Stump Speech Murder (2 page)

“I’m late, I know,” she apologized, as she grabbed her books and class papers, and slid past him into their homey kitchen. 

“No problemo,” he responded. “How did you enjoy the rally?  Did you get to carry a poster on a big stick?”

“Nope,” she said.  “I just listened to his speech and to Joan’s play-by-play.  I tell you I think she’s enamored of the man.  She dragged me up to meet him afterwards.”

“So, is he John Edwards cute?” asked her husband with a scowl.

“Not as cute as you,” she replied, wrapping her arms around him from behind as he stirred something on the stove that smelled really wonderful—and spicy.  “But he does have John Edwards’ hair.  Joan guilted me into working with her on the campaign,” she said cringing, waiting for a negative response.

“Hmm,” he said flippantly.  “Sounds like fun.”

“You think?” she asked.  “It might mean getting involved with the local political mafia.  That Hap Brewster really has a bunch of scary-looking minions.”

“So you make a few posters and hand out some flyers—no big deal.”

“I’m glad you understand,” she said. “What is that yummy-smelling sauce you’re making?”

“Velvet Cheese.”

“How much time do I have before it’s ready?”

“Just change and get back here—maybe ten minutes.”

She headed into the bedroom, stripping herself of high heels and panty hose, and flinging on a worn out pair of sweat pants and slippers.  She turned on the bedroom television set and listened as she made herself comfortable.

“Local mayoral candidate—James Grant,” said a WRER anchor at his desk, as a video clip from the afternoon’s rally appeared on the screen. That was quick, she thought.  It hadn’t even been an hour since she’d seen the reporter conduct this interview and now—here it was being broadcast.  Pamela bent in close to the screen to see if she could see either herself or Joan, but only the reporter Ginger Cooper and the candidate James Grant himself were visible.  The screen switched suddenly back to the studio anchor.

“Shortly after this interview was taped, local mayoral candidate James Grant was arrested.” 

Pamela gasped.

“Sources indicate that Grant’s wife Stacy called 911 at 5:28 p.m., telling the operator that her husband was trying to break into their house.  When police arrived at the Grant home shortly afterwards, they found James Grant standing over his wife’s dead body.”

“Oh my God!” she screamed.

Rocky bolted from the kitchen into the bedroom.

“What’s wrong?”

“The candidate!  James Grant!  I went to his rally!”

“So? What happened?”

“They just arrested him for killing his wife.”

Chapter Two

Much later that night, Pamela and Rocky sat in their bed munching on popcorn.  Their small, white poodle, Candide, scrunched between them where he could quickly nibble up any falling kernels. 

“I just can’t get over it,” Pamela repeated for about the third time.  “I just met the man this afternoon.  He seemed so pleasant—so friendly.”

“Pleasant friendly people have been known to kill people,” noted her husband, a handful of popcorn halfway to his mouth.

“Like who?”

“They said Lizzie Borden was well liked in her community,” he said with a shrug.

“But, Rocky,” she moaned, turning to her mate, “why would he do this?  I mean, forget the horror of the crime itself—bashing his wife over the head with a big brass candlestick, according to one source.  I mean, why would he do anything to jeopardize his chances of winning the election?”

“Yeah,” replied Rocky, scratching his face, now rough with a full-day’s growth of beard, “a murder rap sort of puts the kibosh on his political aspirations.”

“If he was having problems with his wife,” she continued, “why not seek counseling or—at worse—file for divorce?  I mean, other candidates have gotten divorces and still managed to get elected.  It’s not the stigma today that it once was.”

“I don’t know, Pammie,” he said, scowling.  “Maybe it was some long-brewing battle between them.  Maybe he just snapped all of a sudden.”

“But, why?” she demanded.  “What would be so horrible that it would cause him to freak out and kill her?”

“Maybe he came home and found her with another man,” he suggested, surreptitiously tossing a kernel towards the foot of the bed where Candide bounded after it with the speed and intensity of a big jungle tiger leaping upon prey.

“That’s impossible!” she cried.

“Why?” he asked.  “You’ve been involved in enough police investigations to know that people often behave in strange ways.”

“I know,” she agreed, pulling the bowl away from him and digging for the few remaining salty kernels at the bottom.  “But that’s not what I mean.  I mean it’s impossible because if he found his wife with another man, why didn’t he kill the man?  Why kill the wife?”

“Hey!” he pouted. “Men are strange.”

“Tell me about it,” she said, nudging him.  “And besides, if there was another man in the house, you’d think the media would be reporting that.”

“Why?”

“’Cause the media always assume the juiciest of explanations,” she argued.  “Surely, that’s the first thing that the reporter imagined.  That Ginger Cooper was probably all over the police with questions about possible other men.”

“So,” he said, gesturing to indicate that he was following her train of thought, “if you don’t think there’s another man, what do you think?  Why did this seemingly nice guy—with everything going for him—suddenly lose it?  Up and kill his wife and then make absolutely no attempt to cover his tracks?”

“That’s the more important question,” she responded, nodding. 

“What’s the more important question?”  Rocky was confused and made one of his annoyed huffing sounds.  Candide, now having given up on getting any more popcorn, snuggled up to his master and licked his fuzzy face in his most ingratiating, doggy fashion.  “Nope, buddy.  Not popping any more tonight.”

“Why would he do something like this that would so obviously ruin his chances to win the election?”  She held the popcorn bowl on her lap and drummed her fingers on its edge. 

“Maybe the wife wanted him to drop out of the race,” offered Rocky suddenly, hiking himself up on an elbow.  Candide plopped off of Rocky’s shoulder and scampered to the foot of the bed.  The small dog obviously imagined that more treats were in the offing.

“So what if she did?” she asked, turning to her large, burly husband.  “He could just say no.  Couples disagree.  I don’t smash a candlestick on your head when you and I don’t see eye to eye.”

“Yet,” said Rocky.

“What does that mean?” she cried, scoffing.  “I’m a very gentle person.”

“A very gentle, headstrong person,” he corrected.

“We frequently agree to disagree,” she noted in a very even and well modulated voice.

“As do most couples,” he allowed, nodding.

“Just my point,” she said.  Silence reigned.  Both Rocky and Pamela stared ahead, apparently deep in thought.  Candide looked back and forth from master to mistress.  Neither seemed to be making a move towards the kitchen.  With a small, infinitesimal doggie shrug and a delicate moan, he lay down at the foot of the bed where he maintained an eagle eye on his owners for any possible change in their behavior.

“What about your friend Joan?” asked Rocky after a while.

“What about her?”

“She’s the one who dragged you into this political campaign business,” he noted.  “What does she say about this guy getting arrested for murder?”

“I don’t know,” she replied, her tone changing abruptly.  “I’m surprised I haven’t heard from her, come to think of it.  She’ll probably be horrified.  She really likes him.  Actually, she thinks the sun rises and sets on him.”

“It sounds like she has a crush on him,” he suggested.

“At times,” agreed Pamela, “I think the same thing.  Joan is usually so sensible about things, although she does have a bit of a wild side.”

“What do you mean by that?” he asked, askance.

“Rocky,” sneered Pamela, “she is a widow.  I mean, she’s single and she certainly hasn’t been a recluse.  Although, she’s very discrete.”  She batted and rolled her eyes in his direction.

“You mean, her students don’t know anything about her amorous activities.”

“Correct,” said Pamela, giggling.  “At least, not that I know.  I have to admire her.  I mean, if I were in her shoes—and I’m really glad I’m not in her shoes—but if I were, I would wish that I had her adventuresome spirit.”  She leaned over and nuzzled her husband’s cheek.

“My dear,” said Rocky, winding his arm behind his wife’s back and burying his nose in her neck, “you are quite adventuresome enough for me!”  The increasing movement between the couple caused the bundle of fluff at the foot of the bed to leap up and join in the activity.  Not exactly what Rocky apparently had in mind.  “Shoo!  Go back to Westphalia, silly dog!  Your timing is not good!”

“Just be mindful of yourself, Mr. Barnes,” chastised Pamela.

“Oh?”

“I wouldn’t want to have to kill you,” she replied, popping a finger against his nose.

“Oh, babe,” he answered, “for what I have in mind, there will be no motive for murder in our house tonight.”

Chapter Three

Pamela caught sight of Joan Bentley the next morning as she was making her daily pass around Blake Hall looking for a parking space.  Unfortunately, Pamela had arrived too late to secure a spot in the small departmental lot next to the imposing two-story brick structure, so she was resigned to driving in circles around the block until a space opened up in the lot—or more likely—a parallel spot cleared on the street.  As she drove slowly around and around, keeping an eagle eye peeled for the slightest movement of a front tire on one of the parked vehicles, she noticed Joan’s red Taurus passing in the other direction.  Joan had obviously arrived as late as she had, which was unusual for her early-rising friend.  She reasoned that Joan had probably positioned herself in front of her home television set to get the latest report on the arrest of James Grant and couldn’t drag herself away until the last minute.  From the brief glimpse Pamela got of Joan as she whizzed by, Joan did not look happy.

Great, thought Pamela, we’ll both be stuck out here looking for parking spaces and we’ll be lucky if we find spots and get inside in time for our first classes. 
I was hoping I’d have an opportunity to find out what she knows about the arrest of this James Grant
.  As she whined to herself, a student driver pulled his jalopy out from a tight parking spot near the corner, screeching his tires in defiance of the close quarters of his car’s position, and zoomed down the street.  Pamela pulled up directly to the car in front of the empty spot, much more cautiously than the previous resident had left–because she’d had her share of parallel parking mishaps—and expertly maneuvered her little Civic into the empty spot.  A perfect location, she said to herself, right under a tree to keep her car cool during what would probably prove to be a typically hot August day.

As she extricated herself and all of her daily paraphernalia (purse, thermos, lunch sack, books, papers, grade book, clipboard) from the front seat of her car, and headed across the street to the main entrance of Blake Hall, she saw Joan walking quickly towards her from the opposite direction.

“I cannot believe I got a space on my first time around!” announced Joan, joining Pamela as the two women walked up the flight of cement steps that led to the big, white, double doors marking the main entrance to the Psychology Department at Grace University. 

“I suppose you’re late,” noted Pamela to her friend, “because you were watching the local news.”

“Tell me about it,” acknowledged Joan, wiping her hand over her forehead.  Pamela didn’t know if the perspiration there was from worry or the weather.

“My God, Joan,” continued Pamela, as the two professors walked through the large lobby and headed left down the main hallway.  “What happened?  Your candidate was arrested for murder!”

“My candidate!” cried Joan, grabbing her briefcase in both hands and heaving it up into her arms, “If I remember correctly, you joined James’s team yesterday.  Didn’t you?”