Stump Speech Murder (6 page)

“. . . and I know you’d never renege on a promise,” continued Joan, pointedly at Pamela.  Pamela cringed.  Joan would hold her to her unenthusiastic commitment from yesterday and somehow would now force her to help this man and embroil her in a criminal investigation.

“I was happy to help with Mr. Grant’s campaign,” said Pamela politely to the group, “but I’m not sure there’s anything I can do for him in these new circumstances . . . .”

“You mean, now that he’s been arrested for murder,” said Dobbs, shaking his head forlornly.

“Martin,” chastised Willard, turning to the young man next to him on Pamela’s couch.  “You cannot give up.”

“I agree,” urged Joan, bending in towards the two men. “Surely this is all a mistake.  I can’t help thinking that some horrible error has been made.  I told you that, Pamela.”

“I wish you were right,” sighed Dobbs, “but if there is some horrible mistake, I don’t know what it is.  Stacy was murdered—and for all intents and purposes—it certainly looks like James did it.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time that an innocent person was falsely accused,” argued Joan, clenching her fists in frustration.

“Unfortunately, the police are convinced that James did it,” said Dobbs, looking even more despondent.

“Stop it, Martin,” said Willard.  “I’ve known you for years, and I’ve never known you to be a defeatist.”

“It’s hard not to be a defeatist, Willard,” responded the younger man to the older one sitting next to him, “when James has totally given up himself.”

“What do you mean by that?” asked Pamela, seated at her desk and riveted by the discussion going on around her.

“I mean,” continued Dobbs, gathering the attention of his small audience with his expressive hands outstretched in an expansive gesture.  Pamela was hard pressed to say which man was more inspiring, the James Grant she had heard yesterday at the rally, or Martin Dobbs, his campaign manager, sitting here on her couch, pleading his case.  Dobbs continued, “I just spoke with James this morning.  He’s so devastated about his wife’s death that that’s all he can think about.  He seems totally oblivious to the fact that he’s been arrested for her murder.  Yes, he claims he’s innocent, but he doesn’t know who did it—and worst of all—he says he doesn’t care!”

“What?” cried Joan.  “I can understand how upset he’d be over his wife’s death, but he can’t just give up!”

“I know!” explained Dobbs, turning from Willard to face Joan.  “And I do think he’ll come around eventually, Dr. Bentley, but I don’t know when.  He’s just been dealt a terrible blow.  His own welfare—and certainly his campaign–are his last concerns!”

“He needs a good lawyer!” suggested Willard.

“He’s got one!” announced Dobbs, arms outstretched to everyone in the office. “Me!  He’s my top priority.  And, although I don’t want to belittle the importance of the campaign—because James and I got involved in the campaign together and we both had high hopes about that—but the campaign has to take the back burner for a while because—well, face it—there is no campaign if James is convicted of Stacy’s murder.”

“Right,” agreed Joan.  “On the other hand, if—when–James is exonerated, the police will be forced to look elsewhere for her killer—and that may lead them straight to the Brewster camp.”

“Don’t say that too loud,” noted Dobbs, waving his hands around like an old-fashioned Baptist preacher.  “If it’s true that the Brewster campaign had anything to do with Stacy’s death, then you can never tell where they have spies.” His gestures and facial expression created an impression of skullduggery and dark deeds.

“I think you’re safe in my office,” suggested Pamela, looking around, suddenly fearful. “And, Mrs. Grant’s death may not be connected to Brewster and the election. There may be things going on that we know nothing about.  But, I agree that the main concern has to be exonerating James.  That may mean–as Joan implies–finding the real killer, if indeed, James is innocent.”

“Anyway,” continued Dobbs, “I’m going to fight for James and defend him for all I’m worth in court.  I’ve hired an investigator too, and he’s looking into many of the obvious avenues.  And, of course, where the election is concerned, time is of the essence.  I—we—just can’t afford to let the legal system grind along at its typically slow pace.  We have to find out who really killed Stacy—and we have to do it quickly.  James needs everyone helping in every way possible. That’s why I asked to meet you, Dr. Barnes.”

“Me?” asked Pamela.  Now she was curious.  The eyes of everyone in her office were fixed upon her.

“I’ve known Willard,” continued Dobbs, “from our work together on our church Board of Directors for several years now.  Joan, of course, I met a while ago when she started volunteering on James’ campaign.  Both of them speak glowingly about your efforts in solving a number of local crimes that had puzzled the local authorities.  All I’m asking, Dr. Barnes, is for your professional expertise in helping James—even if he doesn’t appear to want any help at the moment.  I’m sure that eventually he will come to grips with Stacy’s death and will want to discover the person who is responsible.”

“Mr. Dobbs,” replied Pamela, leaning back in her desk chair and folding her arms.  “I would certainly be willing to assist your candidate and friend in clearing his name if I could.  I just don’t see how my particular expertise can help in Mr. Grant’s circumstances.  I mean, it’s not as if the police have recordings of him—or anyone–committing the crime but don’t know the identity of the perpetrator.  My expertise is basically in using acoustic technology to differentiate one human voice from another.  I don’t see as to how Mr. Grant’s voice comes into play at all in this case.”

“That’s true,” agreed Dobbs, with a quick glance at Willard, “but Willard tells me that you have gone beyond your primary research areas from time to time in your crime fighting efforts.”

Pamela chuckled.  “He did, did he?”

“No more than I would do, my dear,” said Willard sweetly to Pamela.  “You are a champion of the down-trodden.”  His cheeks puffed out and his dimples indented. 

“Willard, flattery,” she said, “and all that.  All right, Mr. Dobbs, what is it you want me to do?”

“Just be aware,” said Dobbs.  His smile vanished and he bent towards her, leaning his long, expressive fingers dramatically on his kneecaps.

“That doesn’t sound too demanding,” responded Pamela.

“Just be aware of what’s going on in the investigation,” he continued, “and if you see—or hear—anything that seems even the slightest bit out of the ordinary, please let me know.  And Willard and Joan, I would ask the same of the two of you.  I’d like to count on you three as my faculty contingent.  You three are psychologists with expertise in different areas.  I’m hoping that the three of you can put your educated heads together and ferret out a clue or two that might explain what happened.  Why did James get arrested for a murder he didn’t commit?”

“I guess if we’re going to do any ferreting, we should include our animal psychologist—Arliss?” suggested Joan.

“By all means,” agreed Pamela, with a shrug.  “The more, the merrier.”  She would obviously need all the help she could get.

Chapter Seven

“. . . and as he is presently in jail without chance of bail, it is the contention of our campaign that Mr. Grant should remove his name from the ballot.  After all,” continued incumbent Mayor Hap Brewster, a barrage of microphones vying for attention in front of his face, “if a candidate is incapable of serving, then he has no business running.”  As the mayor looked directly into the nearest camera lens, several reporters peppered him with additional questions.

“He’s disgusting,” said Pamela to her husband as they nibbled on squares of meat and vegetables that were skewered to long pokers.  A fondue pot bubbled away on a low table in the center of their living room and the couple lounged on pillows on the floor, dipping their food tidbits into the boiling liquid.  They were each sipping a fruity Cabernet.  “He’s really seeming to enjoy the fact that James has been arrested.”  Candide remained a respectful but eager distance from the savory-smelling meat.

“It does leave him without an opponent,” noted Rocky, gnawing on a large chunk of beef and several small onion pieces.  Candide moaned audibly.

The local news program returned to the studio anchor who noted almost the same thing—but in much less biased terms.  With James Grant in jail, unable to get released on bail, and a trial probably weeks, if not months away, it appeared that Hap Brewster would easily be re-elected in November.  Even with James’s recent upsurge in the polls, being arrested for murder would probably greatly reduce his chances of being elected.

“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.”