Each desk was staffed, and people were sorting mail, using telephones, and carrying large cardboard boxes of who-knows-what back and forth from the front room to the offices at the back. I would have liked to get a look at what was in all those boxes. Campaign literature? Posters? Yard signs? Or did things like yard signs come after the primaries? There was a lot to learn.
I suppose I’d had a romantic notion about Justin working side by side with me, but Delia had something different in mind. She raised her voice over the murmur of conversation, interrupting it in order to introduce us to the group, and people beamed and giggled and applauded when Delia called me “the daughter of Texas’ future governor.”
I spoiled it all by blushing. Dad could stay calm and cool with all this attention, but I wasn’t used to it. I was trying to think of something nice to say in return when, all of a sudden, everyone went back to work, leaving me standing there with my mouth open. I closed it, feeling even sillier than I’d felt before.
Justin was immediately assigned to move some of the heaviest of those mysterious boxes, and I was led to what must have been the only empty chair in the room, behind a table near the front door, and given a pile of letters and envelopes.
“You’ll be working next to Marjorie Lane,” Delia said. “If you run into any problems you can ask her for help.”
I turned toward the heavyset woman in an expensive dress and loads of jewelry who was seated next to me, but Delia didn’t give me a chance to speak.
“Fold each letter in thirds, place it in an envelope, seal it with that sponge thingie, and toss it in the box on the floor,” Delia explained.
“What about stamps?”
“We’re using a postage meter,” Delia said. She didn’t have time to answer questions. She went over to talk to the two guys in business suits, and the three of them disappeared in the direction of the back offices.
Once again I tried to say hello to Mrs. Lane, but after the curious appraisal and quick nod of recognition she gave me when I first sat down, she never took the telephone receiver away from her ear. Rapidly, she was checking the names on a long list as she made call after call.
“We’re reminding you about the reception tonight at seven P.M. at the Hotel Adolphus. While all three of our party’s candidates will be honored, we hope you’ll give your support to Charles Amberson …” Her voice went on and on with the same message. It was being drilled into my brain, and I’d probably recite it in my sleep.
I knew about the other two candidates for the party’s nomination: Edna Poole, who was a judge in El Paso, and Stanley Barker, who was a state legislator from Houston. I’d heard Delia say, satisfaction in her voice, that neither of them had the name recognition Dad had.
Before I started my assignment I did a quick read-through of Dad’s letter. It sounded like Dad. It was straightforward and right to the point as he listed his major goals: eliminate graft in the state offices, develop a tough antidrug action, and consolidate some school districts in order to save money and stretch the equality funds even further. Unfortunately, I had to admit to myself that the letter was kind of dry and boring, but I guessed most campaign literature was like that. I wondered how many voters would actually read it.
Boring. It made me remember what Mom had said about the way unwanted volunteers were sometimes gotten rid of, and I wondered if that was why I had been given this job. Fold letters and stuff envelopes, fold and stuff, fold and stuff.
The girl in shorts came over. “Hi,” she said. “My name’s Francine.”
“Hi,” I said, grateful for someone close to my age to talk to. “I’m Cary.”
“So we’ve heard.” She smiled and added, “This is just like in the movies. The boss’s kid starts at the bottom and works up.”
“Up to what?” I asked.
She raised one eyebrow and said, “Up to the inside, secret stuff.”
“I don’t know what kind of secret stuff you’re talking about.”
“Private investigator stuff. You know, like what one candidate finds out about another one, such as Jimmy Milco.”
“Why Governor Milco, in particular?” And why my sudden suspicion over a simple question? Was I beginning to mistrust everybody?
Francine smiled. “It’s just the first name that came to mind.”
“Well, to answer your question, if my dad finds out anything about Jimmy Milco he won’t keep it secret.”
“Come on,” she said. “You’ve got your Dad’s best interests at heart. Right?”
“Yes, but …”
“So there are probably things you know, maybe things you’ve overheard, that you’d use to help your father, if you could.”
She was studying me so intently that I looked away, embarrassed. What was she getting at?
“Nobody gives me any inside information,” I told her. “I’m just one of the volunteers.”
“Me too,” she answered and smiled, but I could tell from her eyes that wheels were still going around and around in her mind.
“Are you in high school?” I asked, trying to change the subject.
“Nope,” she said. “College. Political science major, as a matter of fact.”
I gestured toward all the volunteer workers in the room. “Then all this should be really interesting to you.”
“It is,” she answered. As Delia walked through the room, Francine caught her eye and quickly said, “Well, I’d better get back to work.” She hurried to one of the desks near the far end of the room.
I looked around for Justin, but he was nowhere in sight, so I went back to my job. Fold the paper, stuff in an envelope, and seal. Fold, stuff, and seal. Fold and …
Through the plate-glass windows I saw a young woman in jeans jaywalk across the street and approach the office. She was wearing a light denim jacket and her blond hair was pulled to the back of her neck. She had a shoulder bag and camera case slung over one shoulder, and she carried a notebook. She caught my glance and smiled before she opened the door. “Hi,” she said. “It looks a lot different around here than it did yesterday morning.”
I smiled back. “Want a job? Try stuffing envelopes. One exciting fun-filled minute after another.”
She chuckled, shifted her notebook to her left hand, and held out her right. “I’m Sally Jo Wilson, with The Dallas Gazette.”
I shook her hand and said, “I’m Cary Amberson.”
One eyebrow rose, and her lips pursed as she took another look at me. “Ah-ha. The candidate’s daughter.”
“The future governor’s daughter,” I answered.
“Fair enough.”
I liked Sally Jo’s smile. It flickered back and forth on her face like a lightbulb that wasn’t screwed in properly, and it was so contagious that I couldn’t help smiling in return.
“How about an interview?” she asked. She placed her bag and her camera on the floor, pulled a pen from her shirt pocket, opened her notebook, and sat on the edge of the desk.
I hesitated, and she said, “Let’s see … Caroline Jane Amberson … sixteen years old, only child, born in Dallas, as was her father; mother born in Chamberlin, North Dakota; parents met at Southern Methodist University; married in 1972; Caroline Jane attends Gormley Academy, good grades, member of the Booster Squad, played the oldest Trapp daughter last spring when the school put on their yearly musical, has a trust fund in her name—established by her grandfather—and has no police record.”
Shocked, I asked, “Where’d you get all that information about me?”
“Easy,” she said. “Reporters know how to find out almost anything about anyone. Most of your life is in the public record.”
“I don’t like that,” I said. “How are you going to use that information?”
“It’s hardly the kind of exposé stuff that sells the newspapers on the grocery checkout counters, is it?” She laughed, and I couldn’t help laughing, too. “Now … how about that interview?”
“I haven’t got anything to talk about,” I told
her.
“Talk about your father. What kind of a dad is he? A little stuffy maybe? Does he hate your boyfriends?”
“Come on,” I said. “He’s not like that at all. He’s a great father.” I leaned my elbows on the table and looked up at her. “I’m awfully proud of him.”
“Describe your father in one word. Or is that too hard?”
I shook my head. “It’s easy. The word is honest.”
The eyebrow went up and down again, setting off the smile. I was so fascinated with her face I found myself staring.
“Isn’t that a descriptive label all the candidates use?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t know that much about politics. You asked me about my father, and I told you. He’s a totally honest person.”
“How about you?” she asked. “Are you following in his footsteps?”
“Of course,” I began indignantly, but I started to giggle. “If you don’t count a few little white lies.”
The smile flashed over her face again. “Everybody tells white lies,” she said and made another notation in her notebook before she asked, “How do you feel about the changes it will make in your life if your father wins the gubernatorial election?”
“Changes?” I went blank.
“You know—moving to Austin to the governor’s mansion, changing schools, your mother having to give up her law practice—things like that.”
Changing schools? Going to a new school in my senior year? Going to school without Justin and Allie? And what about Mom? It hadn’t occurred to me that she’d have to give up the job she loved so much. I know I should have thought about all this, but I hadn’t, and here was a reporter wanting to hear my answer. I wasn’t ready for this. Remembering the phrase I’d heard countless times in television dramas, I took a deep breath, stared Sally Jo straight in the eye, and said, “No comment.”
“I thought you were a political innocent,” she said, “but that remark’s right out of a politician’s handbook.”
“I didn’t know how else to answer. You asked me a terrible question.”
“I suppose so,” she said. “No one really wants to leave their friends. You’ve got a boyfriend, too, I suppose.”
“No comment,” I said again, comfortable with the phrase now. “Some things are private.”
We both broke into laughter.
We chatted a few minutes. Her questions were good, and I answered them. Then Sally Jo surprised me with the question, “What do you think of the Milco commercial about your father?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen it.”
“It ran on TV for the first time last night. You’ll be seeing it sooner or later.”
“Is it mean?”
She nodded. “It’s hardball.”
“Why would Governor Milco run an ad against my father now?” I asked her. “This is just the race for the primaries. They won’t be held until March, and there are two other candidates in Dad’s party.”
“Your father’s the front runner. Milco’s camp must see him as a threat, or they wouldn’t go after him so early. I suppose Amberson could take that as a compliment.” She tapped with her pen on the notebook. “Okay, you haven’t seen the commercial, but what’s your opinion of some of the other media comments about your father?”
“You mean like that ugly cartoon in yesterday morning’s newspaper?”
“Yes.”
“It wasn’t true. It wasn’t anything like Dad, and it hurts.”
“But editorial cartoons are a part of politics.”
“Making fun of people shouldn’t be—especially when it’s nothing but lies.”
“Your father doesn’t seem to have any skeletons in the closet, so his opponents will concentrate on any issues which might make him lose points with the voters.”
“But that cartoon made Dad out to be a rich snob who doesn’t care about anyone else.”
“Rich is the key word,” Sally Jo said. “You’d be surprised how some people can react to that word.”
She stooped to pick up her camera, and I asked, “Is the interview over?”
“Not yet,” she said, as she stood and focused on me. “Just keep talking. I’m listening.”
Sally Jo had taken two quick shots when Mrs. Lane detached the phone from her ear and glanced up, slightly glassy-eyed. She stiffened when she focused in on Sally Jo. “You’re from the Gazette, aren’t you?” she asked. “I saw you here yesterday morning.”
“That’s right,” Sally Jo said. She held out her right hand and began to introduce herself, but Mrs. Lane looked at Sally Jo’s camera and at me and began to flutter and stammer and finally said, “You’ll have to talk to Delia Stewart. You shouldn’t be talking to …”
“The unpaid help,” I said with a grin, finishing her sentence for her.
No sense of humor. She didn’t smile. She rose to her feet, her strands of pearls clattering against each other as they bounced off her chest, and said to Sally Jo, “Will you come with me, please?”
“I’ll see you later,” I said to Sally Jo.
“Right,” she answered. She picked up her things and followed Mrs. Lane to the back offices.
I liked Sally Jo, but I didn’t have a chance to talk to her later, because in about fifteen minutes Delia escorted her to the front door and stood like a guard until she saw Sally Jo cross the street and climb into her car.
Then Delia turned to me. “Thank goodness that was the Gazette, so we won’t have to worry about a partisan slant, but from now on, Cary, I want you to remember that talking to reporters is a no-no,” she said sternly, as though I were three years old. “Requests for interviews should come to me, and if I think they’re suitable I’ll set them up and be right there with you during each interview …”
I finished her sentence. “To tell me what to say.”
She wasn’t sure how to take that remark, but she decided on a patient response. “Not exactly. It’s so I can interrupt if you’re asked the wrong questions.”
“What are the wrong questions?” I was deliberately giving Delia a hard time, and pretty soon steam would probably come out of her ears.
“We’ll discuss this later,” she said. “I’ve got more important things to do—like find the postage meter. How could a postage meter just disappear into thin air?”
As she trotted off I reached for another letter to fold and turned toward my tablemate, who had politely stayed out of range while I was being scolded and was now squirming into her chair like a hen settling into a nest. “How did you happen to volunteer to work for my father’s campaign?” I chatted, hoping for some conversation to break the monotony.
She raised one eyebrow and looked indignant. “I’ve always worked hard for the party. Delia can attest to that.”
“I didn’t mean—” I began, but the phone was already up to her face, and she began reciting, “We’re reminding you about the reception tonight at seven P.M. at the Hotel Adolphus …”
Edwin Sibley walked past. He was dressed in the same pants, shirt, and buttoned vest he was wearing when I’d met him. I leaned forward, eager to have somebody—anybody—to talk to. “Hi!” I said.
“Hello,” he answered, but he ducked his head, avoiding eye contact, and kept going. Was he still blaming himself about that mess with the blue paint?
At five o’clock, right on the minute, Delia rapped for attention, gushed her thanks for everyone’s hard work, and begged all volunteers to come to the reception. “Charles and Laura Amberson will make their appearance after everything is well under way, at eight o’clock,” she said. “We’re getting good television coverage, and we want as many bodies crowded into the ballroom as possible—all of them giving loud support to Mr. Amberson.”
I winced at that remark. Dad was going to be giving a speech, and I knew he’d been working hard on it. He wanted people to listen and pay attention. He didn’t want just a room filled with noisy bodies.
Delia’s voice rose a notch higher, an
d I could hear the excitement in it. “I’ve got some good news you’ll all be interested in. The banquet in November—the big fund-raiser …” She chuckled as she slowly emphasized each word. “… at one thousand, five hundred dollars a ticket—sold out this afternoon!”
People laughed and clapped. I did, too. That wasn’t just good news, it was great news! It scared me to think how much it cost just to run for governor—millions of dollars! Even Dad wouldn’t have enough money to handle the expenses alone.
Delia managed to herd us out of the office while she turned off the lights and locked the door. She was working hard for Dad’s campaign and seemed to be doing a good job of running the campaign office, but I couldn’t help it. I didn’t like her.
I flopped against the padded seats in Justin’s car, so tired that I ached. “Thanks for coming,” I told him. “I didn’t know I’d be asking so much of you.”
“You should be a guy,” he said. “Women take one look at you and expect you to carry all the heavy stuff. Edwin Sibley was the only other male who hung around, and he wasn’t much help.” Justin rotated his shoulders and rubbed his arms.
I reached over and massaged the back of his neck. He relaxed, closed his eyes, and said, “Mmmmmm, yeah, that feels good.”
In a few moments he opened his eyes and looked at me warily. “Are we supposed to go to that reception tonight?”
“No,” I said. “Mom thought I’d better skip it. I’ve got too much homework.”
Justin sat upright and looked hopeful. “Homework. That’s right. I’ve got a big paper coming up. How about if we only work at the office every other day?”
“If you don’t want to work there at all, it’s fine with me,” I said. “I thought they’d need a lot of help, but they had a ton of people already helping, and frankly, when I asked you to go with me I could picture us side by side, working together. It was sort of romantic.”
A Candidate for Murder Page 6
