One of her eyebrows went up and down like a window shade. “Depends on what you want to find out.” She wiped runny garlic butter off her fingers and waited for what I’d say next.
“Let’s say that I—I want to find out about a person.”
“Find out what?”
“Everything.”
Her eyebrows finally settled into place, and she said, “I’m not sure just what you mean. Do you want information about his hometown, background, past and present addresses, that sort of thing?”
“I guess,” I said. “Like all those things you knew about me.”
“You’ll find a lot of information in the main library and in the courthouse,” she said. “There’s a crisscross directory in the library which lists addresses and who lives in each building. The libraries also carry professional journals which usually tell where their members went to school, the names of their spouses, their hometowns, and maybe other pieces of information about their lives. A lot of them have pictures, too, and that often helps.”
Sally Jo continued. “If a person has recently moved, and you need to find his current address, for a small fee the post office will give it to you.
“In the courthouse you can find records of birth, marriage, divorces, financial assets, and even if the person was involved in any bankruptcies, civil suits, or had any criminal charges filed against him.” She paused and searched my face. “Am I giving you the answers you want?”
“In a way.” Before she could answer I asked, “What if you don’t know someone’s name?”
“Do you know what this person looks like?”
“Yes.”
“Is there some way of tying him to someone else or to a profession? You haven’t given me enough information.”
I leaned forward. “You know so much about finding out information about people. I need you to help me.”
As Sally Jo polished off every scrap of lettuce on her salad plate, her smile flickered more brightly than the candle between us. “I’ll be glad to help you,” she said, “but I’ll need your reason for wanting to know about the person.”
The waiter took away Sally Jo’s salad plate and put down a huge plate of ziti. It did look good, and my stomach growled with hunger. I had to remind myself that I was expected home for dinner very soon.
“May I please have more garlic bread?” Sally Jo asked the waiter, and she poured a thick layer of Parmesan cheese over the sauce on her ziti.
“It can’t get into the newspaper,” I told her.
“I said I’d help you. I’m not interviewing you for a story.”
I needed Sally Jo’s help. I had to trust her. Carefully, I glanced to both sides. Another couple had come into the restaurant, but they were seated on the opposite side of the room. No one was close enough to hear us, but I lowered my voice anyway and told her what little I remembered about the conversation I’d overheard, the phone calls from the woman named Nora, and the break-in at our house.
“Dad says that every candidate, every celebrity, every person who gets even a little bit famous has to deal with a few weird people.”
“He’s right,” Sally Jo said. She finished chewing a mouthful of ziti and added, “Your father has talked to the police, though, hasn’t he?”
“Yes,” I said. “But I’m not sure what the police really think. The last detective said he thought the break-in was a simple burglary.
Sally Jo pushed her half-eaten plate of ziti aside, and her eyes were intense as she leaned toward me. “What do you think, Cary?”
“I think Nora was trying to warn me. We shouldn’t have changed my telephone number. Now, I’ll never find out what she wanted to tell me.”
“Can you figure out what she might have wanted to warn you about?”
I shook my head. “She didn’t tell me enough. But there’s only one thing it could be tied to. I’m pretty sure that those men I heard on the country club terrace said something they don’t want anyone to know, and they think I overheard it, because the phone calls, my being followed—all that stuff began after the night of Mark’s party.”
“Let’s go over what you heard,” Sally Jo said.
“I told you. I didn’t pay that much attention. It didn’t make much sense to me.”
“Have you tried hard to remember it?”
“No. I guess not.”
“Is there some reason why you’re afraid to remember? Do you think you might be mentally blocking the conversation?”
“No,” I said again. “It didn’t frighten me. I was more concerned about them thinking I was a snoop.”
“All right, then,” Sally Jo said. “Let’s see how much you can remember now. Lean back in your chair. Take three long, deep breaths. Relax.”
I tried to do as she said, but she chuckled. “No, no, no. Don’t grip the arms of the chair. Rest your hands in your lap, palms up. Start with your toes. Consciously relax every inch of your body. Here … do as I tell you.”
Her voice became low and soft and monotonous as she recited a ritual about relaxing, beginning with my feet and working up to my shoulders. “Your neck is heavy. Let it relax. That’s it. The muscles of your face are heavy. Your eyelids close; your chin drops. Let the muscles in your cheeks sag and relax.”
She was quiet for a few moments, and by this time I was almost asleep. Softly, she said, “Cary, stay in your relaxed position and tell me what you were wearing on the terrace. Picture the setting and describe everything you can. Then tell me about running away from Mark.”
The memory came back to me with such clarity that I could even smell the fragrances in the warm night air. I described all that I could and even told her how I felt hiding in the dark corner of the terrace.
“You heard two men speaking,” Sally Jo said. “What did they say?”
For an instant I began to tense, but I took another deep breath and concentrated on relaxing until I could almost hear their voices. “A man with a strange, rough voice said that a problem had been taken care of and they were back in the ball game—if things didn’t change—and I think he told the other man not to worry.”
“What about the other man? What was his part of the conversation?”
“I’m pretty sure the second man was Ben Cragmore. He was talking about some man they knew who was causing the problem. Mr. Cragmore was surprised this man would do something.”
“Did he say what it was the man did?”
“No.”
“Did he mention any names?”
I tried so hard to pull the name from my memory that I began gripping my hands together.
“Relax,” Sally Jo told me, and I tried, but I couldn’t.
I opened my eyes and looked at her. “The name didn’t mean anything to me at the time,” I said. “I think it was Bill. But it could have been something that rhymed with Bill, like Phil. Or maybe Gil.”
“Anything else about this man?”
“Yes.” I could hear the words plainly in my mind. “The guy with the scratchy voice said, ‘Because of his big mouth he’s up a creek.’ ”
I saw that Sally Jo had taken out her notebook and had been writing. As she made another notation I asked, “Did you hypnotize me?”
She grinned. “No. I just helped you relax. I go through that routine myself whenever I’m under a lot of stress. It’s as good as a nap, and it helps me think better.”
“I wish I could have remembered the name he said.”
“You may remember it later. At least we’ve got something to go on.” She wrote down something else and said, “We can start with Ben Cragmore. Since he’s president of a large construction firm, there should be a lot of available information about him.”
“What about the man with Mr. Cragmore?” I asked.
“All you know about him is what he looks like and that he has a distinctive voice.”
“Rough, scratchy,” I repeated. “Very strange.”
“I’ll ask around,” she told me. “You never know what somebody might come up
with.”
There were a couple of other people I wondered about, and Sally Jo might help me with one of them.
“I think we should find out as much as we can about Dexter Kline,” I said.
“Who’s Dexter Kline?”
“I guess you’d call him our butler, but he does what’s needed around the house and chauffeurs when it’s necessary, and he started working for us just two months ago. Of course, Velma knows the schedules too—Velma Hansel—but I trust her. She’s been our housekeeper for years.”
“You trust her but not Dexter. Any reason except that he’s only worked for you for a short time?”
“I haven’t got any real reason,” I said and blushed because I knew she’d think I was stupid. “It’s just—a feeling. I don’t know.”
Sally Jo nodded. She had me spell Dexter’s name and made a notation in her notebook. “Where’s Dexter Kline from?”
“Dallas, I guess. Mom and Dad hired him through an employment agency.” I gave her the agency’s name.
“I know the agency. It’s a reputable one,” she said.
Sally Jo looked at me so intently that I was suddenly frightened. Why was I telling her all this? She was a reporter, and how could I be sure she’d keep her promise not to use the information?
It was as if she were reading my mind, because she suddenly said, “What you told me is confidential—just between us—but if and when we get close to the answers, if they add up to anything, then I’ll have first crack at writing the story. Do you agree?”
That was only fair. “Yes,” I answered.
Sally Jo smiled, pulled her plate toward her, and picked up her fork. “Want some delicious, cold ziti?” she asked.
I pushed back my chair and stood. “No, thanks,” I told her. “I’m already late for dinner.” I started to take out my wallet, but—her mouth full—she waved it away. “Our dinner will be paid for by the Gazette,” she told me.
“Thanks for helping me,” I said.
“Glad to. And when I get the information you wanted I’ll get in touch with you.”
As I left the restaurant and walked to the car I wondered if I’d made a big mistake. I’d told the police everything, and they were already investigating. What made me think a reporter could come up with information the police couldn’t find?
What if neither of them could find the answers in time?
From what Nora had told me, I was a target, and I needed all the help I could get.
Chapter 13
As I fished through my shoulder bag, looking for my car keys, my fingers touched the extra key to the campaign office, and I realized I still hadn’t remembered to give it back.
I was glad I hadn’t. Now I could use it.
I hadn’t told Sally Jo about Edwin Sibley, because my suspicions were too vague, but there was something about Mr. Sibley that made me very uncomfortable. I could get the information about him all by myself. I didn’t need Sally Jo’s help with this.
A few minutes later I parked in front of campaign headquarters. All the lights were on, as they had been ever since the night Francine had gone through the things in Delia’s office, so I had a clear view of most of the interior. I reminded myself that anyone passing by would easily be able to see what I was up to.
I quickly unlocked the front door, locked it again, and strode down the hallway to Delia’s office.
Her desk was orderly, with tidy stacks of papers in two in- and out-boxes. Good. That would make my search much easier.
That’s what I thought, but I was wrong. Frantically, I replaced each stack of paper and went on to the next. It had to be here, and I had to find it soon. I didn’t have that much time to spare. Where was the list of volunteers? I couldn’t find it!
Finally, I began searching through the drawers in Delia’s desk, and there it was in a folder in the right-hand bottom drawer: a complete alphabetized list of names, addresses, and telephone numbers for all the volunteers.
I copied the information about Mr. Edwin Sibley. His address was on Puckett Street. I hadn’t heard of Puckett Street, but there was a street map in Mom’s car, and I could look it up there.
I ran out of the office, locking it tightly after I reminded myself not to turn out the lights. The night air was comfortably cool with a light breeze, the forerunner of a cold front that was moving down and would bring with it rain and a drop in temperature to the sixties.
When I got into my car I spread out the map and found Puckett Street without any trouble. Surprisingly, it was a short street near the downtown area.
As I turned on the ignition and swung out on Commerce, I was nervous. The palms of my hands were wet against the leather cover on the steering wheel. What was I going to do when I got to Mr. Sibley’s address? So far, I had no idea.
I almost gave up and drove home, but I’d come this far; at least I could see where Mr. Sibley lived. The shy little man who always wore the same clothes—maybe seeing his house or apartment would give me a better idea of who he was and why he had volunteered to help Dad.
I drove down Puckett Street, searching in vain for Mr. Sibley’s address. On the second try I drove more slowly, passing old storefronts, some of them vacant, a small building with broken opaque windowpanes that must have once contained some kind of factory, and a bar whose name was spelled out in a sickly green neon. I pulled to the side and read the address again: 145 Puckett. I could barely make out the faded numbers on the side of one of the vacant stores. Its windows were broken out, and the area around it was decorated with knee-high weeds, empty cans, and broken bottles.
Either someone had made a mistake, or Mr. Sibley had lied and given a fake address.
Each of the listings of the volunteer workers included a telephone number. Had Mr. Sibley given a wrong telephone number, too? There was an easy way to find out.
The door of the bar opened, and yellow light spilled in a broad splash across the pavement. A man lurched out of the bar, the door closed, and the brightness disappeared, but there was enough light from the street lamps for me to see him lift his head, take a look at me, and stumble in my direction. I floored the accelerator as I swung into the center of the street and raced out of that neighborhood.
I found I was in big trouble when I arrived home. Mom and Dad were furious. I might have got away with driving myself to the campaign office, but they were really mad about my staying so late.
“But I called Velma,” I said. “I told her I’d be late for dinner. I went out for a few minutes with Sally Jo.”
“After what has happened …” my father began.
“Do you have any idea how worried we were?” Mom said at the same time.
“I didn’t mean …”
Those were the last words I said for a long time. Dad calls it “laying down the law,” and I suppose I deserved it. The final announcement was that I was not to go anywhere by myself, day or night, until I was given permission.
“Do you understand?” Dad asked.
“Yes,” I said, “and I’m sorry I scared everybody. I really am.”
We ate a late dinner. That was my fault, too. At first, Mom and Dad didn’t talk much, but then Dad told Mom a little about how the investigation into the construction accident was going. “The steel beams they used were not the size listed in the original specifications,” Dad said. “However, Ben Cragmore claims he’d ordered the proper size, and the company supplying the steel had made the mistake. His superintendent had gone ahead with it, making variations, in order to keep the project on schedule. Of course, Cragmore proved his good intentions by firing the superintendent.”
“What about the other superintendent—the one the worker had told you about? Herb something. Herb Gillman?”
“Herb Gillian,” Dad said. “According to the private investigator I hired, there’s evidence that Mr. Gillian moved to the San Francisco area. We have the moving company’s records showing the furniture was put in storage. The address to which the furniture was supposed to have bee
n sent doesn’t exist.”
I felt creepy. This was too much like Mr. Sibley. His address didn’t exist either.
Something else occurred to me. “Did Velma look at mug shots today?” I asked.
“Yes,” Mom said, “and she complained about how much time it took. She was disappointed that she wasn’t able to recognize our burglar in any of the photos.”
I was disappointed, too. I wanted the police to catch him and find out what he was doing in our house. No matter what Mom and Dad said, I didn’t believe the man was a burglar. I hated to face the idea that he had come because of me!
Velma had done her usual best with dinner, but I couldn’t eat. When I was finally excused, I went upstairs to do homework. I was keeping up my grades, just as I’d promised Mom, but it was ruining my social life. I didn’t have time for long phone conversations with Allie.
But before I opened my notebook, there was one quick thing I needed to do. I dialed Mr. Sibley’s telephone number.
When a male voice answered, I asked for Mr. Sibley, and winced as the person called him to the telephone by yelling his name at the top of his lungs.
The address was a fake, but the telephone number was right, and that surprised me.
When Mr. Sibley answered I identified myself and went on about how I was checking the volunteer list for accuracy. “Will you please give me your address again?” I asked.
There was silence for a moment. Then Mr. Sibley said, “What’s written down there is right.”
“One forty-five Puckett Street?”
His words came out in a rush, as though he were relieved to have the address spoken. “Puckett Street. That’s what it says.” Had he forgotten?
“Is that the address for this telephone number?”
“That’s right.” Before I could ask another question Mr. Sibley said, “We’re kind of busy right now. My son-in-law and his family are visiting here. He’s the one who answered the phone.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I shouldn’t have kept you. See you tomorrow.”
He mumbled his good-byes and broke the connection.
A Candidate for Murder Page 11
