Stump Speech Murder (11 page)

“Yeah,” he moaned.  “I told Martin this, but he thinks I shouldn’t mention it because it makes me look bad—but, so what?  I do look bad.  I am bad.  If we hadn’t fought, this wouldn’t have happened.”

“I don’t see how,” said Pamela.  “You didn’t kill her, did you?”

“No!” he screamed.  “I told you!  I didn’t kill her, but I wasn’t there to protect her!  I slept in my office the night before—it happened.  The person who did this must have had the opportunity to get into our house or figured out Stacy was alone because I wasn’t there!  If I’d been there, I know she’d be alive today.”

“You don’t know that, James,” argued Pamela.  “If you didn’t kill Stacy, someone else did.  We don’t know who that person is or why they did it—but it’s quite possible that it has nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that you and Stacy had an argument and you spent the night in your office.  Quite possibly, the killer would have done exactly the same thing if you’d spent the night in your own house and gone to work just like every other day.  Remember, your wife was killed late in the afternoon while you were at the rally.  This may have nothing to do with your fight.  I mean, you aren’t with your wife every minute of the day.  Even if you’d been at home that night, you still would have gone to work and to the rally.  Stacy still would have been at home that afternoon when the killer arrived.”

“I don’t know,” he said, voice wavering.  Maybe, Pamela thought, she could reason with him—or at least gather some pertinent information.

“What did you fight about?” she asked.

“The amount of time I was spending on the campaign,” he replied.  “Nothing new.  We were fighting about it more and more, but that night it blew up.”

“Had you ever spent the night in your office before?”

“No, that was the first time.  It wasn’t comfortable.  I hated every minute of it and all I wanted to do was apologize and go home.”

“Did anyone on your staff know you spent the night in your office?”

“I don’t know—maybe.  Even if they did, they wouldn’t necessarily assume it was because Stacy and I were having marital troubles.  I didn’t really discuss things like that with anyone—even Martin—although I guess he figured out that Stacy was peeved with me about all the extra duties he was piling on.”

“Take me through your movements from your fight with Stacy until the next day when you returned home and found her.”

“Oh, god,” he sighed, obviously not relishing remembering, let alone describing the events. “We had a pretty loud screaming battle that night.  She ordered me out and I just left—didn’t even pack a bag.  It was lucky that I keep an extra shirt in my office and a razor or I would have been a mess at the rally the next day.”

“So, after you fought, you went directly to your office.  Was anyone there?”

“No, it was about eleven at night.  The place was dark.”

“What about the next morning?”

“I couldn’t sleep.  I felt just terrible.  I kept debating whether I should call her and apologize, but I decided I’d wait and talk to her in person the next day after she got home from work.  I wish now I’d called her earlier–maybe this wouldn’t have happened . . . .”

“Not necessarily,” said Pamela.  “You don’t know the reason Stacy was killed.  If a murderer is determined, they won’t stop until they accomplish their goal.  It might not have done any good no matter what you did.”

“But her last memory of me wouldn’t be filled with hatred.”

“James,” said Pamela, attempting to reach through the glass window and only succeeding in touching his finger tips with hers.  “I have a feeling her memories of you were all good ones.  And here I’m speaking as a woman and a wife.  You have to have faith in that thought.  Your fight was because of circumstances caused by your campaign—not some innate personality defect of yours that she couldn’t tolerate.  I’m guessing that in time the two of you would have worked out your differences.”

“Maybe,” he replied.

“Hold that idea in your heart and concentrate on doing the most positive thing you can do now for your wife—find her killer.”

“All right.”  He looked at her with the same sad face, but his gaze was now direct.

“When you woke up in your office the next morning, what happened then?”

“Not much.  It was a regular day.  Martin came in first.  We did regular law office stuff—and a lot of campaign activities.  Later in the afternoon, some volunteers arrived to help get ready for the rally.  Then around four we all piled in our cars and headed for the rally.”

“Did you notice anything unusual about the rally?”

“No, we’d done several before and this one seemed about the same.  Of course, the media showed up—and Brewster and his crowd.  But other than that, nothing seemed strange to me.”

“Did you speak to or see Stacy at all during the day?”

“No, I was giving her time to cool down.  I planned to see her after the rally when I went home.  I knew she’d be there before me probably.  She usually gets home from her job at the DA’s office around four. Oh, but she did call me right after the rally ended.  That’s what sent me home so fast.”

“She called you?”

“Yes, I told the police.  She called me at the rally and told me to come home right away and then she hung up.  I don’t know if that had anything to do with the call she made to the 911 operator—you know—whether it was before or after that.”

“Did you actually talk to her?”

“Uh, yes.”

“I mean, she didn’t leave a message or anything.”

“No,” he said, thinking.  “As soon as I saw our home number, I answered immediately.  It was about the time that Ginger Cooper was starting to interview Brewster.  I was just standing there listening to them.”

“Try to remember exactly what she said.”

“I think she said, ‘Come home’ or maybe ‘Come home now’ or something like that.  I didn’t save it.  I just jumped in my car and took off.”

“Did you say anything to her?”

“I may have, but I think she hung up immediately—and that scared me.  I mean, she didn’t even wait for me to respond.  So I figured whatever she needed me for at home was serious . . .”

“Do you remember the time of Stacy’s call?”

“No, I’m sorry.  Just that it was after my interview at the rally—during the Brewster interview.”

“You don’t by any chance know what question Brewster was answering when Stacy called?”

“You think that’s important?”

“I’m just trying to develop a time line.  It may—or may not—be important.”

“I think he was just getting started.  I don’t remember if she’d even asked him a question yet.”  Grant scowled.  Pamela perceived it a good sign that James was able to focus—if only for a moment—on his political opponent’s platform.

“Okay, anyway.  You drove home as fast as you could.  Now, tell me exactly what happened when you got there.”

“Dr. Barnes, I’ve gone over this part again and again for the police.  I pulled up out front and I could see that the front door of our house was wide open.  That scared me right away.  I ran into the house calling for Stacy.  She was lying on the floor of the kitchen.  She was bleeding—from a huge gash in the back of her head.  Oh, my God!  If I’d just been there minutes before.  It must have just happened.  I bent down and tried to find a pulse.  I couldn’t.  I tried to give her mouth to mouth.  I tried but nothing—nothing helped.”  Repeating the story again had drained the young politician.

“Did you see or hear anyone else in your house?”

“No, but I wasn’t looking for anyone.  I was only concerned with Stacy.”

“About how long after you discovered your wife on the floor was it before the police arrived?”

“Almost immediately.  I had barely started to do the mouth-to-mouth and some uniformed guy grabbed me and handcuffed me.  Another one read me my rights.  At that point, I realized Stacy was gone—and nothing else really mattered.”

“What about the candlestick?  That they say is the murder weapon?”

“I guess I remember seeing it lying on the floor next to Stacy.  It was one of a set that we had on our fireplace mantel.  Stacy’s parents gave those to us for our wedding.  I may have moved it or picked it up at some point, but truly I don’t remember.  All I remember is seeing Stacy and trying to help her.”

“James, can you think of anyone who might want your wife dead?”

“No, no one.”

“Your wife worked for the DA’s office.  Has she prosecuted anyone who might have come back for revenge?  That does happen, you know.”

“Yes, I suppose, but Stacy never mentioned anyone that she sent away that she ever thought would be some sort of risk to her.  Of course, there might have been and she didn’t tell me—or she didn’t know herself.”

“What about you?  Is there anyone who might want to hurt you by killing your wife?”

“I can’t imagine anyone.”

“Not even Hap Brewster?” she suggested, with a raised eyebrow.

“What?” he asked, apparently genuinely flabbergasted.  “You don’t kill people who disagree with you over politics.”

“Oh, really?” she noted.  “You think Hap Brewster is totally above such a thing?”

“Dr. Barnes,” he said with a shake of his head, “I have no love for Brewster or his crowd, but they’re not murderers.”

“Let’s hope you’re right,” said Pamela with a shrug.  “But someone is a murderer, James.  And if it’s not you, then who?”

Chapter Thirteen

As she climbed the short flight of stairs leading from the Reardon city jail to the City Hall parking lot, she ran smack dab into her friend and nemesis Detective Shoop, ostensibly on his way back to his office from the parking lot.

“Dr. Barnes,” he exclaimed in his typical deadpan manner, “as I live and breathe.”  He had stopped in his tracks and was now barring her way, leaving her stranded on the next-to-the last step from the basement jailhouse.  The result was that the tall, gangly policeman hovered even more over her like some predatory gargoyle—his open raincoat flapping like wings as he gestured his greeting to her.  “What brings you to City Hall?  Surely, you’re not interfering—I mean—messing around in a police case, are you?  It wouldn’t by any chance be the James Grant murder investigation, would it?

“Detective,” she replied, ducking under his outstretched arm and securing a position leaning against the banister leading to the second floor where she recovered her equilibrium.  “How delightful to see you again.  You must be on your way back to your office.  Please don’t let me detain you.”  She scooted around him, aiming for the outside, double-glass door entrance to the building.

“Oh, Doctor,” cried Shoop, grabbing her by the elbow.  “Please do come up to my office for a chat.”  He gave her arm a decided squeeze and immediately bounded up the flight of stairs leading to the Police Department on the second floor.  Pamela sighed and followed him.  Surely, this would be a brief social visit and she could be quickly on her way.

Shoop’s office was just inside the back door entrance to the second floor and immediately to the right.  His, like most of the detectives’ offices in the Reardon Police Department, was small and encased with wood paneling up to waist height with glass partitions the rest of the way up.  She always thought how awful it would be to have such an office because it would allow the resident no privacy whatsoever.  Inside the office, she recognized Shoop’s cluttered desk and his torn and tattered, small, plastic sofa.  One tiny window overlooked the parking lot.  In the corner, Shoop’s space heater stood vigil.  Thankfully, it wasn’t running on this sweltering August day, but Shoop seemed to have a persistent cold and every time she’d been in this office in the past, the space heater had been churning out warmth—often too much.

“Sit, Dr. Barnes,” Shoop ordered, as he flung his dilapidated raincoat over the top of a wooden coat stand, moving behind his old-fashioned desk.  She positioned herself primly on the edge of the sofa, knowing full well that probably a month’s worth of junk food had slid into the cracks and crevices.  “I’m guessing that you were down in our jail visiting Mr. Grant.  Am I right?”

“He is allowed visitors,” she retorted.  After working together—sometimes cooperatively and sometimes not—Shoop and Pamela had developed a grudging respect for each other.  Nevertheless, he needled her whenever they worked together and she tried to give as good as she got.  Theirs was a relationship filled with rivalry.