Stump Speech Murder (13 page)

“I’m afraid that’s the least of Martin Dobbs’s concerns now.  He’s focused on exonerating James at best—and defending him in court at least.”

“But it does seem like overkill, don’t you think?” he asked.  “I mean, why does Brewster need to exert himself in the campaign when his primary opponent is, for all intents and purposes, out of the race?”

“I guess he just wants to be sure,” she replied.  “Nail in the coffin mentality.  Cross the t’s and dot the i’s.”

“I wonder,” mused Rocky.  At that moment, Candide wandered back into the bedroom, evidently satiated from a nice meal of dog food.  He looked from Pamela to Rocky with his soulful black eyes and then a glance at the bedroom door.

“He wants to go out,” said Pamela, with a sigh.  “I should do it.  After all, you cooked and cleaned up.”

“Stay where you are,” replied Rocky.  “Finish those quizzes.  Candide and I both need some fresh air.  Don’t we, fellow?”  Candide responded to his name and to the fact that Rocky was rising and heading out of the bedroom.  He began prancing at Rocky’s feet with a happy bark.  Man and dog disappeared into the other room.  Pamela stared at the television and the amazing commercial she had just seen for Hap Brewster.  It hadn’t been created overnight, she realized.  It was a professional production that probably took many weeks to do and yet it seemed somehow incredibly
apropos
to events of the last few days—what with the villain character being tossed into the mini-jail by the super Brewster character.  It could all be coincidence, but she doubted it.  She wondered what Martin Dobbs would think when he saw it.

Chapter Fifteen

It had been hard for her to concentrate on her morning classes.  Now, as her second class was nearing its end and the students were working in groups completing a mini-project related to discernible language differences, Pamela found herself daydreaming about the intriguing case of Stacy Grant’s murder while she wandered around the lecture hall on the second floor, next door to her office.  The students were all totally engaged in the activity and all she seemed to need to do was indicate her presence and willingness to assist them if they needed her.  She checked her watch and noticed that only ten minutes of class time remained.  She sauntered back down the aisle to the lectern at the front of the hall.

“Don’t forget,” she announced, “you need to turn in your group’s responses before you leave.” The students seemed to moan as a unit, but she noticed noises of paper and writing and an increased level of talk as they worked to complete the brief assignment. 

One group finished and gathered their belongings and began to leave.  One of the members walked up to Pamela and handed her a paper.  Pamela quickly glanced down the responses to check to see if the group had followed directions.  Assured that they had, she smiled at the student.  A second group finished and then a third.  Eventually all groups had completed the in-class project and had submitted it to Pamela before they left.  As the last student departed, she double-checked to make certain that she had received a paper from each of her six groups. 

“Dr. Barnes,” said a female student, causing Pamela to look up into the face of a young woman who typically sat near the back of the lecture hall.  “Excuse me for bothering you, but I’m wondering if I might ask you a question.”

“Of course, uh, Mindy,” she guessed at the student’s name.  She tried to memorize each of her students’ names, and although she found it fairly easy to remember the names of the students who talked a lot in class or who visited her frequently, it was difficult at times to remember the names of students who tended to remain anonymous—as did this young woman standing before her now.  “What can I do for you?”  She smiled warmly, hoping she was encouraging this apparently, fairly shy student to speak.

“Dr. Barnes, I was working on James Grant’s campaign,” replied the girl, looking down.  She appeared to be having difficulty finding the courage to say what she wanted.  “I met Dr. Bentley when we were stuffing envelopes one day.  She said she was trying to get you to help with Mr. Grant’s campaign.”

“She succeeded,” said Pamela, with a laugh.  “Dr. Bentley can be very persuasive.”

“Yes,” agreed the student.  “One time she and I were sitting at a table in the campaign office working on folding flyers and she was telling me about you and how you had helped the police solve some murders in the past.”

“She probably exaggerated my involvement, Mindy,” said Pamela.  “I’ve offered my expertise in acoustic technology to local officials in a few instances, but that’s all.  Nothing very grand.”

“Not according to Dr. Bentley,” argued the student.  “And Dr. Barnes, I was thinking that maybe now that Mr. Grant is in jail, maybe now would be a very good time for you to help out again.”

“Oh, Mindy,” chuckled Pamela, flattered but intent on diffusing this student’s and any student’s conception of her as some sort of local crime-fighter, “I think you have a totally distorted view of what I’ve done for the police.  Truly, my efforts in helping the police have been minimal—and, besides, my expertise is in acoustics—sound.  There really isn’t any need for my skills in Mr. Grant’s case.”

“I think you underestimate your ability, Dr. Barnes,” said Mindy intently.  “I listen to your lectures and I see how you think things through so carefully.  Everything you say in class is all about how scientists need to use evidence to build hypotheses.  I think your hypothesis should be that Mr. Grant did not kill his wife.  Isn’t that how a scientist would start?  Then, you could search for evidence that would support that hypothesis, couldn’t you?”

“Yes, Mindy,” she replied.  “That’s exactly what a scientist would do.  But just because a scientist hypothesizes something, doesn’t mean that he—or she—will eventually be able to support that hypothesis.  Sometimes hypotheses are not supported.”

“But, Dr. Barnes,” Mindy pleaded, “I’m just sure that Mr. Grant didn’t kill his wife!  He couldn’t!  He’s so nice!”

“Just how is it that you got involved in Mr. Grant’s campaign, Mindy?” Pamela asked.

“My family has lived here as long as I can remember, Dr. Barnes,” she said sadly, “and my parents run a small printing company downtown—Gregson Printing.”

“Yes, I’ve heard of it,” said Pamela.

“Hap Brewster has made my parents’ lives intolerable,” the girl continued.  “When James Grant announced that he was running against Brewster, my parents were elated.  They thought that now maybe some of the abuse and intimidation they had experienced from the Brewster crowd over the years would stop.  They were devastated when Mr. Grant was arrested.  I told them I know he didn’t kill his wife, but they say it doesn’t matter because with him in jail—even if he gets out—it’ll be too late to stop Hap Brewster.”

“Not necessarily,” said Pamela to the young woman, a hand on her shoulder.  “I wouldn’t give up, Mindy.  James Grant has a number of excellent people on his team.”

“You, Dr. Barnes?”

“I’ve been volunteering, but I think his greatest help is his partner Martin Dobbs.”

“Oh, yes!  Mr. Dobbs is amazing!  He’s always at the campaign headquarters—well, I say headquarters–but it’s really just their office.”

“Mindy, were you at the campaign headquarters the night before Mr. Grant was arrested?”

“Yes,” she replied.  “It was exciting.  The poll had just come out showing Mr. Grant moving ahead of Brewster.  Everyone was so excited.  The rally was scheduled for the next day and we were all so busy getting posters and flyers ready.”

“Was Mrs. Grant there?”

“I don’t think she was that night.  She did stop by once in a while.  But not that night.”

“Was Mr. Grant there that you remember?”

“I believe he was—at least at one point.  He would stop and help out every so often—and, of course, it was his law office too, so sometimes he was there working on cases that weren’t related to the campaign.”

“How late did you stay that night?”

“I don’t know, maybe midnight,” she answered.  “Is this important information, Dr. Barnes?  Will it help you to support the hypothesis that Mr. Grant is innocent of his wife’s murder?”

“I don’t know, Mindy,” she said, “but as a scientist, you know, we need all the information we can get—even if some of it eventually turns out to be unnecessary.”

“Thank you, Dr. Barnes,” sighed Mindy.  “And thank you for my parents too.”

“Don’t thank me yet, Mindy,” said Pamela. “I haven’t done anything.”  She guided the young woman down the lecture hall’s center aisle and out the doorway, bidding her farewell and entering her office on the right.

Once inside, she grabbed her thermos of tea and got her sack lunch from her mini-fridge.  Then she plopped down onto her couch and slid out of her high heels and set her nylon-covered feet up on the cushions.  Two hours of lecturing always made her exhausted and famished.  Rocky had outdone himself today, providing her with a sandwich of turkey, greens, and chipotle sauce on asiago cheese bread.  He also included some fresh kiwi fruit sections.  The tea of the day was persimmon—unique and tasty. 

She was enjoying her midday meal and contemplating her heart-to-heart talk with her student Mindy when her two best friends and colleagues—Joan and Arliss—came sauntering into her office unannounced.  Of course, Joan was the only one doing any sauntering; Arliss trudged most places now, being almost a full nine months pregnant and looking it. 

“Oh, Pam,” moaned Arliss, “can we trade places?  I really need to put my feet up and if I sit on your desk chair, I’ll probably slide off onto the floor.”

“Of course, little mother,” replied Pamela, rising and guiding her friend into the nicely warmed spot on the sofa.  Arliss slid cautiously down and lifted her legs up onto the cushions with apparent agonizing difficulty.  Pamela moved over to her desk chair and slid easily into place.  On the way, she tossed her lunch sack into the waste basket. 

“All she does is whine,” noted Joan, as she sat unobtrusively on the straight wood chair by the door.  “I don’t remember all this drama when I had my two boys.”

“Would you like something to eat, Arliss?” asked Pamela. 

“No,” said her curly-haired friend from her lounging position, “I’m starving, but my doctor has me on a strict diet.  I thought I was supposed to be eating for two!”

“So, does your OB give you any estimation as to when we should expect this little Goodman?” asked Pamela as she sipped her remaining tea from her thermos.

“Any day, he says,” replied Arliss, her head barely visible over her tummy mound on the sofa, “and it can’t be any too soon for me.  I can barely breathe.”

“I bet Bob will appreciate not hearing all the wa-wa too,” added Joan flippantly.  She fingered the gold buttons on her stylish navy jacket.

“Oh, Joan,” scolded Pamela, “this is all new to her.  Don’t be so nasty.”

“You’d think no one else ever had a baby,” said Joan, glaring at Arliss. 

“Stop!” Pamela scowled at her more experienced friend.  “It’s all right, Arliss.  Just hang in there.  But get as much sleep as you can now, because when the baby arrives, you won’t be getting much at all.”

“I know,” Arliss replied.  “I just want to be able to breathe and to see my feet.” She moaned again and reached down to try to rub her feet without any success.

“They’re still on your legs,” chided Joan. Then changing the subject, she turned to Pamela at her desk and said, “Martin tells me you were able to visit James in the jail yesterday.”

“Yes,” Pamela replied.

“Oh, my!” exclaimed Arliss, “that must have been exciting, Pam!  I’ve never been inside a jail before.  What was it like?”

“I don’t know what—if any—good it did.  I do think he opened up to me.  He’s so despondent over his wife’s death that he doesn’t seem capable or interested in assisting in his own defense.”

“That’s what Martin said,” noted Joan.  She smoothed her white pleated skirt down.

“I think—at least–I hope I got through to him on that account.  I tried to convince him that his wife would want him to find her killer.  That he couldn’t allow his wife’s killer to roam free.  I hope that argument struck home and got him to at least cooperate in Martin’s investigation.”

“That would certainly be an improvement,” said Joan, “at least according to the way Martin described his reactions.”

“I got him to go over his actions before he found Stacy,” said Pamela, “in detail.  He probably had explained this to the police, but I’m sure they were only interested in getting information that would confirm their belief in his guilt.  I made him describe everything I could think of that might explain who killed Stacy—assuming that James didn’t.”