Stump Speech Murder

by Patricia Rockwell

  “We don’t know,” said Pamela, between huffs and puffs. “She just called and said to come right down to the lab!”

  “Maybe she’s in labor!” suggested the secretary, joining in the excitement of the chase.

  As the three women reached the far end of the corridor that led to the animal lab, they came to a large, swinging, double door. A sign above announced, “Grace University Animal Psychology Laboratory.” Pamela did not venture here often, but she did know that the lab had recently undergone some dramatic improvements, thanks in part to the efforts of her friend, Arliss, and Arliss’s husband, Bob, who was head of the department’s animal psychology sequence. Joan, being in the lead, pushed through the two doors, and the three women careened inside.

  All around them were rows of cages and wire baskets and fenced areas where animals of varying types and sizes resided. The odor of the large room was definitely gamey, but not nearly as strong as Pamela had remembered it several years ago before Arliss and Bob had made the major improvements to the program that they had. The giant room also seemed much lighter and airier as the floor to ceiling windows in the old place had been cleared and cleaned. Pamela knew that Bob had installed a new ventilation system and the entire lab shone and sparkled.

  “Over here!” called a voice from the farthest end of the lab above the sounds of squeaks, cries, and chirps. The three women quickly hustled down the center aisle, past cages of birds, rodents, monkeys, dogs, cats, and various other laboratory creatures—all seemingly cheering the running women on in their own unique species’ way. When the three reached the back of the lab, they saw their friend, Arliss MacGregor Goodman, bending over a medium-sized cage in the last row next to the wall. Arliss was skinny to the point of being emaciated—except for the large belly she now sported. Her mass of frizzy black hair was tied up in a loose pony tail.

  “Look!” she cried to the three women. “Look at Eva!”

  “Arliss!” exclaimed Joan, with a deep breath, and standing to her full height, “What’s this about? We thought you were having the baby!”

  “No!” replied Arliss, with a slight sheepish grin. “I’m fine.”

  “Your water didn’t break?” asked Jane Marie, carefully.

  “No!” said Arliss. “But somebody’s did—so to speak. Look at Eva! She’s a mother.”

  The three women cautiously and rather squeamishly bent over and peeked into the small wire cage where Arliss was pointing. Inside, a small white, round, furry animal was huddled in the corner on a pile of wood shavings. Underneath her, barely visible were the tiny heads of several baby creatures of the same type.”

  “You scared us to death, Arliss!” scolded Pamela. “We thought we’d have to deliver your baby ourselves right here on the floor of the lab.”

  “I’m sorry, Pam,” said Arliss with a frown, then suddenly grinning, “but I just wanted you to see Eva’s babies. Aren’t they adorable?”

  “Adorable,” said Joan with a fake grin. The corners of her mouth rose abruptly and then returned to normal.

  “Cute,” agreed Jane Marie. “They smell a bit though.”

  “You don’t understand,” continued Arliss, waving her thin fingers frantically. “This is our first live birth in the lab in years. It’s really a wonderful sign that conditions have improved dramatically for our animals. When animals can mate and produce young, it’s a wonderful benefit for an academic lab—in more ways than one.”

  “What is it, a hamster?” asked Pamela. She peered into the cage, her nose squishing up in response to the odor.

  “Oh, no!” laughed Arliss. “Eva is a chinchilla. We named her that because she has such a beautiful and expensive fur coat. And, of course, Eddie is very doting too—he’s the father. That’s him—asleep in the corner over there.”

  “Eddie?” asked Joan, tapping a finger on the corner of her glasses.

  “Like Eddie Arnold,” said Arliss. “From that old television series. Green Acres. You know, Eva Gabor and Eddie Albert. Bob is nuts about it. This guy takes his fancy city wife to live on a farm.”

  “No wonder Bob likes Green Acres,” mused Pamela, “as he owns a farm himself.”

  “But Bob certainly doesn’t have a fancy city wife,” noted Joan, giving Arliss a glance from head to toe.

  It will be fun to name all five of her babies,” interjected Arliss. “I may have a contest and let the students have a go at it.”

  “All right,” said Joan, exhaling. “It’s a relief, I guess, that you’re fine. I mean, you are about ready to drop that Goodman kid any day now. Couldn’t you have imagined what we’d think when you called and told us to rush to the lab right away?”

  “I’m really sorry,” replied Arliss, sucking on her lower lip and patting her large belly. “I know that when this baby is ready to make an appearance, my friends will be right there to help.”

  “Just think of this as a dry run,” offered Jane Marie to all of the women. They all laughed and carefully took turns bending over Eva to look at her five little youngsters. Eva wiggled her tiny pink nose and fluffed her fur up in a useless attempt to hide her brood from prying eyes.

  “Really, Arliss,” noted Joan after an appropriate amount of “ooing and awing” of baby chinchillas had occurred. “My heart simply will not withstand any more excitement today.”

  “More excitement? It’s not even ten o’clock, Joan. What else exciting has happened today?” asked Arliss of her older colleague.

  “James Grant,” pronounced Joan, “was arrested yesterday for killing his wife! Haven’t you heard? I’ve been working on his campaign.”

  “You mean that young guy who’s running against Hap Brewster?” asked Jane Marie. Her large brown eyes glistened.

  “Yes,” agreed Pamela, as the four women now stood in the center aisle of the animal lab, their heads together. “It was on the news last night. His wife evidently called 911 to say her husband was trying to break into their house. When the police arrived a few minutes later, they found James Grant kneeling over his wife’s dead body.”

  “Oh, my god,” exclaimed Arliss. “How awful!” She rubbed her stomach protectively.

  “Oh, no!” cried Jane Marie with a shiver. “If he’s sent to prison, that means Hap Brewster will be a shoo-in to win re-election in November.”

  “I know,” replied Joan. “This is all simply horrible.”

  “Ladies,” said Pamela gesturing them together into a tighter group, “of course, it’s not good if Mr. Grant loses the election, but far worse is the fact that his wife is dead—and he’s the primary suspect.”

  “Only suspect, don’t you mean?” suggested Arliss. “I mean, if they found him standing over her body, how could they suspect anyone else?”

  “How demoralizing this all is,” said Jane Marie, shaking her head. “We’ve lived in Reardon all our lives and Hap Brewster has been mayor as long as I can remember. He and his cronies run this town. No one’s ever had the courage to confront him before James Grant. I was really hoping that Mr. Grant would get elected—and maybe things would be–different.”

  “Different? Different how? You sound like you know more about this than we do, Jane Marie,” said Pamela, honing in on the young secretary’s words.

  “All I know,” replied Jane Marie, “is that my husband works in the oil fields and he gets an earful about local politics all the time and how the good ol’ boy network affects that industry. He’s also heard about the way Brewster and his gang have manipulated and controlled other local businesses. He says that if you want to succeed in Reardon you have to play ball with the Brewster crowd or you can forget it.”

  “So, James Grant’s arrest is quite a coup for Brewster,” noted Pamela, aware that the departmental secretary’s longtime residence in the community gave her perspectives into local politics that Pamela didn’t have—being herself a relative newcomer of only fourteen years.

  “Of course!” agreed Jane Marie. “Dr. Barnes, it just makes me sick! Here I thought we finally ha
d a chance to rid this town of its more unsavory elements—and now this man whom we all thought could be our savior—goes and ruins it all for himself and everyone else!”

  “That’s only if he did it,” argued Joan. “It all seems too pat to me. Too much like a set-up.”

  “Set-up? How?” asked Jane Marie.

  “I mean,” continued Joan, as the other women listened intently, “of all the people in the world whom Hap Brewster would probably want out of the picture, would probably want to see in jail, arrested for a crime—James Grant would be the most likely. James’s arrest is Hap Brewster’s fondest wish.”

  “It could all just be coincidence,” suggested Arliss, the mother-to-be, meekly squeezing her maternity tunic.

  “If it’s a coincidence,” said Joan, looking pointedly from one woman to the other and pointing at each with her finger, “then I’m a monkey’s uncle.”

  “We have two monkeys in the lab, Joan,” offered Arliss. “If you’d like to meet your nephews.”

  “I don’t hurt pregnant women,” scowled Joan in response, lifting her elbow mock-menacingly towards Arliss. “If you think about it, there’s something really fishy about this—and no, Arliss–I don’t want to go look at the fish in your tanks.”

  “Surely,” said Pamela, “Hap Brewster wouldn’t order Stacy Grant killed just to get rid of his political competition.”

  “It’s possible,” whispered Joan, bending her head of silver curls towards the center of the group. “But I wouldn’t breathe a word of speculation on this topic if I were you. You never know who could be listening.”

  “About 178 ears,” noted Arliss, nodding at the cages surrounding them.

  “Does that include Eva’s new offspring?” asked Jane Marie, changing the tenor of the conversation.

  “It does!” announced Arliss. “We keep close tabs on our creatures.”

  “A lot better than anyone has kept tabs on our mayor and his entourage,” noted Joan, as she drew them close again. “I wonder just how many local journalists he has in his pocket.”

  “Like Ginger Cooper?” asked Pamela. “She certainly wasn’t afraid to ask James a lot of hard questions at that rally yesterday, if you noticed, Joan.”

  “Yes,” agreed Joan, “she’s a go-getter. I wonder if she was as aggressive about interviewing Brewster when he showed up yesterday? We left about that time. Remember?”

  “No one is aggressive about interviewing him,” said Jane Marie, knowingly. “Haven’t you ever noticed that? Reporters know better than to pin him down. They know what might happen to their careers—what has happened to careers–if they ask Hap Brewster anything but innocuous questions. Plus, he has that campaign manager of his—that Victor Baines—always out there clearing the way for him. He has a huge machine.”

  “I’m sure a far bigger machine than James Grant has,” said Joan, despondently, “or had.”

  “Oh, Joan,” said Arliss, giving a warm hug to her friend. “Don’t give up. I think it’s wonderful that you’re trying to help make Reardon a better place. And if you say that this James Grant can do it, I believe you. Maybe he was set-up.” She lowered her voice and dropped her head as she made this last comment.

  “Dr. Barnes,” said Jane Marie suddenly, “I bet you can help solve this crime.”

  “I don’t see how,” replied Pamela. “The police have already made an arrest. As far as I know, they don’t need anyone to listen to any recorded messages that might identify a suspect for them. That’s all I’ve done in past cases.”

  “You never know,” continued Jane Marie. “You’re a real detective, Dr. Barnes. If anyone can help this James Grant, if anyone can find out what really happened, and who killed his wife—assuming he didn’t do it—it’s you, Dr. Barnes.”

  “Yes . . . Dr. Barnes,” chuckled Joan. “Our very own Agatha Christie. Trust me, James did not kill his wife. But because the police believe he did, they will, no doubt, make no additional effort to find the real killer. I guess that leaves you, Pamela. You’ll have to find Stacy Grant’s killer.”

  “Thanks,” said Pamela with no enthusiasm. She did not intend to get herself embroiled in another murder investigation. She looked back into the chinchilla cage at Eva and Eddie, snuggling up together around their new brood. “You two are so lucky you live in Green Acres,” she sighed. “I’m stuck here in Reardon in the center of a big mess. I wish I could join you in there.”

  Chapter Five

  After her morning classes, Pamela nabbed a copy of the local newspaper–the Reardon Advocate– from Jane Marie’s desk and seated herself in the secretary’s alcove where she poured over the front page story. The headline read, “Local Mayoral Candidate James Grant Arrested for Wife’s Murder”:

  “Reardon city police were called to the home of James and Stacy Grant at 110 Cornelia Blvd., yesterday at 5.36 p.m. According to city Police Chief Joseph Bellows, a 911 emergency operator directed officers to the Grant home when Mrs. Grant called 911 at 5:28 p.m., to report that her husband was attempting to break into their home. When officers arrived, they discovered the front door open and inside found James Grant kneeling over his wife’s dead body, apparently attempting to revive her. Officers also reported that they discovered a large, bloody, brass candlestick on the ground next to the body.”

  Hmm, thought Pamela. According to this report, James had apparently been trying to revive his wife. If that was true, and it wasn’t just a hoax to make himself look grief-stricken, then it implied that James entered his home and discovered his wife—already dead. A distinct possibility. Of course, it was also possible that James left the rally yesterday, went home, got in a terrible fight with his wife–and killed her. Then when the police arrived, he just pretended to be reviving her. Or, he could have killed her and then become genuinely remorseful and he actually was trying to resuscitate her. There were a number of possible scenarios, she thought.

  One element that seemed to hold promise for some immediate investigation, she said to herself, was the time element. Because of the call to 911 and the almost immediate arrival of the police who had recorded the exact time of their arrival—two important pieces of information were known to the minute. Stacy Grant had called 911 at 5:28 p.m. and the police had arrived at 5:36 p.m.—only eight minutes later. How likely was it that Stacy Grant could notice her husband attempting to break into their home, call 911, James Grant could break in, bash his wife over the head with a brass candlestick, and then attempt to revive her just as the police arrived? Could all of that have happened in the space of eight minutes? Pamela surmised that it was possible but unlikely.

  “Dr. Barnes,” said Jane Marie, with a startle as she noticed Pamela sitting there when she glided into her small office. She slid neatly behind her little desk in front of the only window in the room. “Were you waiting for me? I just zipped out to the restroom for a minute.” She picked up a powder compact from her desk and quickly gave her nose a puff. Always neat, Jane Marie was attractive and dressed nicely, but certainly not ostentatiously. Today she had on a simple print cotton skirt and a white organza short-sleeved blouse.

  “No, no!” said Pamela. “I just wanted to read this story in the Advocate about the murder.”

  “Oh, yes!” responded Jane Marie. “Poor Mr. Grant! My husband had such hopes that things would improve if he were elected.”

  “You insinuated as much down in the lab this morning, Jane Marie,” said Pamela, scooting her straight back chair closer to the secretary’s desk. “You husband evidently has much to complain about with regards to the present city government.”

  “Oh, don’t get me started, Dr. Barnes,” replied the pert secretary, chatting amiably while she began typing from a handwritten letter setting on an easel to the side of her computer screen. “According to him, there’s not a business in Reardon that wouldn’t rejoice if someone could defeat Hap Brewster—anyone!”

  “Really?”

  “I’m not kidding, Dr. Barnes,” she said, removing her flying
fingers from her keyboard momentarily and leaning towards Pamela. “That man runs this town like his own private fiefdom. No one opens a business in Reardon without the approval of Hap Brewster. And believe me, you can’t get his approval just by a friendly handshake.”

  “Can’t someone report him to the Federal Trade Commission—or something?” asked Pamela.

  “If anyone has tried, nothing has worked. At least, nothing has since I’ve lived here—and I’ve lived in Reardon all my life,” Jane Marie whispered. Pamela wondered who might be listening.

  “He doesn’t seem to bother the University,” mused Pamela.

  “I know,” agreed Jane Marie. “And we can consider ourselves lucky. I think it’s just because he has no interest in Grace. There’s a big separation between the school and the city—if you know what I mean.”

  “I do,” said Pamela. It was true. Many townspeople, she knew, perceived of their local university as another world that just happened to be stuck right in the middle of their downtown area. She was quite certain that many residents of Reardon drove around the edges of the Grace campus as they went about their daily activities—avoiding and ignoring the scholarly pursuits going on within.

  “But believe me,” continued the secretary, her shiny dark curls bouncing as she spoke with animation and intensity, “the businessmen—and women—in Reardon are well aware of Mayor Brewster and how he controls this town. They may not personally be able to counteract his grip on the community, but I know they were all thrilled about James Grant taking him on in the upcoming election.”

  “So, many people in town are going to be devastated about James’s arrest?”

  “Yes,” she said, nodding. “And totally demoralized. He was a last hope for many.”

  “Jane Marie, do you think Hap Brewster could have set up James for his wife’s murder?”

  “He would certainly have the clout to do it,” suggested Jane Marie, scratching her head thoughtfully, “but I don’t know if he’d have the ingenuity. It would be more like Brewster to just threaten people to vote for him or get their kneecaps smashed. A devious plot in which he kills a rival politician’s wife and then manages to implicate the man in her death, seems really far-fetched—even for Hap Brewster.”