course, I called the police immediately.  Actually, I called Detective Shoop, who is the police officer I’ve worked with on various investigations in the past.  He promised to have a patrol car keep an eye on my home and . . . .”

“Oh, Lord,” said Dobbs, “I had no idea.  This happened, Dr. Barnes. . . . and you . . . . still came to this meeting?”

“I won’t be intimidated, Mr. Dobbs,” she said firmly.  She took a big gulp from her bottle in a defiant gesture, like a western gunslinger downing a shot of whiskey.

“Dr. Barnes,” interjected the smaller man, Conrad Gates, his dark, straight mustache making him look very much like a 1940’s private investigator, “just by showing up here today, you are putting your life on the line.”

“I came with her, sir,” added Willard, “and I will protect her.”  He glanced at Pamela, his sandwich poised at his mouth.

“Willard,” said Dobbs, “I don’t like the idea of either of you risking your lives just to come down here.”  He looked around and seeing that all of the guests had been served he began to nibble on his sandwich.

“As I said,” repeated Pamela, “the police are keeping watch over me.  I think we are relatively safe.  And I think it’s unlikely that anyone will try anything as long as Willard is in the car with me.”  A dollop of mayonnaise dribbled out the side of her roll and she delicately wiped her lips with her finger.

“I wouldn’t count on that,” noted Gates, his mustache rolling as he spoke.  “Although it’s a moot point at the moment, because you’re here.  However, I will follow you home, Dr. Barnes, when you leave, and make certain you get to your house safely.”

“Thank you, Mr. Gates,” she replied, “if you must.”

“I’d certainly feel much better,” added Dobbs, “if Conrad did that.”

“Wonderful, but it’s not necessary,” said Pamela, with an audible sigh.  “Now, can we get on with business?”

“Yes,” agreed Joan, setting down her half-eaten sandwich on a paper plate.  “It seems to me that the obvious assumption from all of this business with Pamela getting a threatening call is that someone out there is worried that she’s getting too close to exonerating James—which means that that person is worried that she’s getting close to discovering the real killer.  That means that James is innocent and the real killer is still out there.”

“Now you’re talking, honey!” snapped Gates out of the side of his mouth, and setting down his bottle with a bang as he appraised Joan up and down with a new appreciation.  “Every negative has a positive in this business.  You just have to know how to look at things from a different angle.”

Pamela glanced over to see if Joan would bristle at being called “honey” by the grimy little detective, but Joan smiled demurely and puffed out her chest.