Stump Speech Murder (8 page)

“Good answer,” said Shoop, nodding slowly.  “I’d hate to think that the two of you were doing any snooping out here.”

“Snooping?” exclaimed Rocky.  “No, sir.  Not us.  Just paying our respects.  Enjoying the lovely weather, the beautiful scenery.”

“Because if you were snooping, Dr. Barnes,” continued Shoop, leaning in closely to Pamela’s face, “it might make me very curious. It’s just that I know that whenever you get mixed up in an investigation, Dr. Barnes, it’s because you have suspicions and that when you have suspicions, things tend to go awry.”

“Things don’t . . . go awry, Detective,” she countered, “because of my involvement.  It’s just that at times I’ve noticed when things were already . . . awry . . . at least, that’s what I did in our past . . . adventures . . . and I merely pointed these . . . things . . . out to you.  If you recall.”

“I do recall, Dr. Barnes,” said Shoop, with a nod, his eyes still focused on Pamela’s face.  “Now, here you are . . . at the funeral of the wife of a high profile murder suspect.  It makes me wonder what you know–or at least–what you are thinking and what sort of trouble you may be planning on getting into.”

“It seems to me, Detective,” retorted Pamela, “that what you should be wondering is not what sort of trouble I might get into.  It seems to me what you should be wondering–if you genuinely believe that my presence is portentous– is just what my thinking or my knowledge might be with regards to the guilt or innocence of the young candidate James Grant.”

“Do you know something about Mr. Grant that impacts on his guilt in this case, Dr. Barnes?”

“No, Detective,” she replied with a glimmer in her eyes—eyes that never wavered from Shoop’s penetrating stare.  “I don’t
know
anything.  But I do have my suspicions.  And you know all about my suspicions, don’t you, Detective?”  She gave him a sudden smile, complete with fluttering eye lashes, grabbed Rocky’s arm, and strolled past Shoop on up the hill towards the parking lot.

“Home?” Rocky asked his wife.

“Yes,” agreed Pamela, “I believe this has been a very productive funeral.”

Chapter Nine

Pamela was so glad that the next day was Saturday and she was able to sleep in late.  The past few days filled with the drama of the political campaign, the murder, the arrest of James Grant, and then just yesterday, Stacy Grant’s funeral, had left her feeling saturated with intrigue and conspiracy.  At one point, she felt she was living in the middle of a Tom Clancy thriller.  And she was just a bystander.  She never intended to get mixed up in any of this when she had agreed to join Joan in working on James Grant’s mayoral campaign.  It had seemed totally innocuous then.  And now, just days later, how things had changed.

She pulled her flowered comforter up around her shoulders because the air conditioning in their house appeared to be running on all cylinders. She was freezing.  Of course, not freezing enough to get up and change the thermostat.  Just enough to wrap herself in as many covers as possible.

“Hey!” cried her husband softly with annoyance, “you’re taking all my covers!”

“I’m cold!” she retorted.  Grumble, grumble, she heard, as Rocky rolled out of his side of the bed and lumbered out to the living room and lowered (or raised, she was never certain how to describe what one did to get a thermostat to work) the cooler.  She drifted off and hadn’t realized where he’d gone, when he arrived back with a tray of scones and coffee just the way she liked it—with lots of cream and no sugar.  Rocky flipped on the television and joined her back in bed while they nibbled and sipped and watched the morning news.

First stop was local station WSTA which was airing a filmed mini-documentary of the life and times of James Grant and his wife.  How television stations managed to produce these lengthy, well-researched, thoroughly documented videos so quickly after a major event never ceased to amaze Pamela.  It was as if the studio expected James Grant to kill his wife and they had his life story on film and ready to air.  Of course, she reasoned, James was a public figure—and a popular one, given his challenge of Hap Brewster.  Even his wife, Stacy Grant, had received a fair amount of press in her short, young life as an assistant district attorney. 

“James Grant and Stacy Rollins met in college.  Both were from out of state and James’s parents are now deceased.  James is an only child.”  Thank heaven for small favors, thought Pamela.  It was agony enough for parents to experience the death of a child, but having a child arrested for murder, somehow seemed worse.

The narrator continued, “While in college, both James and Stacy were exemplary students.  Both received academic scholarships throughout their undergraduate years.  James was the recipient of the prestigious Cleveland Scholarship which funded his entire three years of law school.  Stacy, likewise, won the Marymount Law Prize For Women which paid for her entire legal education.  Both graduated in the top five percent of their classes.”

”The couple married several years after their graduation from Grace University’s College of Law in 2008,” intoned the voice-over announcer as the screen showed stock footage of graduation portraits and wedding photos.  “Both were 28.  James immediately opened his own firm with his long-time college friend Martin Dobbs.  Stacy Grant went to work for the local District Attorney’s office, rising rapidly to become an Assistant District Attorney just last year.  The couple had no children.”

WSTA’s filmed history of the life and times of James and Stacy Grant concluded with the announcer’s statement that James was being held in the Reardon city jail pending his arraignment in the next few days.  Police officials offered no speculation concerning Grant’s possible motive for his wife’s murder.  When the background film on James and Stacy Grant concluded and a regularly scheduled Saturday morning cartoon program came on, Rocky roamed the channels searching for additional information about the recent murder. 

WRER was airing an interview that Ginger Cooper had conducted the previous day with Hap Brewster—no doubt the one he had persuaded her into doing when he caught her taping with James Grant in the park, Pamela thought.  Rocky and Pamela watched the taped interview with special interest—comparing the presentation of the city’s long-time experienced mayor, Brewster, with the footage on the young upstart who was vying for his job—and who might very well have snatched it–had it not been for his recent arrest.  In this footage, Brewster was making his typical complaints about his opponent, so obviously the interview had been taped before the murder.  It seemed incongruous for Brewster to be discussing Grant as if he were still merely a candidate—and not a murder suspect.  The camera cut back to the anchor in the studio.

“In our studio today, we have Mayor Brewster’s Communications Director Kevin Sturges,” announced the morning newscaster, and the camera panned over to show the young man Pamela remembered who had accompanied Brewster in the park.  “Kevin, the Mayor’s main opponent is now sitting in jail accused of murder.  How does this impact the Mayor’s campaign?”  The camera panned further back to show the anchor and Sturges in profile, sitting across from each other.

“How do you think it impacts it, you ninny?” cried Rocky at the unresponding television.  “It makes Brewster a shoo-in!”

“Shh, Rocky,” whispered Pamela.  “I want to hear what this guy says.”  She scooted up against her headboard and pulled her comforter tight around her chin. 

“Of course, Mayor Brewster is shocked and horrified to learn of the arrest of Mr. Grant,” began the neatly dressed political operative, today wearing a navy blazer atop his typical yuppie outfit of chinos and blue shirt.  “We would certainly prefer to win the election the old-fashioned way–by gathering the majority of the votes–not by default.”

“But it does appear that Mayor Brewster will win the race come November, doesn’t it?” suggested the anchor.  Pamela sipped her coffee.  Rocky stuffed a scone into his mouth with annoyance.  “I mean, assuming no other candidate decides to run,” she added, leaning in to Sturges.

“I believe it’s too late to file,” suggested Sturges, with a shrug.  “Of course, there are several other candidates running.”

“But none making as strong a showing in the polls as James Grant was making, right?”  She looked directly at the man seated across from her.

“No,” agreed Sturges, “but you never know in politics.” He laughed and smiled flirtatiously at the attractive anchor.

“It was actually fortuitous for the mayor that Grant was arrested when he was,” continued the dark-haired woman, crossing one shapely leg over the other.

“I don’t know what do you mean by ‘fortuitous’,” said Sturges with a wide-eyed expression.

“Of course you know what she means, you son of a bitch!” sneered Rocky at the television.

“Only that Grant seemed to be pulling ahead in the polls when he was arrested,” explained the anchorwoman, slowly tapping her foot up and down provocatively.

“Yes,” agreed the interviewee with a chuckle as he ran his hand through his hair, “but polls change.”

“So they do,” she agreed.  The repartee between the two was becoming sexual, it seemed to Pamela.  Or maybe she was imagining it.  The young female anchor was exceedingly attractive and she obviously knew how to use her feminine wiles to charm a subject into responding.  The interview continued for a few more minutes during which time Pamela and Rocky had an opportunity to finish their breakfast.

“Is there anything else on the other stations?” Pamela asked her husband and controller of the remote.  Rocky pushed buttons, jumping from one local station to another.  Reardon only had three local, network-affiliated stations and one public access station.  The arrest of mayoral candidate James Grant was the hot topic on all of these.  However, it didn’t garner as much as a mention on the stations in the larger towns miles away.

“I guess a hotly contested political campaign—all tied into a murder–doesn’t rate much more than a mention outside of our little community,” she noted, licking crumbs from her fingertips.  As she “um’ed” out loud, Candide made his morning appearance from underneath their bed and leaped up onto the covers demanding the crumbs. 

“Yeah,” agreed Rocky.  “It’s odd that the police haven’t even speculated on Grant’s motive.  I mean, did you hear any of those reporters interviewing neighbors?  I didn’t.  You’d think they’d find somebody who’d claim to have heard that couple fighting or have seen something odd.”

“Like what?”

“You know,” he suggested, “when a couple is having marital troubles, it frequently—I’d say often—gets loud!  The Grants have neighbors.  Surely they must have heard something or suspected something if this James and his wife were fighting so much that it ultimately led to the guy whacking her.”

“You’d think, wouldn’t you?” she mused, giving Candide a snuggle but no treat.  A deep sigh as she finished her coffee. “And,” she added, “I met the man, and even though I only said a few words to him, he just didn’t seem like the violent type.  I mean, I pegged him for the type who would be very civil if he had an insurmountable misunderstanding with his wife.”

“I guess anybody can become violent if given the right motivation,” said Rocky, pondering and slurping from his cup.  Candide attempted to cozy up to his master, but Rocky scooted him off the bed and the furry creature gave up his efforts and returned to his lazy, under-the-bed nap.

“What could the right motivation possibly be in this case, Rocky?” she asked, turning to her husband who had a sad and mystified look on his face. “I met this man less than an hour before he supposedly committed this horrible crime—and I didn’t see any sign that he was capable of or about to commit murder.”

“Now, Babe,” cautioned Rocky.  “I hear the wheels turning in that devious little brain of yours.  Don’t start getting ideas.  You heard what Shoop said.  Stay out of this.”

“Of course, I’m going to stay out of it, Rocky,” she assured him with a hug.  “Even if I wanted to get involved, it’s not as if there’s anything I can do.  I mean, there’s no sound clue.  The police have their suspect.  They don’t need me to determine a suspect from the sound of some unknown voice as I did in the past.”

“I don’t know,” he said, uncertainly.  “I’m not sure that’s enough to prevent you from snooping around if you’re really determined.”

“I’m not going to do any snooping,” she said, kissing her husband on his cheek.  “You can rest assured.”

Chapter Ten

After a relatively quiet weekend, Pamela’s Monday started out with a bang.  She had barely arrived in her pleasant, home-like office and had barely put her lunch sack with one of Rocky’s gourmet sandwiches inside in her mini-fridge, when Joan Bentley popped her head inside the door.