A Candidate for Murder (8 page)

Shocked, I asked, “Where’d you get all that information about me?”

“Easy,” she said. “Reporters know how to find out almost anything about anyone. Most of your life is in the public record.”

“I don’t like that,” I said. “How are you going to use that information?”

“It’s hardly the kind of exposé stuff that sells the newspapers on the grocery checkout counters, is it?” She laughed, and I couldn’t help laughing, too. “Now … how about that interview?”

“I haven’t got anything to talk about,” I told her.

“Talk about your father. What kind of a dad is he? A little stuffy maybe? Does he hate your boyfriends?”

“Come on,” I said. “He’s not like that at all. He’s a great father.” I leaned my elbows on the table and looked up at her. “I’m awfully proud of him.”

“Describe your father in one word. Or is that too hard?”

I shook my head. “It’s easy. The word is
honest.
”

The eyebrow went up and down again, setting off the smile. I was so fascinated with her face I found myself staring.

“Isn’t that a descriptive label all the candidates use?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t know that much about politics. You asked me about my father, and I told you. He’s a totally honest person.”

“How about you?” she asked. “Are you following in his footsteps?”

“Of course,” I began indignantly, but I started to giggle. “If you don’t count a few little white lies.”

The smile flashed over her face again. “Everybody tells white lies,” she said and made another notation in her notebook before she asked, “How do you feel about the changes it will make in your life if your father wins the gubernatorial election?”

“Changes?” I went blank.

“You know—moving to Austin to the governor’s mansion, changing schools, your mother having to give up her law practice—things like that.”

Changing schools? Going to a new school in my senior year? Going to school without Justin and Allie? And what about Mom? It hadn’t occurred to me that she’d have to give up the job she loved so much. I know I should have thought about all this, but I hadn’t, and here was a reporter wanting to hear my answer. I wasn’t ready for this. Remembering the phrase I’d heard countless times in television dramas, I took a deep breath, stared Sally Jo straight in the eye, and said, “No comment.”

“I thought you were a political innocent,” she said, “but that remark’s right out of a politician’s handbook.”

“I didn’t know how else to answer. You asked me a terrible question.”

“I suppose so,” she said. “No one really wants to leave their friends. You’ve got a boyfriend, too, I suppose.”

“No comment,” I said again, comfortable with the phrase now. “Some things are private.”

We both broke into laughter.

We chatted a few minutes. Her questions were good, and I answered them. Then Sally Jo surprised me with the question, “What do you think of the Milco commercial about your father?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen it.”

“It ran on TV for the first time last night. You’ll be seeing it sooner or later.”

“Is it mean?”

She nodded. “It’s hardball.”

“Why would Governor Milco run an ad against my father now?” I asked her. “This is just the race for the primaries. They won’t be held until March, and there are two other candidates in Dad’s party.”

“Your father’s the front runner. Milco’s camp must see him as a threat, or they wouldn’t go after him so early. I suppose Amberson could take that as a compliment.” She tapped with her pen on the notebook. “Okay, you haven’t seen the commercial, but what’s your opinion of some of the other media comments about your father?”

“You mean like that ugly cartoon in yesterday morning’s newspaper?”

“Yes.”

“It wasn’t true. It wasn’t anything like Dad, and it hurts.”

“But editorial cartoons are a part of politics.”

“Making fun of people shouldn’t be—especially when it’s nothing but lies.”

“Your father doesn’t seem to have any skeletons in the closet, so his opponents will concentrate on any
issues which might make him lose points with the voters.”

“But that cartoon made Dad out to be a rich snob who doesn’t care about anyone else.”

“
Rich
is the key word,” Sally Jo said. “You’d be surprised how some people can react to that word.”

She stooped to pick up her camera, and I asked, “Is the interview over?”

“Not yet,” she said, as she stood and focused on me. “Just keep talking. I’m listening.”

Sally Jo had taken two quick shots when Mrs. Lane detached the phone from her ear and glanced up, slightly glassy-eyed. She stiffened when she focused in on Sally Jo. “You’re from the
Gazette
, aren’t you?” she asked. “I saw you here yesterday morning.”

“That’s right,” Sally Jo said. She held out her right hand and began to introduce herself, but Mrs. Lane looked at Sally Jo’s camera and at me and began to flutter and stammer and finally said, “You’ll have to talk to Delia Stewart. You shouldn’t be talking to …”

“The unpaid help,” I said with a grin, finishing her sentence for her.

No sense of humor. She didn’t smile. She rose to her feet, her strands of pearls clattering against each other as they bounced off her chest, and said to Sally Jo, “Will you come with me, please?”

“I’ll see you later,” I said to Sally Jo.

“Right,” she answered. She picked up her things and followed Mrs. Lane to the back offices.

I liked Sally Jo, but I didn’t have a chance to talk to her later, because in about fifteen minutes Delia escorted
her to the front door and stood like a guard until she saw Sally Jo cross the street and climb into her car.

Then Delia turned to me. “Thank goodness that was the
Gazette
, so we won’t have to worry about a partisan slant, but from now on, Cary, I want you to remember that talking to reporters is a no-no,” she said sternly, as though I were three years old. “Requests for interviews should come to me, and if I think they’re suitable I’ll set them up and be right there with you during each interview …”

I finished her sentence. “To tell me what to say.”

She wasn’t sure how to take that remark, but she decided on a patient response. “Not exactly. It’s so I can interrupt if you’re asked the wrong questions.”

“What are the wrong questions?” I was deliberately giving Delia a hard time, and pretty soon steam would probably come out of her ears.

“We’ll discuss this later,” she said. “I’ve got more important things to do—like find the postage meter. How could a postage meter just disappear into thin air?”

As she trotted off I reached for another letter to fold and turned toward my tablemate, who had politely stayed out of range while I was being scolded and was now squirming into her chair like a hen settling into a nest. “How did you happen to volunteer to work for my father’s campaign?” I chatted, hoping for some conversation to break the monotony.

She raised one eyebrow and looked indignant. “I’ve always worked hard for the party. Delia can attest to that.”

“I didn’t mean—” I began, but the phone was already up to her face, and she began reciting, “We’re reminding you about the reception tonight at seven
P
.
M
. at the Hotel Adolphus …”

Edwin Sibley walked past. He was dressed in the same pants, shirt, and buttoned vest he was wearing when I’d met him. I leaned forward, eager to have somebody—anybody—to talk to. “Hi!” I said.

“Hello,” he answered, but he ducked his head, avoiding eye contact, and kept going. Was he still blaming himself about that mess with the blue paint?

At five o’clock, right on the minute, Delia rapped for attention, gushed her thanks for everyone’s hard work, and begged all volunteers to come to the reception. “Charles and Laura Amberson will make their appearance after everything is well under way, at eight o’clock,” she said. “We’re getting good television coverage, and we want as many bodies crowded into the ballroom as possible—
all
of them giving loud support to Mr. Amberson.”

I winced at that remark. Dad was going to be giving a speech, and I knew he’d been working hard on it. He wanted people to listen and pay attention. He didn’t want just a room filled with noisy bodies.

Delia’s voice rose a notch higher, and I could hear the excitement in it. “I’ve got some good news you’ll all be interested in. The banquet in November—the big fund-raiser …” She chuckled as she slowly emphasized each word. “… at one thousand, five hundred dollars a ticket—sold out this afternoon!”

People laughed and clapped. I did, too. That wasn’t
just good news, it was great news! It scared me to think how much it cost just to run for governor—millions of dollars! Even Dad wouldn’t have enough money to handle the expenses alone.

Delia managed to herd us out of the office while she turned off the lights and locked the door. She was working hard for Dad’s campaign and seemed to be doing a good job of running the campaign office, but I couldn’t help it. I didn’t like her.

I flopped against the padded seats in Justin’s car, so tired that I ached. “Thanks for coming,” I told him. “I didn’t know I’d be asking so much of you.”

“You should be a guy,” he said. “Women take one look at you and expect you to carry all the heavy stuff. Edwin Sibley was the only other male who hung around, and he wasn’t much help.” Justin rotated his shoulders and rubbed his arms.

I reached over and massaged the back of his neck. He relaxed, closed his eyes, and said, “Mmmmmm, yeah, that feels good.”

In a few moments he opened his eyes and looked at me warily. “Are we supposed to go to that reception tonight?”

“No,” I said. “Mom thought I’d better skip it. I’ve got too much homework.”

Justin sat upright and looked hopeful. “Homework. That’s right. I’ve got a big paper coming up. How about if we only work at the office every other day?”

“If you don’t want to work there at all, it’s fine with me,” I said. “I thought they’d need a lot of help, but they had a ton of people already helping, and frankly,
when I asked you to go with me I could picture us side by side, working together. It was sort of romantic.”

Justin laughed and turned the key in the ignition. “I can think of better ways of being romantic.”

So could I.

It wasn’t until after Justin had dropped me off at home and I had dumped my books on the entry-hall table, as usual, that I realized my shoulder bag was missing. “Oh, no!”

“What’s the matter?” Mom asked as she came down the stairs.

“My shoulder bag,” I said. “I left it on the floor next to my chair at Dad’s office.”

“Do you need it before tomorrow morning?”

“Yes, I do. My wallet’s in it and my list of homework assignments and all the rest of my stuff. I have to go back and get it.”

Mom looked at her watch. “Velma has your dinner almost ready.”

“It won’t matter if I’m late for dinner. I’ll feel better about it if I go for the bag now. People who might look through those big windows into the office could probably see it, and I don’t want someone breaking in to get it.”

“Do you want me to drive you?” Mom asked.

“No,” I said. “You and Dad have that reception to get ready for. If you lend me your car I can take care of this myself. I won’t be long.”

Mom gave me the car keys and an extra key to Dad’s office. It didn’t take long to drive downtown, since I was traveling against the rush-hour traffic, but I was halfway
there when it dawned on me that I was driving without my license. I drove very cautiously, scared to death I’d make some mistake and get picked up. The last thing I wanted to get was a traffic ticket.

I gave a huge sigh of relief as I parked in the lot next to the office. I’d made it! My mind was on my driver’s license, which was in my shoulder bag, as I ran to the front door of the office and opened the door. It wasn’t until I was inside, with the door shut behind me, that I stopped hurrying long enough to notice that in one of the back rooms a light was on. I heard a sliding sound, like a desk drawer shutting, and the light was snapped off.

“Delia?” I asked.

I waited for someone to appear in the open doorway, but there was only silence.

A
figure slid from the door into the short hallway as I snapped on the light switch.

“For goodness’ sakes!” Francine cried. She leaned against the wall and put a hand over her heart, loudly gasping for breath. “You scared me to death!” she complained.

My first reaction was to apologize, but those gasps were too fake to be believed, and I realized that Francine was trying to put me on the defensive. “What were you doing back there in the offices?” I demanded.

“For that matter, what are
you
doing here?” She walked toward me as she spoke and stopped about ten feet away.

“It’s not the same thing,” I said and dangled the key to the front door over my head. “I left my shoulder bag here and came back to get it. I wouldn’t have gone into the private offices, but that’s where you were.”

“Big deal,” she said.

“How did you get in here?” I asked her.

Her eyes crinkled, and the corners of her mouth
turned up, but there was no humor in her smile. “It doesn’t matter, does it?” She picked up a small clutch bag from the chair on which she’d left it and started toward me.

“Don’t leave,” I warned her. “I think I’d better call Dad.”

She surprised me by pulling out a chair and sitting on it. “Go ahead,” she said.

I turned to the phone, but as I dialed our number a hand pressed hard against my back, sending me sprawling across the table. The door opened and slammed, and I straightened in time to see Francine running down the street.

Dexter answered and called Dad to the phone. I told Dad what had happened, and he said, “I don’t think we need to call the police. Make sure both the front and back doors are locked. Keep the lights on and wait right there. Your mother and I will be with you as soon as possible.”

I did as he suggested and dropped the key in my shoulder bag, which was on the floor where I’d left it. The back door was not only locked but bolted. Had Francine been able to get hold of a key?