Stump Speech Murder (14 page)

“That’s what we’re all assuming,” insisted Joan.  “Did he tell you anything that would help?”

“I’m not sure,” she mused, elbows on her desk as she sipped her tea.  “I’m still sorting out some of the things he said.”

“Such as?” asked Arliss from her prone position on the sofa.  Pamela could hear her voice but couldn’t see her face behind her tummy.

“One thing, I’m afraid, may make him look more guilty if the police get a hold of it.”

“What?” asked Joan.

“That James and Stacy had a huge fight the night before the murder and that he stormed out of their house and slept in his office.”

“Oh, no!” cried Arliss, lifting herself up on an elbow. 

“The police don’t know this?” asked Joan, hand to mouth.

“I don’t think he told them,” replied Pamela, “He probably shouldn’t either.”

“No!” agreed Joan.  She tapped the toe of her shoe rapidly on Pamela’s tile floor.

“But he did tell them that the reason he rushed home that afternoon was because Stacy called him and begged him to come home immediately,” added Pamela.

“But why would she do that?” asked Arliss, lifting herself up even more.  “I thought they said she called 911 and claimed her husband was trying to break in.”

“She did,” said Pamela, “but according to James, she also called him at the rally and begged him to come home—which he did.  That’s when he found her dead.”

“She called him to come home and she called 911 to report he was trying to break in?” asked Joan.  “That’s certainly contradictory.”

“I know,” agreed Pamela.  “Unfortunately, James has no record of Stacy’s call to him on his cell phone, but 911 has the recording of Stacy’s call to them—so which one do you think the police will believe?”

“Do you think maybe she changed her mind?” asked Arliss, plopping back down on the cushion of the sofa.

“You mean, she calls James at the rally and begs him to come home and then, decides that’s a bad idea and calls 911 and reports him?  Or she calls James and asks him to come home—and then when he shows up, she calls 911?  Maybe it was her plot to ruin him because they’d fought the previous night?” surmised Joan.

“If it was, it worked,” noted Pamela.  “But it’s s a pretty elaborate plot to ruin your husband that involves your own death.  And, besides, if it was Stacy’s plot, then who killed her?”

“It sure seems like this Stacy woman,” said Arliss, now on her elbow again, “is one confused woman.  First, she wants her husband to come home, then when he shows up, she calls 911 to report him!”

“Tell me!” agreed Joan, nodding. 

“I’ve fought with Rocky before, and once I even kicked him out of the bedroom and made him sleep on the couch,” admitted Pamela, “but I’ve never done anything so inconsistent as this.”

“I can’t imagine getting that mad at Bob,” sighed Arliss.  Even in her state of advanced pulchritude, Arliss didn’t connect her present discomfort with the original cause of it.  Maybe, thought Pamela, when she was in labor, Bob might experience a smidgen of his wife’s wrath. 

“What are you thinking, Pamela?” asked Joan.

“I’m not totally certain,” responded Pamela, rocking back and forth in her desk chair.  “But there’s something strange going on.  I’m not sure it’s anything I can ferret out, but as you two have just observed, Stacy Grant’s behavior just prior to her murder—that is, the two phone calls she made—if indeed she made two phone calls—are mysteriously contradictory.  It would really help if we could listen to both of them and see if we can determine which of them represents a more accurate picture of what Stacy was saying, or how they were connected, but apparently we can’t.  We only have James’s word as to the existence and nature of her call to him.  We do, however, have a very complete record of Stacy’s call to the 911 operator.  Maybe we can piece together a better picture of Stacy Grant and just what happened to her that day.”

“You’re not kidding,” offered Arliss, lifting her head from the sofa.

“And I’m not just talking about her death,” said Pamela finally.

“Come on, Moby Dick,” said Joan to Arliss, rising and pulling on Arliss’s sleeve.  “Let’s let Miss Marple get back to work on her sleuthing.”   Arliss lifted her rotund tummy carefully from the deep cushion.

“You’re quite literary today, Joan,” replied Pamela with a smirk.  “And which fictional character are you?”

“Me?  I’m Scarlett O’Hara!”  She gave an expansive gesture and a deep curtsey, then turned and sauntered out the office door.  Arliss waddled behind her with a bewildered shrug.

Chapter Sixteen

“WRER, may I help you?”

“Yes,” replied Pamela to the voice on the receiver.  “I’d like to talk to Ginger Cooper, if I may.”

“May I say who’s calling?” asked the operator.

“Um, my name is Pamela Barnes—Dr. Pamela Barnes at Grace University---the Psychology Department.  I’d like to talk to Miss Cooper about the James Grant murder case.”

“Oh, Dr. Barnes,” said the station operator, “just one moment.  I’ll check to see if she’s in her office.”  The line switched to pre-recorded music of the blandest variety.  Pamela listened as she drummed her finger tip on her desk.  Joan and Arliss had trudged out of her office several minutes ago, Joan assisting Arliss in navigating her belly down the hallway. 

“Ginger Cooper speaking.  Dr. Barnes?” said a sprightly voice that she immediately recognized as the television news reporter.

“Yes, Miss Cooper,” replied Pamela.  “I’m not sure if you can help me, but I decided I’d ask anyway.  If not, just say so.  I’ve been volunteering on James Grant’s campaign recently and his lawyer Martin Dobbs . . . .”

“. . . . and his campaign manager,” added Ginger Cooper.

“Uh, yes.  Martin asked me to help with James’s defense—if I could.  I . . . visited James in the jail yesterday and I’ve been considering some of the things I discussed with him.”

“How can I help, Dr. Barnes?” asked Ginger.  “You aren’t, by the way, oh, you must be . . . . the Pamela Barnes who helped the police solve that disc jockey murder a few years ago?”

“That’s me,” she replied sheepishly.  “Anyway, I was wondering if it would be possible to get any b-roll of Stacy Grant?  I mean, she was an assistant district attorney.  Surely, your station has some footage of her speaking at a trial or to the press—even if it’s just a tiny segment.”

“B-roll, Dr. Barnes?” queried Ginger Cooper with a chuckle.  “I didn’t know you academics could spout our lingo.  But, hey, I can probably dig up some b-roll of Stacy Grant.  Might take me some time—and I’m really busy right now what with her husband’s trial and all . . . .”

“That would be wonderful,” Pamela replied to the newscaster, “and all I actually need is the audio.  As you probably know, that’s my area—the sound part.  If you could have one of your technicians dub it into an audio file—they could just email it to me as an attachment.”

“Sure,” she agreed.  “Doesn’t sound too hard.  As a matter of fact, I have one of your Grace students working for me as an intern here this summer.  I’ll put him to work on it—a nice little assignment.”

“Wonderful!” cried Pamela.  “I really appreciate this.”

“Does this mean, Dr. Barnes, that if you get this b-roll audio of Stacy Grant that you’re going to be able to exonerate her husband?”

“Oh, really, I don’t know about that . . . .” Pamela replied with a laugh.

“I hope you do,” observed Ginger Cooper.  “Impartial press aside, Dr. Barnes, Hap Brewster is a virulent plague in this town.  We all had such high hopes for James Grant.  Then they were dashed with Stacy Grant’s murder.  If there’s a chance that Grant’s innocent and can come back and give Brewster a run for his money, you’ll get all the cooperation you want from me.  Off the record, of course.”

“Thank you, Miss Cooper,” said Pamela.

“Ginger.”

“Ginger.”

“I’ll be in touch,” said the reporter and the line went dead.   However, it rang almost immediately as she put the receiver in the cradle.

“Hello,” she said, thinking it was Ginger Cooper again with some additional piece of information that she had neglected to supply during their first conversation.

“Dr. Barnes?” said a strange voice that she didn’t recognize.

“Yes,” she replied.

“Dr. Pamela Barnes?” asked the voice again, obviously attempting to verify her identity.

“Yes.”

“Dr. Barnes, don’t visit James Grant any more.  Stay away from him and his campaign manager Martin Dobbs.  Do you understand?”

“What?” she asked, startled.  Surely this was a prank call.

“You heard me.”

“What did you say?”

“Stay away from James Grant and Martin Dobbs or you will be sorry.”  The line went dead. 

“Oh, my goodness,” she said to herself with a shiver.  That was a threat—a genuine threat.  Her immediate reaction was to call Rocky and cry and have him rush down to her office and enfold her in his arms.  Her second, more logical reaction, was to call the police and report the call.  Of course, she knew that the police would probably demand that she do just what the caller had demanded—but for different reasons.  Even so, after hesitating for only a few minutes, she phoned the one person whom she knew would take this call seriously.

“Detective Shoop, please,” she said to the operator. 

“One moment,” replied the police operator. 

“Shoop,” said the curt voice she recognized immediately as her sometime partner in crime solving.

“Detective Shoop,” she began, “this is Pamela Barnes.”

“Dr. Barnes,” replied the man, his relaxed voice calming her over the telephone wires.  “What can I do for you?  Is there something you forgot to tell me at our meeting the other day?”

“Meeting, Detective?” she asked skeptically, “no, nothing.  I’m calling to report a threatening phone call that I just received.”

“What did they say?” he asked, now all business.

“He—and I believe it was a he, but not a voice I recognized—said to stay away from James Grant and Martin Dobbs or that I would be sorry.”

“Hmm,” replied Shoop.  “Very interesting.  I assume you won’t be following the caller’s orders?”

“You know me well, Detective,” she said.  “But I have to admit I’m frightened.  I’ve never received a threatening call before, although there was that time that someone tried to run me off the road . . . .”

“Tell you what, Dr. Barnes,” he offered.  “I’ll assign a patrol car to check on your home.  Also, do this for me—if you plan to meet again with Grant or Dobbs–can you let me know?”

“I can,” she agreed, “but Detective, what do you think this means?  If someone feels threatened just by me seeing James or Martin, doesn’t that suggest that they fear I’ll discover something that might implicate them in Stacy Grant’s murder?”

“Not necessarily,” he replied.  “They just might want to be sure that Grant doesn’t get out of jail before the election and they don’t want anyone—you included—making waves that might upset the apple cart before the big vote.”

“I suppose,” she sighed, “but this seems much more personal.  Someone is worried—scared even, and if they’re afraid of me, then what they’re covering up isn’t buried very deep.  You need to get your people on this, Shoop!  I mean, it seems obvious to me that James Grant has been set up and someone is worried that I’ll find out who.  They’re running scared—and you need to nab them!”

“Dr. Barnes,” he scoffed, “nab them?  You’re getting carried away with your crime fighting efforts.  Please, just stick to academic research—and let the police do the detecting.”

“I would—if they did!” she cried, “but I can’t see that any of you or your department are doing much of anything.”

“Dr. Barnes,” he said calmly, “we work in mysterious ways.  Just because you don’t see our efforts—or just because I don’t report each of our moves to you directly, doesn’t mean that your police department is not hard at work to keep you safe.”  He gave a smug little laugh.

“I hope you are, Shoop,” she said with a huff, “and I’m counting on you to keep me safe.  Oh, and, Shoop, please don’t tell my husband about this threatening call.”

“Of course not, Dr. Barnes,” he replied gallantly. “I know how volatile your husband can get.”