A Candidate for Murder (18 page)

“I make mistakes sometimes, even though I try not to,” he whispered, and I hurt, not knowing how to answer him.

We couldn’t just put the box back quietly. Coming through the door, we bumped head-on into Delia.

“What’s this?” she asked and took possession of the box.

“I picked up the wrong box,” Mr. Sibley said. “I won’t do it again.”

“Thank you.” Delia spoke with an exaggerated distinctness. As Mr. Sibley scurried out the door, this time with the box of trash, she muttered, “Oh, what I have to go through!” and looked to the heavens. Then, in almost the same tone of voice, she said to me, “Are you coming here to work tomorrow?”

“I’ll try to.” I moved close to Delia and quietly asked, “What do you know about Mr. Sibley?”

“Not much,” she said. “As I remember, Edwin’s son-in-law told me there were some health problems, but he reassured me that Edwin would be a good, conscientious worker.”

“His son-in-law?”

“Yes,” Delia snapped with impatience. “Edwin lives with his daughter and son-in-law.”

I was too stunned to speak. I tried to go over what Mr. Sibley had told me. What kind of story had he given me? And if it was right, then what kind of garbage had that supposed son-in-law told Delia?

I didn’t have the answer.

So far I’d been getting nothing but phony stories from those I’d questioned: Dexter and Mr. Sibley. Would I do any better when I talked to Nora?

Nora Broussard lived in a block of apartments. Behind a bus stop the entrance to the main building was impressive with huge colonial pillars and brass lamps, but tiny apartment windows skittered out to either side like poor relations. Justin and I parked under the overhang and followed the arrows to the door with the large brass plate inscribed
OFFICE
.

We walked through a narrow foyer, its inner wall filled with rows and rows of mailboxes, and entered a large lobby. The lobby was decorated in whites and blues and lots of chrome, and a woman who looked as though she tried to follow the same color scheme, from her huge balloon of white hair to her blue dress, watched us as we crossed the thick carpet to her desk.

“Could you please give us Mrs. Nora Broussard’s apartment number?” I asked her.

She shook her head. “We respect our residents’ privacy,” she said.

“It’s important that I talk to her.”

“I’m very sorry I can’t help you,” she said, but she didn’t sound the least bit sorry. She sounded smug, as
though she’d been waiting all week for a chance to turn someone down.

Justin gave a tug to my elbow, but I ignored it. “Please,” I begged the woman. “I
have
to see her.”

“Sorry,” she said. She pulled something out of her desk and began to write. It was probably a poison-pen letter.

This time Justin not only tugged harder, he said, “Cary, let’s go,” in a voice that meant business.

As we walked out of the lobby and into the foyer he pointed to the mailboxes and whispered, “Look. There’s your answer.”

Of course! Each mailbox had a name and number on it. We quickly scanned the names until we came to
Broussard.
Number 426.

We followed garden pathways that wound through the buildings in this large apartment complex. The four-hundred building was at the very back, an alley running behind it.

Justin and I climbed a stairway with concrete steps and wrought-iron railings that were beginning to rust. On the second floor the first apartment was 420, the next 422. Mrs. Broussard’s apartment should be the fourth.

I knocked at the door and waited, but there was only silence. A very tiny, very old woman peered out of a crack in the door marked 424. “I’m looking for Mrs. Nora Broussard,” I said, but she shook her head.

“I’m not Mrs. Broussard. I’m Althea Krump.”

“I know,” I started to say, but she interrupted.

“How could you know who I am? I’ve never met you before in my life.”

“I meant I know that you’re not Mrs. Broussard.”

“It won’t do any good, your knocking on her door, because she’s not home.”

“Do you know when she’ll be back?”

“Of course not.” Her face crumpled into tight wrinkles that might have meant a frown or a grin. “And don’t yell,” she said. “Just because I’m old doesn’t mean I’m deaf!”

“I’m sorry,” I told her.

I guess my apology satisfied her because she nodded to herself for a moment, then said to me, “Nora could be over to her daughter’s. Mabel’s married to that contractor, you know. Lots of money there, but he’s tight with a dollar. He could do a lot better by his mother-in-law, but don’t count on it.” She paused. “Maybe he thinks she’ll drink it away. Well, she probably would—most of it.”

I had found the right Nora. My heart gave a jump of excitement.

“Do you know when Mrs. Broussard is usually home?”

Mrs. Krump shook her head. “I don’t keep tabs on my neighbors,” she said. “I keep to myself. I’m not a bother to anybody.”

“Do you have Mrs. Broussard’s phone number?”

“No,” she said. “Not that I don’t try to be friendly, but some people can be mighty stuck up. Why, the way she prisses around here you’d think she had something to be conceited about.”

I pulled a scrap of paper and a pen out of my shoulder bag and wrote down my name and telephone number. “Mrs. Krump, it’s very important that I reach Mrs. Broussard. Please, will you give her this? Will you ask her to call me?”

As we left I didn’t hear Mrs. Krump’s door close, and I knew she was watching us.

“Do you think she’ll give Mrs. Broussard your phone number?” Justin asked as soon as we were out of earshot.

“She probably will,” I answered, “because it will make her feel important and because then Mrs. Broussard will have to speak to her.”

“I guess it’s worth a try,” Justin said. “The only alternative is to stick around here until Mrs. Broussard gets back, and that could take hours.”

We had reached the drive in front of the apartment house, and I climbed into Justin’s car. As he drove around the pillars and headed toward home I asked, “Want to come to dinner?”

“Can’t,” he said. “I’ve got a science club meeting tonight. What about tomorrow night?”

“Tomorrow’s the big fund-raiser.” I moved a little closer and tilted my head to look up at him. “Come with me. There’ll be some boring speeches, but most of it will be fun. There’s going to be a band, and dancing, and some great food.”

Justin looked as though he planned to turn me down, but he suddenly laughed. “Why not?” he said.

“You won’t mind the speeches?”

“I probably will,” he admitted, “but I’ve got this feeling,
Cary, more than I ever had, that I just want to be with you. I guess I can live through a speech or two.”

“Oh, Justin,” I said. For a couple of seconds I got choked up. I wanted Dad to win. I wanted him to be governor of Texas. But if he did win, I’d be moving away from Justin. I didn’t think I could stand that.

When I arrived home dinner wasn’t ready. Velma was lifting lids on the pots and fussing at whatever was cooking inside. Was everyone in a bad mood today?

“Dexter
would
have to go across town at a busy time like this,” she muttered at what smelled like carrots and slammed down the lid before they could answer back.

“Let me help you,” I said. “Want me to set the table?”

“It’s set, and I don’t need nothin’ right now. Maybe in about ten minutes or so you could lend me a hand in gettin’ the food on the table.”

“Sure,” I told her. “I’ll be glad to.”

Velma smiled, her frustrations vanishing. “All right,” she said. “Stick close and I’ll give you a holler when I’m ready.”

“When will Dexter be back?”

“Probably not for another half hour.”

I turned to leave the kitchen, but Velma called after me, “That lady reporter telephoned and left a message for you. She won’t get back to Dallas until tomorrow. She’ll get in touch with you when she does.”

There was so much I needed to tell Sally Jo. Why did she have to go out of town right now?

Well, I wasn’t going to just sit and wait until she came back. I had other plans. I checked my watch and tried
to walk casually without hurrying. I’d have time to take a look in Dexter’s apartment, to see if I could find out more about him, and I didn’t want anyone to even guess at what I had in mind.

I knew where the extra house keys were kept, on a hidden nail in a cabinet in the storeroom. I found the key for the lock on Dexter’s door, grabbed it, and ran across the driveway. I climbed the outside stairs to the entrance to his apartment, fitted the key into the lock, and threw the door open.

Fortunately, the window shades were up, so there was enough light streaming into the room from the outside lamps to help me distinguish shapes from shadows. I closed the door and leaned against it, for the first time letting my glance sweep across Dexter’s living room.

By squinting I could make out the sofa and chair grouping against the right-hand wall. There was nothing on the coffee table, no magazines, no books, no personal things. Built-in shelves on the wall facing me were completely empty.

Feeling as if I were viewing a room in which no one lived, I let my gaze drift to a large rocking chair at the left side of the room.

There in the chair sat Dexter, the narrow slits of his eyes glinting in the darkness like a cat’s as he stared at me.

I
gasped, tried to speak, but lost my voice and had to start again. “I-I know I shouldn’t be here,” I stammered.

I expected Dexter to say something or do something while I tried to think up a good excuse for breaking into his apartment, but he didn’t move.

That scared me even more. What if he was dead? I whirled and fumbled for the light switch, then shielded my eyes against the immediate brightness.

Dexter suddenly stirred, a puzzled look on his face as though he’d been awakened from sleep. “Cary?” he asked, and as he struggled to his feet the small pillow that had been behind his head fell to the floor.

“Miss Caroline,” he said formally, taking a step toward me, “is something wrong?”

My hand was on the doorknob. “Uh—Velma wondered if you were home. She’s almost ready to serve dinner.”

I didn’t wait to hear what he’d say. I threw the door open and clattered down the stairs, not stopping until I
was back in the storeroom, with Dexter’s key carefully tucked into place.

Would Dexter tell Mom or Dad what I’d done? I didn’t think so. I suspected that Dexter had more to lose than I had. There was something strange about a man who had no personal possessions, who pretended to be a butler when he wasn’t, and who slept with his eyes open.

At dinner, while Dexter served as correctly as always, the two of us avoided each other’s eyes. What was he thinking about my breaking into his apartment? I really didn’t want to know.

Dad told Mom he’d had a call from Governor Jimmy Milco.

“I’ve given the press a general idea of what I’m going to say in my speech tomorrow,” Dad said. “Of course, it got back to Milco, and he’s upset about the charges I plan to make.”

“What did he say?” Mom asked.

“That whatever claims I made would be construed as slander. He blustered a little and threatened legal action.”

“But you have proof.”

“As much as I can get with so many people trying to cover things up.”

“What if he sues you?”

“He has the right.” Dad’s voice was solemn as he added, “I don’t like to hurt anyone, Laura, but the taxpayers should know that their governor is concerned with benefiting himself and not them.”

“It bothers me that he’d threaten you,” Mom said.

“Don’t worry about Jimmy Milco,” Dad told her. He squeezed Mom’s hand and smiled. “The voters are going to put him and his cohorts out of business.”

I hoped Dad was right. After dinner, before he had to leave for
another
meeting, I made sure that Dexter wasn’t around and took Dad aside.

“What do you know about Dexter?” I asked Dad.

He looked surprised. The door to the library was shut, but I lowered my voice anyway. “I don’t think he’s really a butler.”

Dad studied me before he asked, “Why not?”

“That formal way of his—he fakes it. I can tell.”

“You mean if he tries hard to behave the way a butler should behave, then that means he isn’t a butler?”

I scrunched up my face and groaned. “Dad, that isn’t what I meant.”

“It’s what you said.”

“Okay, okay.” I gave a dramatic sigh. “Why does it sound so different when you say it and when I say it?”

Dad picked up his briefcase, slipped some papers into it, and kissed the top of my head. “Don’t look for problems, Cary. There are enough real ones that need solving.”

Problems? This whole campaign was a problem. It was the questions without answers that frightened me.

When I went to bed I made sure my windows were locked and, probably for the first time ever, locked my bedroom door. Even then, it was hard to sleep. I jumped at every little sound the house made as it settled in the cooler night air.

I thought of Mr. Sibley with a sense of sorrow as I
resolved the questions I’d had about him. He had lied—no doubt about it—but to Delia, not to me. Poor Mr. Sibley had been trying so hard to hide the truth of where he lived, he’d invented a son-in-law, and, obviously, someone who’d wanted to help him had played the part.

My mind skipped from one thing to another, as I lay awake waiting for my telephone to ring. Nora Broussard
had
to call me. She’d want to, wouldn’t she? What had she wanted to tell me? I fell asleep asking myself that question.

When the phone jangled me awake, I groped for it and squinted at the clock. Two fifty-five. Rubbing my eyes with one hand, I managed to mumble something into the phone.

The voice was slurred again, but I knew who it was. “Why did you come nosing around here?” she asked. “Are you that stupid?”

I was awake in a hurry and sat up in bed, cupping the phone and keeping my voice down. With two closed doors and a hall between us I didn’t think that Mom and Dad could hear me, but I didn’t want to take chances.