A Candidate for Murder (13 page)

Mom squeezed my shoulder and said, “Don’t let it bother you, Cary.”

“That drawing’s gross, and I’m not like that,” I mumbled.

“Everyone knows that,” Mom said.

“No they don’t. People who don’t know me will think I’m awful.”

“Oh, Cary … I don’t know what I can say that will help.”

It wasn’t Mom’s fault. Why take my bad mood out on her? “I’ll get over it,” I said, and managed to choke down some cereal.

A little while later Mom drove me to school. When I stalled about getting out of the car Mom said, “Honey, you’ll find that your friends are on your side. They’ll make it easier for you.”

“It’s not that,” I said. “I keep thinking about someone being in my room. I’m afraid he’ll come back.”

“He won’t, and you can’t keep worrying about it.” Mom used her firm tone that probably made juries think twice. I know I always paid attention when I
heard it. “The police will take care of things,” she insisted. “And there will always be someone around to keep an eye on you.”

“Okay, Mom,” I interrupted and gave her a quick kiss good-bye. Cars were lining up behind us, and this was not the place for a long discussion. I hopped out of the car and avoided some of the clusters of kids outside as I made my way into the main building.

Of course, someone had tacked the cartoon on the main bulletin board in the front hall, and it remained there until somebody in the attendance office spotted it and tore it down. It was harder to take the embarrassed glances that slid away from mine and the hostility I got from a few of the kids than it was to take the teasing. In a way I welcomed the teasing. It laid everything out in the open so we could make fun of it. The shared laughter was a way of saying that everything was going to be all right.

During lunch period Allie jumped in with enthusiasm. “If you think Cary looked bad, you should have seen
me!
I looked so tough even the Hell’s Angels would have been afraid of me.”

“Yeah? I didn’t see any pictures of
you
in the newspapers,” someone said.

“Oh, the photographers
desperately
wanted my picture, but each time they tried to take it their lenses cracked.” Allie tried to strike a glamour pose but lost her balance and fell off the bench.

Even Greg—who had slunk into class with dark circles under his eyes, looking as though he hadn’t slept the entire weekend—joined in the laughter.

Allie kept hamming it up, all for my benefit. I wished Justin was with us to hear Allie’s jokes, but Justin had spent the day avoiding me, and there wasn’t anything I could do about it. I’d apologized the night before, I’d told him I’d like to see him, and now whatever happened between us was up to him.

I didn’t want to face the idea that there might never be anything between us again, because that thought hurt too much. Justin would come around. I had to make myself believe that he would.

Dexter picked me up in Mom’s Cadillac, and as I climbed into the car, I caught a glimpse of Justin’s white BMW leaving the parking lot. Someone was with him. Cindy Parker. She thought nothing of borrowing my money, my books, and even my makeup. Did she think she could borrow Justin, too? I felt a terrible pang of sick jealousy that hit like a rock thumping into my chest.

Forget Justin. He was history. That’s the way he wanted it—the way we
both
wanted it.

No, it wasn’t. I had really cared about Justin. I missed him, and it hurt.

I was glad that Dexter didn’t want to talk, because I didn’t feel like talking to anyone. When we got home and I found out that no one needed that car the rest of the day I decided to drive myself to Dad’s campaign office.

“I think your Mama wants someone to go with you,” Velma said. “Better get Dexter to take you.”

I didn’t want to go with Dexter. I still felt uncomfortable with him—maybe even a little suspicious. Dad’s
explanation hadn’t helped a bit. “I’ll be all right, Velma,” I insisted. “I don’t like being watched over every minute.” I couldn’t help smiling at the brave way I sounded. “At least while it’s daylight,” I added.

She didn’t think it was funny. “I don’t know about that. Let me go ask Dexter.”

I took the car keys from the shelf and picked up my shoulder bag. “There’s not enough time. I’ve got to go now. I’ll be home for dinner.” I was out the door before she had time to answer.

I wondered why I’d even come when I walked into the office. I got some of the same sly turn-away looks that I’d had to put up with at school, and a few people stared rudely, as though their X-ray vision could penetrate my conservative shirt and skirt and discover the wild heavy-metal outfit that must be hidden beneath them.

Delia, in her customary frantic rush, managed to greet me and shoo me off to my usual table. She plopped a large box of colored brochures next to me. “Label them all,” she said and waved toward more boxes piled against the wall. “There are thousands and
thousands
to get done. This is an important statewide mailing.”

“Where are the labels?” I asked.

“On the table,” Mrs. Lane said, shoving another box toward me. She studied me with disapproval and sniffed as I sat down.

I picked up the slick-paper brochure on top of the stack in the box and saw the full-color family photo Mom, Dad, and I had posed for a couple of months ago.
It was the all-dressed-up kind of photo we sent to friends at Christmas. We were smiling happily, totally ignorant that it wasn’t just Dad who’d be campaigning. It would be Mom and me, too.

What would the voters think who saw this picture and read the brochure about Dad’s ideas and plans? I tried to put myself in their place.

Delia swept past, pulling the brochure from my hands and slapping it onto the table. “Cary, dear,” she said, “you can read it later. We are running way, way,
way
behind schedule, and these have to get out.”

Obediently I joined Mrs. Lane in slapping printed peel-off labels on the folded brochures and piling them into another box. I wondered when I’d graduate—if ever—to a more interesting job. I had to remind myself that it didn’t matter. Whatever needed to be done to get Dad his party’s nomination, that’s what I’d do.

Mr. Sibley came from the hallway, struggling to carry a heavy box. He staggered to where I was sitting and dropped his box on the floor next to my chair. A button was missing from his same old vest, and I wondered if the heavy box could have torn it off. But there were more important things than missing buttons on my mind.

Before he could get away I put a hand on his arm to detain him and asked, “Mr. Sibley, you’ve been working almost every day for my father’s campaign. I’m taking a kind of poll, just for my own interest, asking volunteers why they’re giving up their own time to work on my father’s campaign.”

Mr. Sibley shrugged and tried to pull away. I could feel his arm trembling, and it surprised me so much that I let go, but I didn’t take my eyes off his face.

“I-I didn’t have the chance to get involved in politics when I was young,” he said. “Now I’m making up for lost time.”

“Are you retired?” I asked, but he scurried out of earshot.

Why didn’t he want to talk to me? I remembered that Mr. Sibley had come to work as a volunteer the day after Mark’s party. Had he been sent here to spy on me?

Mr. Sibley? No. I couldn’t let my imagination go crazy.

“How’s it going? Another exciting job?”

I looked up to see Sally Jo Wilson. “Hi,” I said. “Thanks for the story you wrote about me. It was a good one.”

Sally Jo’s face crinkled with one of her flashing smiles,
but beyond her I could see Delia advancing at a fast pace.

Then and there I got an idea. I didn’t know if it would work. It might be the worst and dumbest idea I’d ever had, but there was only one way to find out.

I leaned close to Sally Jo. “Listen,” I said. “Can we get together somewhere? I need to talk to you.”

I
called home and told Velma I’d be a little late for dinner. She began to argue—as I knew she would—that I was supposed to come straight home, but I quickly said, “Gotta go. I’ll see you later,” and hung up.

As soon as Delia closed the campaign office at five o’clock, I drove to the small Italian café where Sally Jo had said she’d meet me. The restaurant was in an old house in a small, formerly residential neighborhood, in which art galleries, photographers, and small shops lined the streets. The lawns were neatly mowed and flowers bloomed around the concrete pillars that decorated the wide front porches. This was far from my own neighborhood so I wasn’t likely to meet anyone I knew here. I was sure that’s why Sally Jo had picked it.

Sally Jo had not arrived when I stepped into the tiny, dimly lit entry. I glanced at my watch. I was five minutes early.

“Do you want me to show you to a table?” a short, pudgy Italian man asked me, but I shook my head. I felt more secure in the small, dark room.

“I’ll just wait here,” I told him.

I leaned against the wall. From where I stood I could see into the dining room, which was filled with square tables covered with red-and-white checked gingham tablecloths, each table decorated with one stubby candle flickering through a red glass hurricane lamp. Fortunately, there were other and better lights in the room.

Only two tables were taken. A pair of elderly men were bent almost into their soup bowls, slowly and steadily slurping soup into their mouths, and a man and a woman were eating silently, as though they were bored with each other.

When Sally Jo arrived, we were seated; she ordered a house salad, ziti, and garlic bread. I wanted nothing but iced tea, to the obvious disappointment of our waiter. When it came I sipped at it, but Sally Jo tore into her food as though she were in a contest to see how fast she could make it disappear.

“I’ll eat, you talk,” she said. “What have you got on your mind?”

I wasn’t sure how to get into it or how much I wanted to tell her, so I answered with another question. “You told me that reporters know how to find out almost anything about anyone. How do you do it?”

One of her eyebrows went up and down like a window shade. “Depends on what you want to find out.” She wiped runny garlic butter off her fingers and waited for what I’d say next.

“Let’s say that I—I want to find out about a person.”

“Find out what?”

“Everything.”

Her eyebrows finally settled into place, and she said, “I’m not sure just what you mean. Do you want information about his hometown, background, past and present addresses, that sort of thing?”

“I guess,” I said. “Like all those things you knew about me.”

“You’ll find a lot of information in the main library and in the courthouse,” she said. “There’s a crisscross directory in the library which lists addresses and who lives in each building. The libraries also carry professional journals which usually tell where their members went to school, the names of their spouses, their hometowns, and maybe other pieces of information about their lives. A lot of them have pictures, too, and that often helps.”

Sally Jo continued. “If a person has recently moved, and you need to find his current address, for a small fee the post office will give it to you.

“In the courthouse you can find records of birth, marriage, divorces, financial assets, and even if the person was involved in any bankruptcies, civil suits, or had any criminal charges filed against him.” She paused and searched my face. “Am I giving you the answers you want?”

“In a way.” Before she could answer I asked, “What if you don’t know someone’s name?”

“Do you know what this person looks like?”

“Yes.”

“Is there some way of tying him to someone else or to
a profession? You haven’t given me enough information.”

I leaned forward. “You know so much about finding out information about people. I need you to help me.”

As Sally Jo polished off every scrap of lettuce on her salad plate, her smile flickered more brightly than the candle between us. “I’ll be glad to help you,” she said, “but I’ll need your reason for wanting to know about the person.”

The waiter took away Sally Jo’s salad plate and put down a huge plate of ziti. It did look good, and my stomach growled with hunger. I had to remind myself that I was expected home for dinner very soon.

“May I please have more garlic bread?” Sally Jo asked the waiter, and she poured a thick layer of Parmesan cheese over the sauce on her ziti.

“It can’t get into the newspaper,” I told her.

“I said I’d help you. I’m not interviewing you for a story.”

I needed Sally Jo’s help. I had to trust her. Carefully, I glanced to both sides. Another couple had come into the restaurant, but they were seated on the opposite side of the room. No one was close enough to hear us, but I lowered my voice anyway and told her what little I remembered about the conversation I’d overheard, the phone calls from the woman named Nora, and the break-in at our house.

“Dad says that every candidate, every celebrity, every person who gets even a little bit famous has to deal with a few weird people.”

“He’s right,” Sally Jo said. She finished chewing a
mouthful of ziti and added, “Your father has talked to the police, though, hasn’t he?”

“Yes,” I said. “But I’m not sure what the police really think. The last detective said he thought the break-in was a simple burglary.

Sally Jo pushed her half-eaten plate of ziti aside, and her eyes were intense as she leaned toward me. “What do you think, Cary?”

“I think Nora was trying to warn me. We shouldn’t have changed my telephone number. Now, I’ll never find out what she wanted to tell me.”