Stump Speech Murder

by Patricia Rockwell

  STUMP SPEECH MURDER

  A Pamela Barnes Acoustic Mystery

  Patricia Rockwell

  Chapter One

  “ . . . and that’s what my campaign is all about! Our community is filled with brilliant minds—minds I’d like to put to work to solve the problems that Mayor Brewster and the present administration have let fester over the years. Maybe they hoped that those problems would just solve themselves! Or that you, the voters, would forget that those problems existed. But, my fellow citizens of Reardon, the way to solve our city’s problems is not to ignore them! No, it’s to tackle them head on! And that’s what I intend to do!

  There’s no reason that Reardon should be experiencing the economic downturn that it is. We have excellent natural resources, a willing workforce, and business leaders who are daring and bold. We should be soaring! But Mayor Brewster is simply not far-sighted enough to take the initiative and bring our community into the next century. ”

  “How long do you think this speech will last?” Pamela Barnes asked her colleague and friend Joan Bentley. It was a hot August day in the Southern college town of Reardon, and Pamela was hoping not to have to spend her entire afternoon standing outside in the blazing sun listening to a stump speech.

  “Shh!” responded Joan, with her slightly grande dame manner. “He’s discussing his education plan now.” Joan perked up her ears and leaned forward in rapt attention. You’d think she was listening to some Hollywood movie star, thought Pamela, rather than James Grant, a local lawyer and Joan’s friend and fellow member of the Human Subjects’ Committee at Grace University where they both worked. She’d been hearing Joan sing the praises of young Mr. Grant for almost a year now. How he willingly sacrificed time from his very busy schedule to serve on the Human Subjects’ Committee. How he genuinely cared about education issues even though he himself was not an educator or even had any children in the local schools. How he intended to run for mayor and clean up corruption in city government. Needless to say, Joan had been smitten by the young man’s plans—and also probably by his down-to-earth good looks. When James Grant had asked Joan to work on his campaign, Joan had jumped in with both feet. Unfortunately, thought Pamela, Joan kept trying to drag Pamela along with her. But Pamela was just not fascinated by local politics.

  “. . . our present mayor has neglected his duties. He has focused his attention on personal gain and not on bringing prosperity to Reardon. I will change all that!”

  She glanced at her wristwatch. Oh, no. It was after five. Her husband, Rocky, would be wondering where she was. He probably had dinner started—no doubt something delicious. She always relished the fact that she was married to a marvelous gourmet cook like Rocky who seemed to love to do the one thing she thoroughly despised—cooking. What amazing dish would he concoct tonight?

  “. . . and with your help, I know we can win this election!” intoned the young politician, brushing a lock of his wavy brown hair from his forehead.

  “Pamela,” Joan was saying, as she nudged her. “The rally is over. Let’s get going.”

  “Oh, wonderful!” responded Pamela with relief. “Wasn’t that a fine speech?” She wanted Joan to see that she’d been paying attention.

  “Of course it was,” noted Joan, even though she seemed annoyed.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Pamela.

  “There’s hardly anyone here from the media,” Joan replied, looking around the rally spot which was situated in an open, grassy area in McPherson Park. From here, Pamela could see James Grant surrounded by various young campaign workers. Most of these individuals were handing out flyers and posters to attendees. At a distance, a local news van had just arrived and Pamela recognized television news anchor, Ginger Cooper, and her entourage heading over to Grant and his group.

  “There is now,” she retorted to Joan. “Look! It’s that Ginger Cooper from WRER.”

  “Finally,” answered Joan, with a sigh. “Come on, I’ll introduce you to James.”

  “Oh, Joan,” said Pamela, hesitating. “It’s getting late. He looks very busy. There are so many people around. And . . . and . . . the media are going to want to interview him. He won’t want to meet me . . . .”

  “It’ll just take a second,” Joan snapped back, grabbing Pamela by her sleeve and heading towards the dashing young politician who was standing under a large shade tree, surrounded by well-wishers and supporters.

  “James,” gushed Joan, as she dragged Pamela up to the man and shoved her in front of him. “This is my friend and colleague Pamela Barnes—also from the Psychology Department. Pamela, James Grant—the next mayor of Reardon!”

  “Um, how do you do?” said Pamela in greeting, thrusting her hand out which James Grant took and shook warmly.

  “Ah, yes!” he replied. “Dr. Barnes! The acoustics detective! I’ve read about your work. You’ve been very helpful to our local police on a number of cases.”

  “Just a few, actually,” mumbled Pamela, blushing.

  “I’m trying to get Pamela involved in your campaign, James,” added Joan, smiling.

  “That would be wonderful!” he responded. “We can always use the help of clever, resourceful women like . . . the two of you; can’t we, Martin?” He called out towards a handsome black man wearing a fashionable summer suit who was standing a few feet away, clipboard in hand. The man raised his hand to Grant to indicate he’d be there momentarily and then disappeared into a group of campaign volunteers who engulfed him.

  “Mr. Grant!” called out the news anchor, Ginger Cooper, as she enveloped the politician with her team of technicians. Suddenly, a sound boom was hanging between Pamela and the young man and a cameraman had pushed in front of her and was already filming. “Mr. Grant!” continued Ginger Cooper, “can we get your reactions to the latest Reardon Advocate poll that indicates your numbers running slightly ahead of Mayor Brewster’s?”

  Respectful of the news crew, Joan grabbed Pamela’s arm and pulled her back, so the reporter could have easier access to the politician. Joan and Pamela watched for a while and listened intently to the interview in progress. Looking across an expanse of green grass and shade trees towards the parking lot, Pamela saw a group of men embark from a large black van and head towards them. The man in the lead she recognized as Hap Brewster, Reardon’s long-time mayor. The other men in tow she assumed were Brewster’s assistants.

  “Oh, no,” whispered Joan as she also saw what Pamela saw. “Here comes trouble. Every time James gets some media coverage, that Brewster fellow has to butt in.”

  “He is the mayor,” noted Pamela. “He’s running for re-election. It’s not strange that he’d be trying to get his message out.”

  “Pamela, are you nuts?” asked Joan, cringing. “He has no message except, ‘vote for me or suffer the consequences’.”

  “You make him sound like a Mafia don.”

  “That’s fairly close to the truth,” responded Joan. Harold “Hap” Brewster, a large robust virile-looking bald man with piercing blue eyes, walked purposefully towards the reporter. Following him were two other men. The older one was grey-haired, overweight, with a long sharp nose. He too looked like he could and would eat anyone who got in his way. The third man was younger, probably in his late thirties. He was dressed more casually than the other two, wearing a blue shirt and chinos and his tie was undone and partially hanging around his neck.

  “Here comes Don Hap now,” said Joan, nudging Pamela, as the three men approached the small crowd gathered around candidate Grant and the TV reporter.

  “Miss Cooper!” called out Hap Brewster. “Miss Cooper, I see you’re again wasting your time interviewing this upstart. I thought I told you what such foolishness could do to your career.”

&nb
sp; “Mayor,” retorted Ginger Cooper loudly, her amber-flecked eyes flashing, “as an unbiased journalist, I consider it my job to get each candidate’s positions on the issues. I’ve interviewed you and I will interview you again. I’m merely gathering information. I’m doing my job.”

  “If your job includes wasting your time,” pronounced Brewster’s rotund assistant, “Miss Cooper, then you are certainly doing it well.” He gave an imperceptible bow in the reporter’s direction and a smug smile.

  “Who’s that?” Pamela asked Joan.

  “The grey-haired guy is Brewster’s second in command—Victor Baines.”

  “And the young one?”

  “I think that’s Kevin Sturges,” said Joan. “He’s the Communications Director.”

  “He’s not doing much communicating,” replied Pamela.

  “He’s more a behind-the-scenes kind of guy,” said Joan, “as I’ve heard Martin tell it.”

  Pamela knew that the Martin that Joan meant was Martin Dobbs, the African-American man now busily directing James’s volunteers. Joan had told her that Dobbs was James Grant’s friend, law partner, and most recently—campaign manager. She could see him still standing several feet behind James, watching the interview taking place. Dobbs was sort of a jack-of-all-trades if ever there was one, she gathered from Joan’s description. As Pamela glanced back and forth from one campaign camp to another, it was immediately obvious which group had the more experienced, well-honed team. Hap Brewster had a professional entourage of seasoned adults—probably all well paid–working for him. James Grant had his best friend, Martin Dobbs, a handful of young, eager Grace University students, and a few stalwart faculty volunteers like Joan, assisting him. A rag-tag bunch if ever there was one.

  “Mr. Baines,” noted Ginger Cooper, ever the professional, to Hap Brewster’s second-in-command, “if you will have your . . . candidate . . . wait just a moment until I’ve finished speaking with Mr. Grant, I would be delighted to get Mr. Brewster’s comments too.” Pamela detected that Ginger Cooper apparently delighted in referring to the reigning mayor as a candidate. She could almost see Brewster bristle when Ginger called him “Mr.” instead of “Mayor.” Ginger Cooper seemed oblivious to Brewster’s reaction. No doubt, any type of dissention between the two men vying for the top job in their community would make for good footage—and probably get Ginger the lead story on the local evening news.

  Hap Brewster huffed and ruffled his jacket like a rooster shaking his feathers among a gaggle of hens. Campaign Manager Victor Baines leaned over and whispered in the mayor’s ear. Communications Director Kevin Sturges appeared to be observing the interplay between his two superiors, glancing back and forth from them to Ginger Cooper, who was just completing her interview of James Grant. Catching the reporter’s eye, Sturges beckoned with a slight movement of his index finger. Ginger rolled up the cord of her hand-held microphone and, with a motion to her sound man and videographer, headed over to the Brewster group under a leafy elm tree about twenty yards from where Pamela and Joan stood.

  “Joan,” Pamela said, “I’m going to head on home. Rocky is probably wondering where I am.”

  “That’s fine, Pamela,” replied Joan, listening to Pamela, but watching the candidate. “But, before you go, just tell me you’ll join James’s team.”

  “I don’t know, Joan,” Pamela replied, hesitantly. “I’m not really into politics. I’ve got so much on my plate right now.”

  “Pamela Barnes,” sniffed Joan, turning to her friend, “you don’t have any more on your plate than I have on mine! And if I can help in this campaign, which will ultimately benefit every resident of this town—particularly residents with a vested interest in education, and that includes you—then so can you! You owe it to yourself—and your students—to help get this young man elected.”

  That was a little much, thought Pamela. She doubted that she owed it to her students to get involved in some local election. What she owed her students was to be the best teacher she could be. But Joan was probably right that she should probably show some civic pride—and young James Grant seemed like a bright, honest, well-educated individual–a far cry from his opponent–incumbent mayor Hap Brewster who pretty much owned their pretty little town along with his cronies. What harm could there be in helping out a bit with his campaign? And—it might even be fun. She always had fun when she and Joan plotted together—and they could surely plot ways to get this young leader elected—or at least they could plot how they could assist him in their own small way.

  “Okay, Joan,” she agreed. “I’ll help with the campaign.”

  “Wonderful!” cried Joan. “When the two of us put our heads together—how can he lose?”

  After leaving Joan, Pamela felt a certain amount of buoyancy as she drove home. She’d never been involved in a political campaign before and there really was an element of excitement about it all. Of course, Rocky would probably think it all too demanding and he’d no doubt nix the whole idea, but—oh, well—she’d deal with that later. As she drove into her driveway and parked her little blue Honda in her garage, she noticed that her big, burly husband was standing at the kitchen door waiting for her, wooden spoon in hand and a large white butcher’s apron tied around his waist.

  “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 ki
lling 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?”