Stump Speech Murder

by Patricia Rockwell

  “What I’m getting into?” she yelled back at him. She held up her cell phone. “Get out of my way or I’ll call the police.”

  “That’s not necessary,” he screamed. “I’m leaving. I just want you to know how foolish you are to be mixed up with James Grant and his group. He killed his wife. Why not just leave things alone?”

  “You mean why not just let Hap Brewster get re-elected?” she cried back.

  “An accused killer can’t run for—or be elected–to anything.”

  “He can if he’s exonerated.”

  “That’s not going to happen, lady!” screamed Victor Baines, his red face, getting a deeper shade of red, sweat pouring off of his forehead. “Just leave it alone!” he repeated.

  “Or what?” she asked, bravely—more bravely than she felt. The pane of glass between them was little comfort if the large man decided to pick up a stone or even his shoe and smash it.

  “I’m just trying to reason with you,” he cried, clinging onto the top of her window with his fingertips. “You’ve been involved in other murder investigations and some reporter seeing you messing around in this one is liable to think there’s some wild chance that Grant’s innocent.”

  “He is!” she yelled.

  “He isn’t,” retorted Victor Baines, extracting a cloth hanky from his suit coat jacket and wiping the flood of sweat from his brow. “But with you prancing around the edges, people will think he is!”

  “So what?” she replied, shaking her head. The man appeared desperate, almost to the point of passing out. This was hardly the behavior for a political henchman. “Can’t Hap Brewster compete fairly against a reputable opponent?”

  “If you’d just stay out of it, he wouldn’t have to!” replied Baines, panting in the hot late afternoon sun. “Justice would take its course, Grant would be convicted, and we’d have a nice election with no controversy.”

  “You mean, you’d have an election with no opposition,” she shot back. “Look, I know Hap Brewster has run in every election unopposed. Or minimal opposition. This is probably a new situation for him—for you.”

  “Lady, Hap has been mayor of Reardon for longer than you’ve probably been alive.”

  “So, don’t you think it’s time for a change?” she asked sweetly as she rolled down the window a crack. “Mr. Baines, you look ill. I recommend you get out of the sun and take off that suit coat and tie. That is, after you move your car!” She yelled this last part. Victor Baines took another wipe of his forehead with his hanky and then deposited it in his pocket. Lifting himself with difficulty from the side of her car, where he’d propped himself, he trudged over to his car and got inside. She watched him fiddle with the dashboard for a minute—probably adjusting the air conditioning upward. Then, with a lurch, he abruptly turned the wheels and rolled out into the main street traffic with a screeching noise.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Later that night, when she was alone grading papers in her bedroom, she was able to contemplate the events of the day. She had told Rocky about the group meeting at Grant campaign headquarters because she was quite late for dinner and she had used it as an excuse. Well, it was a genuine excuse, she thought, although not the only thing that delayed her return home that evening. She hadn’t mentioned her run-in with Brewster henchman Victor Baines in the street. If Rocky found out about that, she’d never hear the end of it. In retrospect, the event sounded worse than it probably was, she thought. A big, burly guy forced her car to stop in the street, then got out and verbally threatened her at her car window. Yes, it did sound frightening, but when she replayed the confrontation in her memory, all she saw was an overweight, overwrought man out in the grueling heat who appeared about two minutes away from having a heart attack. Even so, she saw no reason to mention the brief encounter with Baines to Rocky. However, she probably should report the run-in with Baines to the police, or at least to Shoop.

  She glanced down at the pile of papers on her lap. These were the students’ rough drafts of their semester research projects. She knew she wouldn’t finish them all in one evening. In rough draft stage, they were almost all unbearably unreadable. It was torture to get through one or two an hour. She looked at the completed ones on her hassock—maybe five if she was lucky. She bent back down to the paper in front of her. Where was Candide? Her little buddy must be snuggled up with Rocky out in the living room, she surmised. This thought caused her to remember dropping Willard off at his apartment and seeing his extremely large cat. She realized that Willard’s cat probably had quite a few pounds on Candide and could probably knock her tiny poodle flat with her tail.

  “Hey, Babe,” called Rocky as he sauntered into their bedroom from the living room. Candide pranced along behind him. “It’s getting late. Did you get many of those things read?” he asked referring to the research papers.

  “Unfortunately, no,” she replied. “I keep drifting off.”

  “Exhausting day,” he noted. “That meeting must have been a doozie.”

  “Not really,” she shrugged. “More an organizational thing. Martin introduced us to his investigator and we all sort of laid our cards on the table. Unfortunately, nobody has many cards.”

  “What’s he like?” questioned Rocky, balancing on the hassock.

  “Kind of greasy,” she said, “but I guess that appeals to Joan. At least, she seemed to be flirting with him when I left.”

  “Does the investigator appear to know anything?” he asked.

  “He’s done a lot of background stuff on James and Stacy and the Brewster camp,” she replied, “but he hasn’t turned up anything that might help yet. You know that Stacy is . . . was an ADA. She’s evidently prosecuted some pretty scruffy fellows.”

  “Oh, yeah. Who?”

  “According to Gates—the investigator—tax evasion cases, some domestic violence, burglary. You know, the usual.”

  “You think this Gates guy knows what he’s doing? I mean, could any of the defendants in any of her cases have come back to kill her?”

  “He’s still looking into that,” she said. “There are quite a few cases that she prosecuted herself or assisted with. Many of those resulted in a conviction and of those who were, many of those individuals are still in jail—but some are out now. The question is if a person who was released from jail would risk getting sent back to seek revenge on the prosecutor who sent him there.”

  “If they’re mad enough, I suppose,” he said, sitting next to her on the hassock.

  “Hey, don’t mess up my papers!” she cried. Rocky stood up and restacked the papers.

  “Sorry!” he replied. “Just wanted to get close enough to you to give you a back rub.”

  “Why didn’t you say so, Mr. Barnes?” she asked, smiling. She set down the paper she was grading and went over to the bed, flinging herself face down on top of the covers. “Here I am. If you want to give me a back rub.”

  “I’ll turn on the news while I work,” he whispered in her ear, kneeling behind and to her side. He hit the remote button and WRER anchor Ginger Cooper appeared on screen. The sight of her reminded Pamela of their conversation and the pretty reporter’s willingness to help with her investigation. Rocky’s large hands kneaded Pamela’s back, rubbing the kinks of the day away.

  The local news contained nothing new about the Grant murder case. In a related story, however, a reporter presented a brief account that indicated that mayor Hap Brewster had filed an injunction with the local Election Commission to have James Grant’s name removed from Reardon’s mayoral ballot in November.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” mumbled Pamela, face down on the mattress as Rocky pushed and rubbed her back, “why does that man seem to feel so intimidated by James? He’s in jail, for heaven’s sake! Why doesn’t Brewster just let this play out? Let James stay on the ballot. Surely, if nothing happens before the election to exonerate James, who will vote for an accused murderer? All Brewster does by forcing the issue—it seems to me—is to make voters curious why
he doesn’t trust them to decide for themselves.”

  “I agree,” said Rocky, never losing the rhythm of his back rubbing strokes. “He ought to leave well enough alone.”

  The screen changed to commercials and the couple watched in silence as Rocky continued his efforts to relax his wife after her tiring day. Another slick, well-produced commercial advertising the candidacy of Hap Brewster appeared. This one was even more impressive than the short super-hero one she had seen the other day. There was documentary footage of Brewster who was made to look like a knight slaying various possible foes. A professional voice-over and an impressive original musical score contributed to the polished effect.

  “Wow!” said Rocky. “That was good. I mean, I haven’t seen a political ad that well done since the Reagan ‘Morning in America’ one.”

  “Yeah,” she agreed, “Not your typical used-car commercial. Even better than the one we saw yesterday. Slick.” It was the only word that seemed appropriate. She was used to seeing corny ads for local political campaigns.

  “It makes Hap Brewster look like a hero,” noted Rocky, stopping his ministrations to her back.

  “Are you done with my back rub?” she asked, turning over on her side. Rocky scooted down beside her.

  “Am I?”

  “It’s too bad James can’t get the guy who did that ad to make one for him,” she sighed.

  “James! James!” he said gruffly, sitting up. “For a guy you’ve barely met, we sure discuss him a lot!” His loud voice appeared to serve as a beacon to their dog, and Candide jumped up on their bed, looking from one of them to another.

  “Candide!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands to get her pet’s attention. “I met a very nice kitty today. She was much bigger than you!”

  Candide was obviously miffed with this statement and he lodged himself between them.

  “Great!” moaned Rocky. “First James comes between us, now Candide!”

  “No one is coming between us,” Pamela replied to her husband, nuzzling his chin. “Did I tell you how much I loved dinner tonight?”

  “Did you?”

  “I did,” she replied in his ear.

  Candide joined in and licked Rocky’s other ear.

  “No! Stop!” said Rocky, swatting away the dog’s attention with his hand. “I’m not a meat loaf.”

  “You’re probably covered in juices from tonight’s amazing lamb stew,” she observed. “Candide can’t resist you any more than I can.”

  “You not resisting me,” he whispered to her, rolling over towards her and pulling her to him. “I’d like to see that.”

  She traced her finger over the familiar features of her husband’s face. Yes, there were a few remnants of the evening’s meal still there. But more than that, there was the face she loved more than any other. His rough skin, his firm features, his tender expression. She reached out and embraced him. Candide propped himself up on Rocky’s shoulder and looked into Pamela’s face—only a few inches away. It was difficult, she thought, being romantic with the long black snout of a small poodle two inches from your nose. She closed her eyes. Rocky pulled her tight to his body. Her mind filled with the rich images of a political commercial—an unforgettable political commercial.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The next day, it was difficult to concentrate on her classes. Her mind kept wandering from her lecture material to the James Grant murder investigation. Her students were full of questions about their upcoming research papers and with the summer session so much shorter than regular semesters, she felt she had to spend the additional time after class answering any questions they might have in order for them to complete the demanding projects on time. She now found herself standing behind the lectern in the second floor lecture hall, chatting with several students about said paper.

  “So, you don’t want us to give any of our own opinions in our papers?” asked one tall girl in Bermuda shorts and her hair in braids.

  “No,” replied Pamela, her pat answer rehearsed over many years of requiring this particular paper. “You can’t use first person statements, but obviously, your paper is filled with your ideas, but you argue those ideas by supporting them with evidence and you present that evidence in third person.”

  “You mean,” said a male student, attempting to clarify, “we can say ‘voices convey personality,’ but we can’t say, ‘I believe that voices convey personality.’”

  “Something like that,” noted Pamela with a chuckle at the student’s simplification. The students began gathering their belongings. Pamela looked up to the back of the lecture hall and noted a woman standing hesitantly in the doorway, apparently waiting for her. As the students wandered out of class, chatting and laughing, the woman entered and began walking towards Pamela at the front of the room. As the woman came closer, Pamela realized who she was because she had seen her leave Mitchell’s office only a few days ago. This was Katherine Brewster, wife of Reardon’s mayor. What was she doing here?

  “Dr. Barnes?” questioned Katherine Brewster, walking down the aisle of the large classroom. “Dr. Pamela Barnes?”

  “Yes,” replied Pamela. What did the mayor’s wife want with her?

  The woman was dressed like the society queen she obviously was–wearing a magenta linen suit and a dark purple silk top. Her beige leather heels were probably designer too, reasoned Pamela. She certainly didn’t own any shoes like that. Mrs. Brewster’s hair was professionally coifed and her diamond earrings glistened. Her long, elegantly manicured nails indicated that this was a woman who did not do her own floor scrubbing.

  “Can I help you?” asked Pamela, as the sophisticated woman stopped directly in front of the lectern.

  “Dr. Barnes,” began Katherine Brewster, “Dr. Marks informed me that you would be here and that your class was just concluding. I was hoping I might catch a word with you. My name is Katherine Brewster . . . .”

  “Yes, Mrs. Brewster,” interrupted Pamela, “I know who you are.”

  “Oh,” responded the mayor’s wife with a lilting laugh. “Possibly Mitchell–Dr. Marks–has spoken of me. But, anyway, that doesn’t matter. Actually, Dr. Barnes, I’ve come to talk to you today to plead with you to refrain from becoming involved–or at least–any further involved in this mess with James Grant.”

  “What?” exclaimed Pamela. “Did your husband send you, Mrs. Brewster?”

  “No, no,” she assured Pamela, “he would never do that. However, I am aware of what goes on in my husband’s campaign, Dr. Barnes, and he is extremely concerned about all of these individuals who seem to be conspiring to aid this wife killer–and thus–damage my husband’s campaign. It’s incredible for me to believe that anyone in this department would be involved in such shenanigans. Excuse me for being blunt.”

  Pamela was speechless. Had Mitchell sent this woman to see her? Did he even know she was here and what she was demanding? Katherine Brewster stood before her, eyelids fluttering, arms crossed primly, anticipating that Pamela would produce an agreeable reply.

  “Mrs. Brewster,” she began, warmly, “I understand from Mitchell–Dr. Marks–that you have been a generous benefactress of our department, and as a member of the department, I am sincerely grateful for your contributions. However, you surely are aware that contributing money to an academic department does not allow the donor the right to dictate to individual faculty members how they should behave–with regards to the use of those funds and with regards to their own personal behavior outside of their professional duties. In other words, Mrs. Brewster, what I do on my own time is my business.”

  Katherine Brewster gave a small gasp and straightened her suit jacket, ostensibly to allow herself time to gather her thoughts.

  “Dr. Barnes, I’m certainly not trying to order you about. It’s simply that I don’t understand how someone of your intelligence and professional standing–like Mitchell, Dr. Marks–would become embroiled with an accused murderer. You surely must see what such involvement does to your image in
the community.”

  “Mrs. Brewster, I’m quite touched that you’re so worried about the image of a person you don’t even know. However, I’m not in the least bit concerned about my image and I don’t believe that my involvement in James Grant’s defense will damage it in the slightest.”

  Pamela was actually starting to enjoy this polite debate between herself and the perfectly attired Mrs. Brewster. She leaned over the lectern and smiled her most engaging smile at the woman.

  “I-I, uh, Mitchell said you were a reasonable person,” Katherine Brewster scowled, her bright red lipstick on her lower lip smearing onto her teeth as she squeezed her mouth together.

  “I am,” said Pamela. “Very reasonable. Just ask anyone I work with. It’s that reasonableness–or you might say, reasoning–that has allowed me to help the local authorities solve several murder cases over the last few years. All I’m doing now is attempting to do the same for James.”

  “But that man was found standing over his dead wife!” exclaimed Katherine Brewster, diamond earrings sparkling in response.

  “All the more reason for him to have some people in his corner–as the police seem to have already made up their minds.”

  “And for good reason,” Mrs. Brewster responded. She carefully brushed a wayward strand of hair from her cheek.

  “Mrs. Brewster,” said Pamela to the woman directly, “did you really think you could just walk in here and tell me to stay off James’s defense team?”

  “I am attempting to appeal to your good judgment, Dr. Barnes,” said Katherine Brewster.

  “Have you been appealing to the good judgment of all the other people assisting in James’s defense?” asked Pamela.

  “Uh, no,” replied Mrs. Brewster, looking down. “But, Dr. Barnes, you are well known for solving several local murder cases. If people find out that you’re working for James Grant, they’re liable to think there’s a possibility that he didn’t kill his wife . . . .”

  “He didn’t!”

  “You can’t believe that!” cried Katherine.