A Candidate for Murder (19 page)

“You called me,” I told her. “You wanted to tell me something.” She didn’t answer, so I said, “I think you wanted to warn me.”

“That’s what I’m doing now! Don’t come around here anymore!”

“I need to know what you were going to tell me.”

“You know too much already. And they know you know.” She made a strange kind of burble, a cross between a hiccup and a sob.

“Are you all right?”

Mrs. Broussard let out a long sigh and mumbled, “They aren’t nice people. I told my daughter, ‘you’re letting yourself in for a lot of trouble,’ I said. He hits her sometimes, you know. She shouldn’t have to put up with that. Maybe Herb Gillian wouldn’t have been so quick to want to blow the whistle if it hadn’t been for him being there when Ben hit her.”

She rambled on for a while. Mostly it was about her daughter and son-in-law, but I tried to keep track of two things she’d talked about.

Finally I broke in. “Mrs. Broussard, you said these people you’re talking about think I know something. Know what?”

There was silence for a moment. Suddenly her voice switched to a nasal whine. “I told them, she wouldn’t know. So she caught a word or two by accident. She couldn’t put them together, I said. Leave her be. She’s just a kid. It’s a terrible thing to want to take away those years she’s got ahead of her.”

Chills snaked up my back. “You mean they want to kill me?”

She began to cry. “It’s too late. They don’t listen to me. No one ever did.” She blew her nose loudly and said, “I’ve got to go.”

“Wait! Not yet!” I clung to the name she had spoken. “Tell me, please, what do you know about Herb Gillian?”

“Ohhh,” she moaned, and I could almost see her rocking herself back and forth, crying into the telephone.
“He shouldn’t have said anything. Poor Gil. Poor Gil.”

She hung up, but I sat without moving, my jaw hanging open. The words came back to me. “I never thought Gil would—” “Well, now he won’t.”

No wonder Ben Cragmore and John Lamotta wanted to get rid of me! I’d overheard them talking about a murder!

I
let Mom and Dad sleep, although I dozed sitting up, my ears cocked for sounds that didn’t belong, and there were plenty of them. I didn’t realize how much noise an older house makes at night.

When my alarm went off I was scrunched down around my pillows, my quilt clutched under my chin. I groaned and stretched as I got out of bed, working out the kinks. I threw on a robe and ran to Mom’s and Dad’s room, knocking quietly even though I wanted to wake them.

Dad had been up for a while. He had already showered and shaved, and Mom was sitting up in bed, hugging her knees. “You must be excited, too, Cary,” she said, and grinned at me. “You know, the banquet’s a sellout.”

“This is not about the banquet,” I said. I sat down on the edge of the bed and told them about my conversation with Mrs. Broussard.

I’ll never forget the expressions on Mom’s and Dad’s faces. They went from surprise to fear to horror. When
I finished they still kept staring at me as if they were hoping I’d tell them it was all a bad dream.

Finally Dad said, “You heard Cragmore and Lamotta say that they killed Herb Gillian?”

“Not in so many words,” I told him. “I didn’t know what they meant.”

Mom was suddenly on her knees. She crawled across the bed and wrapped her arms around me. “Charles!” she said. “They’re planning to try to kill Cary!”

“We’ll call Sergeant Slater,” Dad said. He picked up the phone, but before he dialed the number he glanced over his shoulder and said, “Laura and Cary, you’d better get dressed.”

Sergeant Slater arrived to take my statement. We were getting to know each other pretty well by now. He kept asking in different ways, “Did they give any indication of where this murder took place?”

“No,” I said. “I didn’t even know they were talking about a murder.” I tried so hard to think if there could be anything else. There was a thought tickling the back of my brain, but I couldn’t pull it out. Was there something else I should remember?

“Do you think Governor Milco is tied in with this?” Mom asked, but Dad shook his head.

“The construction kickbacks, yes,” he said, “but not murder. Lamotta and Cragmore must have become involved in further graft. They’re trying to protect themselves.”

“Can you arrest them?” Mom asked.

“No,” Sergeant Slater said. “We have no proof that
Herb Gillian has been murdered, or that Lamotta and Cragmore were even involved in his disappearance.”

“Then what can we do?”

“They’ll be questioned, as will Mrs. Broussard.”

“What about Cary?”

“Don’t worry about Cary,” he said, but I don’t think he convinced any of us.

“I’ll cancel the banquet,” Dad said.

“You can’t!” I told him.

“Your daughter is right,” Sergeant Slater said. “Just go on with your plans. You’ve hired extra security, there’s the hotel security, too, and you’ll have plenty of police protection. There shouldn’t be any problems.”

We kept our plans for the banquet, but there was no way I was going to school. Mom called the office and gave an excuse, not really telling them anything. At noon Justin telephoned to ask why I was missing classes.

“I can’t tell you everything now,” I said. “I will later.”

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. Really.” I was about as fine as anyone is who knows someone’s out to kill her, but I couldn’t tell Justin that.

“Are we still going to the banquet?” he asked.

“Sure,” I answered. Sergeant Slater had said we’d be all right, hadn’t he?

“What time should I pick you up?” Justin asked.

“Be here before seven-fifteen. We’ll have a police escort, so we can’t go in your car, Justin. We’ll have to ride with Mom and Dad.”

Mom came to the door and looked at me. “It’s Justin,”
I mouthed. She looked less worried, but she didn’t leave.

“I’ve got to go,” I said. “I’ll see you tonight.”

I was okay during the rest of the day. It wasn’t until I looked in the mirror and saw myself dressed in an almost new royal-blue silk dress with a string of pearls around my neck that I almost chickened out. What if I met up with the person who had tried to run me down and got Cindy instead? What if he were out there, waiting for me? The protection the police would give us couldn’t be enough. Could it? My knees buckled, and I dropped down on my bedroom chair.

My eyes were drawn to the window that had been cut and repaired. I’d closed the curtains, so the pane of glass was covered, but I could almost see someone out there, climbing the tree, reaching out for the window.

I leaped out of my chair and ran downstairs to join the others. Wherever Mom and Dad were—that’s where I wanted to be.

Justin arrived, looking great in a tux. We had only time to say hello when Dexter came in to tell us that the limo had arrived. Justin helped me into my coat, and we followed my parents and a couple of police officers out to a long white stretch limousine.

Normally, I would have enjoyed it. I’ve always loved limousines with their deep, plush seats and air of glamour. But tonight, as I climbed into the back seat I glanced toward the big broad-shouldered driver, his face in shadow, his cap over his eyes, and I shook right down to my toes.

I pushed at Justin, who bent over as he climbed in,
trying not to bump his head. “No!” I shouted. “We have to get out. This may be a trap!”

Dad held out a hand, restraining me. “What’s the matter, Cary?” he asked.

“That driver,” I said. “We don’t know who he is. What if
they
sent him?”

The driver turned and held up a small leather case. Inside was a badge. “I’m with the Dallas police, ma’am,” he told me.

I sunk back into my seat, as embarrassed as when I dropped a bowl of spaghetti in my lap during my tenth birthday party. Even more embarrassed. Everyone was looking at me.

They all spoke at once, trying to make things easier for me. “We’ll make sure you’ve got protection,” Mom said.

“You’ll be all right, Cary,” Dad said.

And Justin—dear old lovable Justin—said, “I don’t know why you’re so spooked, Cary, but don’t worry.
I’ll
take care of you.”

When we arrived at the Adolphus, everything was a riot of red, white, and blue, and there were lots of reporters and camerapersons on hand. I looked for Sally Jo, but I didn’t see her.

The chief of security, a lean, sharp-eyed, Clint Eastwood type, spoke to Sergeant Slater. I heard him say, “All my men have been alerted. We’ve been checking the guests, making sure each has an invitation.”

“We’ll put extra men inside the ballroom,” the detective told him.

“It would help if we knew who we were looking for,” the security chief said.

“We don’t know,” the detective answered. “For that matter, we don’t know if we’ll even have any problems tonight.”

I gave a sigh of relief until the security chief added, “With a crowd like this—”

The two men nodded at each other, and I felt worse.

Dad and Mom were greeting people to the right and left as we made our way up the escalators to the lobby and then up the stairs to the ballroom’s reception area.

Justin nudged me and said, “Smile. You’re supposed to bow to the crowd and throw roses or something, I think.”

“Very funny,” I said, but I did try to smile and pretend that everything was fine and secure and there wasn’t a killer somewhere out in that crowd.

We reached the ballroom. As one of the people in our group held open a door the noise of conversation and clinking dishes and glassware surged out like an explosion. The gigantic ballroom sparkled with candlelight, and the tables were bright with flowers and streamers. The banquet guests, who were elegantly dressed in tuxes and long gowns, were in their places. They rose when we arrived, and applauded as we filed to the head table.

“I hope they don’t stare at us just because we’re up here,” Justin said as we sat down together. “If they do, I know I’m going to spill salad dressing on my shirt.”

He didn’t have to worry, because as soon as Dad had acknowledged the applause, everyone sat down and
became busy with the salad course. A few people glanced idly at Justin and me, then went back to their salads and their conversation. It was Mom and Dad who interested them.

Some of the press had followed us into the room, and TV camerapersons were busy setting up their equipment. I spotted Sally Jo. She saw me, too, and came toward us, dodging one of the waiters. Because of the size of the large crowd, waiters and waitresses bustled about everywhere. An uncomfortable thought occurred to me.

As Sergeant Slater walked below the head table, I called to him and leaned across the table so he could hear me. “You’ve checked all the guests,” I said, “but what about the waiters?”

“The waiters?” He did a slow turn, scanning the room.

“The hotel wouldn’t have all these waiters constantly on staff,” I said. “I bet they hired an extra number of waiters for tonight.”

The detective motioned to the security chief, who came right over. “What’s your procedure for hiring extra help for a banquet?”

“The event is listed, and people come by and apply.”

“What do they need?”

“Experience and proof of citizenship or a green card.”

“There’s no special security check?”

“We’ve never needed more than that. The candidates or celebrities who come here arrange for extra
security of their own, and I have a well-trained security staff.”

“Does the hotel keep extra uniforms on hand?”

“Yes. In all sizes.”

They looked at each other for just a second. Then the security chief said, “I’ll get the employment list, although if you think someone has given a false name and false ID the names on the list won’t help.”

As Sally Jo reached the head table she stopped Sergeant Slater from leaving by grasping his arm. She said something to him, and they both turned toward the back of the room. A moment later she shrugged, said something else, and he left. She came to stand in front of me and grinned. “Working my way across the room was like going through an obstacle course.”

“I need to talk to you,” I told her.

A burst of laughter from a nearby table drowned out my words. “I said, I need to talk to you,” I repeated.

At the same time Sally Jo practically shouted, “I didn’t hear you.”

There was so much I had to tell her. I pushed back my chair and stood up as I motioned to Sally Jo to come with me.

Mom stopped in mid-sentence, leaned across the woman who sat between us, and asked me, “Where are you going?”

“To the ladies’ room,” I mouthed. It was the truth. I thought Sally Jo and I would have a chance to talk there in private.

“I’ll go with you,” Mom said, but I shook my head and
gestured toward Sally Jo, who was waiting at the foot of the steps to the stage.

“I’ll be with Sally Jo,” I told Mom.

Mom looked a little dubious, but she nodded permission.

“See you in a few minutes,” I said to Justin, who was hungrily digging into his second French roll, and joined Sally Jo.

We worked our way through the crowd, careful to dodge the waiters who were moving quickly.

As we left the noise of the ballroom we both stopped and took deep breaths. “These large banquets are noisier than football games,” Sally Jo said. “Everybody has to scream to be heard.”

There were only a couple of people in the upstairs reception area. A man stood near the stairs, looking down into the lobby, and I guessed he was one of the security people.

A woman walked across the area toward us, tucking a lipstick into a tiny handbag. “The rest rooms are probably over that way,” I said, and as we walked toward them I repeated what Nora had told me.

Sally Jo stopped short. “You overheard them discussing a murder?”

As I nodded, she said, “The police will have to find the body to prove it. Where is it buried, Cary?”

Maybe it was because Sally Jo didn’t ask if I knew but took it for granted that I did. The words came back to me. Quietly, I repeated exactly what I’d heard: “Because of his big mouth, he’s up a creek.” I clutched Sally Jo’s arm. “John Lamotta said it, and then he laughed.
Sally Jo, I think the police will find Mr. Gillian’s body buried in the creek bed near where they’re building the freeway.”