Stump Speech Murder (12 page)

“So, it was a social call?” he asked, leaning back in his squeaky roll-chair.  “I didn’t realize that the two of you were friends.  I mean, you certainly didn’t indicate such when I saw you at his wife’s funeral the other day.”  He leaned over his desk and leered at her.

“If you must know, I was asked to talk to him—by his lawyer,” she replied with a huff.

“And why would that be?” he continued to drill her, tapping a pencil on his desktop.

“I don’t have to answer that, Shoop,” she shot back.  “I’m not on trial.  You don’t have any authority to question me.”

“If you attempt to meddle in our investigation, Dr. Barnes. . . .”

“What investigation?” she cried.  “My understanding is that there is no investigation.  You—and your colleagues–are convinced that you have Stacy Grant’s killer, so all further investigation—if there ever was any investigation to begin with—is over.”

“The state of our investigation is not something I’m at liberty to share with you,” he replied, gnawing on the end of his pencil.

“Unless, of course,” she suggested, airily, “some sort of sound clue turns up and you need my expertise.”

“We’re not expecting any such occurrence,” he noted somberly.

Pamela was quickly getting annoyed and tired of this banter.  She glanced at her watch and noted that it was much later than she thought. 

“Detective,” she said, addressing him politely, “I really must be going . . . .”

“Dr. Barnes,” replied the tall man in a much softer voice, his eyes piercing into her, “I really would like to know just what you’re doing involved in this case.  I can get a subpoena if I have to, but given as how you and I have worked together on a number of investigations—successfully worked together, I might add—I would appreciate whatever insight or information you think you have in regards to this case.”

“Why?” she demanded.  “If I suggest an avenue for you to investigate, will you follow it just because it’s me asking?”

“I can’t promise . . . .”

“I didn’t think so,” she answered, standing and preparing to leave.

“Dr. Barnes,” he said, sincerely,  “truthfully, I’m not personally even involved in the Grant investigation—so anything you tell me would be just conjecture.  But, I do promise you, that I have nothing but respect for your instincts—I would be foolish not to respect them—and if you are looking into anything at all connected to this murder, I will not treat your concerns lightly.”

“I’m stunned, Shoop,” she replied, trying to suppress a smile, “at your honesty.  And I, too, have great respect for your capabilities.  I believe we have made a good team in several past instances.  At the moment, all I can say is that I have James Grant’s version of what happened—which is probably pretty much the same as what your investigators have.  I need to think about what he told me and determine if I see any discrepancies.”

“And do you?  See any discrepancies?”

“As I said, I need to think about it.  Maybe.”

“Hmm,” replied Shoop, continuing to chew his pencil end.  “When you start to see discrepancies, Dr. Barnes, I keep my eyes open.”

“You do that, Detective,” she said and, with that, she opened the door and exited Shoop’s office and headed out the back entrance of City Hall.  Shoop stood and walked behind her to the door, following her out of the department with his eyes.

Chapter Fourteen

When she finally arrived home, she was exhausted.  It had been an excruciatingly long day—and the most intense parts had come at the end.  The jailhouse visit with the sad, accused murderer James Grant and the unexpected stop at Shoop’s office had drained her.  Now, she found herself wrapped in her comfy terrycloth robe, slumped in her bedroom easy chair, legs up on her hassock grading a set of quizzes she had given in her morning lecture class.  Candide cuddled against her slippers on the hassock.  She could hear Rocky futzing around in the kitchen.  As usual, he had prepared them a delightful dinner—tonight’s offering was a chicken salad with grapes, celery, and walnuts–light but tasty in one of Rocky’s special dressings.  She assumed he was now busy cleaning up.  She should probably be doing that chore, but her dear husband was able to discern immediately on her arrival that she’d had a miserable day and he sent her off after supper to relax—if you could consider grading papers relaxing.

She took a deep breath and a pause from her grading as she glanced at her watch.  It was almost time for the local evening news and she was anxious to see what—if anything—would be reported about James Grant’s murder case.  Grabbing the remote from the end table next to her chair, she flipped the “on” button and turned to channel six—WRER.  Ginger Cooper was anchoring the news tonight and she led with the top story—Stacy Grant’s murder. 

“Reardon’s District Attorney’s office today announced that DA Charles Findlay will personally prosecute the case against accused murderer James Grant.  Findlay said he felt a special obligation to undertake the task himself because the victim, Stacy Grant, had been an assistant DA in the Reardon bureau.”

The screen switched to a video of an attractive older man, with a full head of snowy white hair, speaking in front of a hive of microphone-toting reporters in front of the City Hall that Pamela knew so well. 

“Stacy was a co-worker and a friend,” said Findlay, his rich mellow voice resonating.  “The DA’s office will not rest until we bring her killer to justice.”

The screen returned to Ginger Cooper in the studio, focusing on the face of the pretty green-eyed redhead.

“In related news,” she said, “the coroner has announced the autopsy results for Stacy Grant.  Cause of death is said to be blunt trauma to the head.  No secondary causes were determined.  We assume that this brief report suggests that Stacy Grant was killed by the blow to her head from the candlestick that was found near her body and that nothing else apparently contributed to her death—such as a drug overdose.”

“Oh, my,” sighed Pamela, setting down her stack of quizzes and stretching her legs.  The movement caused the little dog lying on top of her feet to whine in annoyance.  “None of this looks good for James,” she said out loud.

“What doesn’t look good for James?” asked her husband, wandering into their bedroom and plopping down on the edge of their bed.

“Just the autopsy report,” she replied.  “Blunt trauma to the head.”

“Did you expect something else?” he asked, wiping his hands with a dish towel.

“I guess I hoped maybe they’d find something in her system—like a long-acting poison or something.”

“Wouldn’t that be just as likely to suggest the husband did it?” he prompted, leaning back.

“I don’t know.  I’m just gathering information.”

“Something you do so well,” he assured her.  He stood up and headed back to the kitchen.  “Are you ready for dessert?”

“Dessert?” she asked.  “How am I ever going to get rid of these thighs?”

“I love these thighs,” he replied, walking over to her chair and squeezing an exposed area of flesh.

“You won’t if I keep eating your desserts,” she pouted.  “What is it?”

“A blueberry cobbler.”

“Just a few spoonfuls,” she said sheepishly.

“Okay,” he agreed and headed off. 

“I’ll just feed most of it to you, Candide,” she said to her pet who, upon hearing his name, perked up and rushed up to her and began licking her face.

“Hey, now! Don’t get carried away!” she said to Candide, pushing him away from her cheek.   Rocky returned with a small bowl of crispy covered purple fruit, topped with a dollop of whipped cream.  “Rocky!  This looks fattening!”

“We’ll share,” he offered, sitting on the edge of the hassock and dipping the spoon into the dessert.  He then aimed the spoon into her mouth and she nibbled off a small amount with her lips.  Candide attempted to intercept the spoon on its way to its target but was unsuccessful, so he leaped off the hassock and pranced out to the kitchen to eat his regular dog food.  Rocky finished what blueberry cobbler Pamela had left on the spoon. 

“Yum,” she moaned.  “Why do you do this?”

“Make dessert?”

“Why do you torture me like this?  You know I’m trying to lose weight and you go and make these incredibly delicious things.  How can I resist?”

“You can’t resist my desserts—or me,” he said with a sexy smile.

“You aren’t fattening.  Your desserts are.”  She gave him an annoyed facial expression. He continued to nibble the cobbler and offered her a bite from time to time.  She consumed what she was offered without additional complaining.

“Anything on the news about your friend James Grant?” he asked, wiping the spoon clean slowly with his lips, a movement that did not go unnoticed by his wife.

“The DA—Findlay–is going to prosecute the case himself.  Oh, and the coroner’s report found that cause of death was blunt trauma to the head.  Not much new there.”

“Just that with Findlay prosecuting the case, it might speed things up.”

“I’d think it would slow things down.  He’s probably pretty busy.  Who knows when he’ll have time to schedule himself for trial.”

“You’d think he’d want to get right to it.  He’s probably pretty upset that someone killed one of his assistants.”

“I don’t know.  Maybe.  I don’t know how any of this will affect James.  I know Martin has an investigator working for him.  I don’t know what he’s looking for, but I’m guessing he’ll need time to produce information that will help James.”

“And, of course,” added Rocky, giving Pamela one of his knowing looks, “you’ll need time to figure out who really killed the woman.”

“For heaven’s sake, Rocky!” she cried. “Why does anyone think that just because I helped with some police investigations before, that I’m going be able to produce evidence that will exonerate James?”

“Whatever you do, Babe,” he said somberly, “please keep a low profile.  You know what happened before.  You get going and then you get headstrong and then you get in trouble.”

“I promise I’ll be very discrete,” she said with a raised hand. 

“Did you learn anything today when you visited the guy in prison?” he asked.

“The city jail,” she corrected, “and his name is James.  He’s actually a nice guy—and heartsick over the death of his wife.  He blames himself for it.  Not because he did it, but because he wasn’t there to prevent it.”

“I can understand that,” said Rocky, rubbing his wife’s bare legs.  She had a feeling that he had another type of dessert in mind now that he’d finished off the blueberry cobbler.

They had been ignoring the news broadcast, playing softly in the background.  As Rocky was starting to nibble her ear, Pamela glanced up at the television set.

“Look at that!” she exclaimed.  Rocky somewhat grudgingly leaned back on the hassock and glanced over to the TV.  A slick commercial, complete with catchy jingle and pulsing music was advertising the candidacy of Hap Brewster.  An animated Brewster was presented looking like some type of Superman hero, slaying villains, including one that closely resembled James Grant.  The commercial showed that particular villain being soundly flung into a jail cell by the super Brewster.

“Why does he need to advertise?” she asked her husband.  “I mean, he doesn’t have any viable competition now that James is in jail.”

“Maybe he’s afraid James won’t be in jail for long,” suggested Rocky.

“Just look at that, Rocky,” she said, pointing at the screen.  Rocky focused his attention on the clever political ad designed to capture the attention and votes of Reardon residents.  “It’s very good.”

“You mean the ad is good,” he said in clarification.  “Not the content.”

“No, I mean, yes,” she replied, flustered.  “It’s a very sophisticated commercial.  It totally glosses over Brewster’s faults.  It doesn’t even mention James, but it hints at his problems—what with that one little creature getting dumped into the tiny jail.  Very sneaky.”

“I see what you mean,” he nodded.  “Far superior to your run-of-the mill, local, political ad.  Most of those look like televised, wanted posters.”

“I know.  This one is well done.  Too bad James doesn’t have the same person doing his ads—maybe he could get some press that would help his case.  He could use some good publicity.”

“Surely his law partner could arrange for that,” suggested Rocky, now totally having given up on getting any romance in the near future.