Stump Speech Murder

by Patricia Rockwell

  “Can he even still run?” asked Pamela. “I mean, now that he’s been arrested, that he’s in jail? Is he even allowed to keep his name on the ballot?” She chewed on a crispy chunk of green pepper at the end of her fondue stick. Candide pawed the air in a not-so-subtle attempt to get her attention.

  “I don’t know,” responded her husband. “I guess if he got on the ballot legally, he can stay there until—and unless—he’s convicted. I mean, innocent until proven guilty—remember.” He plucked a tiny cherry tomato from the end of his skewer and plopped it into his mouth. “Yum.”

  “But, Rocky,” she sighed, “who’s going to vote for a man arrested for murder?” He poured more Cabernet into their two wine glasses. The bottle was now empty. Candide became frustrated as his owners ignored his efforts and eventually lay down, his tiny head placed woefully upon his front paws.

  “More people than will vote for one convicted of murder,” he suggested. “I don’t know if the guy is better off staying in jail until after the election and hoping people vote for him out of sympathy and hatred of Brewster–or going to trial and hoping somehow he’s found innocent in time enough to reclaim his good name and win the election on his own.”

  “How can that happen? Hap Brewster would never let it happen!” she cried, taking a swallow of her wine. “You saw him on the news just now. He’s going to pound and pound about James being in jail, being arrested. He’s going to make such a stink about this that I just bet they’ll be forced to take James’s name off the ballot.”

  “I don’t think he can do that, Pammie,” Rocky said calmly to his irate wife. “Not legally anyway.”

  “If there’s one thing I’ve discovered in the last day or two,” she huffed at him, “it’s that legality is not something that stops Brewster.” With that, she stuck a potato chunk on her empty skewer and poked it into the sizzling liquid. Being the foodies that they were—Pamela liked to eat as much as Rocky liked to cook—nothing was as enjoyable as a do-it-yourself type of meal like fondue. They always had fun cooking the food as they ate it—sometimes even feeding each other (and once in a great while—their dog) especially tasty morsels—and drinking lovely wines. And at times, their intimate fondue parties became even more intimate when the supplies ran out. Tonight, however, Pamela was enraged over Hap Brewster’s television news conference in which he expressed his outrage over the murder of Mrs. Grant and her husband’s apparent culpability.

  “Whatever he can do—legally,” continued Pamela, stretching out on the floor pillows as she pondered the events of the day, “doesn’t mean that he should be doing what he’s doing. Calling a press conference and then gloating—you know that’s what he’s doing, Rocky! Calling a press conference and dwelling on James’s arrest is really slimy. An ethical politician would not be making a public statement about his opponent’s personal tragedy and how it could—should–affect the race.”

  “Maybe not,” agreed Rocky, sliding down to her level on his own set of pillows, “but, Babe, no one in this town would ever mistake Hap Brewster for an ethical politician.”

  “You should probably know that James Grant’s campaign manager came to my office today,” she whispered, as she downed the last few drops from her glass.

  “What for?”

  “Willard and Joan wanted me to meet him.”

  “How do they know him?” asked her husband. She knew Rocky knew of Willard and, of course, he was well aware of her close friendship with Joan.

  “Joan met him while she was working on James’s campaign. Willard knows him from their church. This man—the campaign manager—Martin Dobbs, is also James Grant’s law partner and evidently now his lawyer. He came begging the three of us to help him with James’ defense.”

  “What?” Rocky sat upright and set down his glass with a thud. Candide bolted upright. This could mean that food was on its way.

  “He merely wants us to keep our eyes open and to see if we notice anything unusual. I mean, he’s aware of my experiences with the local police. I guess Willard told him—or Joan. Not sure. He’s convinced that James didn’t kill his wife. So are Willard and Joan. Nobody seems to think he’s capable of it.”

  “So, why should that involve you?”

  “It doesn’t actually. He just wants the three of us,” and here Pamela was cautious to indicate to her husband that she was just one of a group, “to be observant.”

  “I know you,” he scowled, “and being observant is what’s gotten you into a lot of trouble before.”

  “There were reasons then,” she whined. “There were sound clues and I was able to use those clues to identify a killer. But in this situation, the police have who they believe is the killer. They don’t need to identify anyone. There aren’t any sound clues . . . .”

  “Yet,” noted Rocky.

  “Probably never,” she shot back. “Well, there is the 911 call, but that’s of the victim . . . or supposedly the victim.” She looked away from him, deep in thought. “But, even so,” she said, suddenly all smiles, “all I promised the man was that I would keep my eyes open, along with Willard and Joan.”

  “See to it that that’s all you do,” he said, pointing a finger directly in her face.

  “Rocky!” she wailed, “don’t be mean!”

  “I’m not being mean; I’m being protective!” Candide was now upright and leaping back and forth between Rocky and Pamela.

  A telephone rang and Rocky fumbled around on the floor and finally located his cell phone.

  “Yeah? Oh, Angie! Hi! Your mother and I are fonduing!” he chuckled. Pamela knew that their daughter Angela always found it amusing when her parents stretched out on the living room floor and fed each other hot pieces of meat—as she put it. He handed Pamela the phone.

  “Hi, sweetie,” said Pamela into the receiver.

  “Hey, Mom,” responded her daughter. “Just calling with good news. I got a raise at work.” Angela had graduated from Grace where both Pamela and Rocky worked. Angela was now working at a small non-profit organization devoted to fundraising for a children’s charity. She and her boyfriend lived together in a small apartment.

  “Wonderful!” said Pamela. “She got a raise!” Pamela whispered to Rocky, who gave a small fist pump. “How’s Kent?”

  “Don’t know; haven’t seen much of him this week,” replied Angela. “We’re starting a big campaign to raise a hundred thousand dollars for our kids. I’m going to be really busy with it. I may even have to do some traveling.”

  “That sounds like fun,” replied her mother. Pamela knew that Angie was not terribly adventurous and that traveling on her own would be a big challenge for her. Even so, she wanted to give her young daughter all the support she needed to be successful in her budding career. Angela seemed to be blossoming, working for this particular organization. Her rather matter of fact attitude towards her long-time boyfriend was unusual, however. Pamela knew better than to pressure her. “Make sure you let us know where you’re going—and when.”

  “I will,” agreed Angie. “Hey, Mom, what about that guy who murdered his wife?”

  “What?”

  “That James Grant? You know. That politician. Didn’t you guys hear about it on the news?”

  “Oh, yes, dear; we heard about it,” said Pamela. She had no intention of revealing to her impressionable daughter her potential involvement with the James Grant case.

  “Maybe you can solve that murder, Mom,” said Angie, “just like you solved those other ones.”

  “I don’t think so, Angie,” replied Pamela. “The police already have their suspect. They don’t need my help on this one, evidently.”

  “Mom,” said Angela, “I can’t believe you’d let that stand in your way.”

  Like mother, like daughter, thought Pamela.

  Chapter Eight

  Again, Pamela found herself out of doors on a beautiful August morning surrounded by rolling grassy knolls, well manicured flower beds, and stately old elm and maple trees that line
d winding paths. A lovely place to be in any other circumstance than the one she found herself in today. In a small isolated nook of the Heavenly Hills Cemetery, Pamela stood stoically along with her husband, Joan, Willard, and several other faculty members from her department, as a minister dressed in a long white robe and golden chasuble intoned Bible verses over the coffin of Stacy Grant. An older couple—apparently the dead woman’s parents–stood at the foot of the coffin, the woman sobbing uncontrollably. A large canopy on four tall posts covered the coffin, the grave, and the primary participants.

  Pamela looked around at the large crowd. Everyone who was anyone in city government was in attendance. Political supporters from both the Grant and the Brewster camps dotted the hillside, looking down on the minister and the coffin. At a distance, camera crews lay in wait like jackals outside a recent lion kill. Beyond that, hidden among trees and prowling in the even more distant parking lot, local police officers watched for possible suspicious behavior. Everyone was there including the deceased’s husband. He stood slightly apart from the other mourners between two guards, wearing the same clothes she had seen him in at the rally–now disheveled. His blank face was focused with an unmoving rigidity on the coffin. He had obviously been released from jail to attend his wife’s funeral. Pamela could not help but notice that he looked like a totally different person from the upbeat, confident politician she had met a few days prior.

  “Blessed be the meek,” spoke the preacher, followed by more words that Pamela couldn’t hear. The religious leader held his arms above the coffin for a brief moment and then suddenly lowered his head and folded his hands. The assembled crowd followed his lead—except, of course, for the media and the police who maintained their watchful stances. Pamela kept her head down politely, but peeked to the side in an attempt to observe the responses of some of the key players in this morning’s little drama. The Brewster entourage, she realized, was here primarily for show. They had no real concern for Stacy Grant or her family. If anything, they would probably try to waylay a reporter or two in order to solidify their demands that James Grant’s name be removed from the ballot before November. Or, at least, that Grant be arraigned for his wife’s murder as soon as possible. This last would, no doubt, lead to the former.

  As the minister finished the graveside service, the parents of the deceased moved over to speak to the minister who closed ranks around them. This appeared to be the sign for onlookers to depart. Apparently, the coffin would not be actually buried until later. Some people turned immediately and began to walk up the grassy hill towards the parking lot. Others milled around chatting softly. Several proceeded downhill towards the minister and the coffin where they stopped to pay their respects to the deceased woman’s parents.

  “I’m going to speak to Stacy’s parents,” said Martin Dobbs, standing to the right of Willard and Joan.

  “I’ll go with you, Martin,” added Willard. The two men headed off down the hill.

  “What do you say, Pamela?” asked Joan, standing to her right. “Should we express our condolences?”

  “Joan, I don’t know the woman’s parents,” noted Pamela. “And I don’t—didn’t– know her at all.”

  “All right,” said Joan, “I’m going though.” She looked at Pamela.

  “You can go,” said Rocky. “I’ll wait here for you.”

  “No,” said Pamela to Joan. “You go ahead Joan. You had actually met the woman.” Joan hiked her purse up over her shoulder and headed as cautiously down the grassy slope as her two inch heels would allow.

  “I don’t mind waiting for you, Babe,” said Rocky.

  “It’s all right, Rocky,” repeated Pamela. “There’s no reason to inundate that poor couple with a lot of strangers. I’m afraid people will do so just because this is a media circus.” She gestured around at the cameramen, noticeable at the ridge of the hill. “They don’t need an extra person intruding on their grief.”

  “It does look as if every TV station in town has sent a team, doesn’t it?” asked Rocky.

  “And then some,” she agreed. “And add to the mix, all the local politicians.”

  “Which ones are they?” he asked.

  “Over there to your left, in that group down by the edge of the canopy,” she pointed discreetly. “The bald guy’s the mayor—Hap Brewster.”

  “Oh, yeah,” said Rocky. “I recognize him.”

  “And the guy next to him—the fat one with the long pointy nose and the suit much too dark for August—that’s Victor Baines, his campaign director.”

  “Creepy,” noted Rocky. “And the younger guy? The nerdy one on the other side?”

  “That’s his Communications Director,” she replied. “I think Joan said his name is Kevin Sturges.”

  “The three of them look like a hit squad.” Rocky ambled closer down the hill to get a better look at the mayor and his cronies. Pamela followed along.

  “You may be speaking figuratively, Rocky,” said Pamela, “but you may be more right than you know.”

  “Hit squad?”

  “Yes,” she said. “From what I’ve been hearing from Jane Marie, the Brewster gang pretty much controls local businesses. That is, no one opens or keeps a business in Reardon without Brewster’s approval.”

  “Really?”

  “And she would know. She’s lived here all her life. Her husband works in the oil fields and he gets a lot of information from people in that industry. She’s just sick about James. She was hoping he’d get elected and oust Brewster.”

  “A lot of residents of Reardon were, I guess,” answered Rocky. “It’s never been something that’s concerned me—us—particularly.”

  “I know,” she agreed. “He doesn’t really have much to do with the university. Just the local businesses. And he’s been mayor for as long as Jane Marie can remember. How many terms would that be?”

  “Don’t know. I’ve heard of some mayors in some small towns holding office for life.”

  “It certainly looks like that’s what Brewster intends,” she whispered, as the couple wandered far enough down the hillside to overhear the conversation taking place between Brewster and his two political lieutenants. Rocky turned towards his wife, his back towards the threesome and Pamela gazed adoringly into her spouse’s face. The couple appeared as oblivious of the Brewster trio as any of the other funeral attendees who were standing around chatting idly.

  “Make sure you get one of those reporters to interview the grieving parents,” ordered Brewster to his Communications Director, Sturges. “The wife is still blubbering.”

  “She’ll be very sympathetic,” added Campaign Manager Victor Baines. “Distraught mother. If she blames the son-in-law on camera—even better.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Sturges. “I’ll make sure they get good footage. Stuff that’ll look bad for Grant.”

  “If this doesn’t get him to officially drop out,” said Brewster, “nothing will. I don’t want to wait around for some damn trial. I want him out now!”

  “Hap,” said Baines, with a firm hand on the mayor’s arm, “calm down! We’ve got the guy where we want him. Tried and convicted or just arrested and in jail, he’s not going to be moving up any more in any polls.”

  “Yeah,” smirked Brewster. “Well, see to it that he doesn’t.” The three men closed ranks and became even more agitated in their discussion—yet much quieter. Rocky and Pamela were unable to overhear any additional conversation. They sauntered up the hill and towards the parking lot. As they passed one particularly leafy old tree, a man dressed incongruously in a grey raincoat and a rain hat–much too warm for this August day, appeared from behind the trunk.

  “Dr. Barnes,” he greeted Pamela. “Mr. Barnes.” The tall, gangly man positioned himself in front of the couple, impeding their ascent.

  “Detective Shoop!” cried out Pamela. “I’m surprised to . . . well, actually, I’m not surprised to see you here. Apparently, the entire Reardon police force is here for this funeral. I should
have guessed that you’d be around somewhere.”

  “Detective,” said Rocky, acknowledging him and shaking hands with the officer. “Here looking out for my wife?” Pamela nudged him and sneered.

  “So, Detective,” said Pamela, ignoring Rocky’s comment. “Does this massive outpouring of Reardon’s finest indicate that our police officials may have some second thoughts about the guilt of James Grant?”

  “I might ask you the same thing, Dr. Barnes,” said the lanky detective, with a small nod at his sometimes civilian partner. “Did you know the deceased, Stacy Grant, or are you and your husband merely looky-lou’s?”

  “I’m just an escort, Shoop,” said Rocky with a shrug. “Just along for the ride, so to speak.”

  “Actually,” explained Pamela, looking up at the tall man and being forced to squint in the bright sunlight, “I don’t—didn’t know her—or James, but some of my closest colleagues—Joan Bentley and Willard Swinton—did. Joan worked on James’s campaign and Willard is quite close with James’s campaign manager Martin Dobbs.”

  “Good answer,” said Shoop, nodding slowly. “I’d hate to think that the two of you were doing any snooping out here.”

  “Snooping?” exclaimed Rocky. “No, sir. Not us. Just paying our respects. Enjoying the lovely weather, the beautiful scenery.”

  “Because if you were snooping, Dr. Barnes,” continued Shoop, leaning in closely to Pamela’s face, “it might make me very curious. It’s just that I know that whenever you get mixed up in an investigation, Dr. Barnes, it’s because you have suspicions and that when you have suspicions, things tend to go awry.”

  “Things don’t . . . go awry, Detective,” she countered, “because of my involvement. It’s just that at times I’ve noticed when things were already . . . awry . . . at least, that’s what I did in our past . . . adventures . . . and I merely pointed these . . . things . . . out to you. If you recall.”