A Candidate for Murder

by Joan Lowery Nixon

  There was a cartoon of Dad. Anyone could tell it was Dad, and yet it didn’t look just like him, because the cartoonist had turned down Dad’s lips in a sneer. His nose was in the air, his eyes were half-closed, and there was a crown on his head.

  “What’s he supposed to be sitting on?” I asked, and then I saw it was a throne made out of a tangle of tiny oil derricks and pumpers and tank trucks and dollar signs.

  I gripped Mom’s hand, and she held mine tightly. “Dad’s not like that!” I knew my voice was too loud. “He’s running for governor because he wants to do a good, honest job, and that’s not what we’ve been getting. He doesn’t want to be a king, and he isn’t a snob! That cartoon is a lie!”

  There was more I could have said, but Mom folded the newspaper over, got up, and put her arms around me. “There’s a lot we’ll have to get used to, Cary.”

  “It hurts, Mom,” I said. “It hurt you, too. Your face was so white it scared me.”

  “Well, yours is red,” Mom said. “We must make a funny-looking pair.”

  We both tried to laugh, but it didn’t come off. “Sit down and eat your breakfast,” Mom told me. “You’ll be late for school.”

  “I don’t feel like eating.”

  “Cary,” she said, “going hungry won’t solve the problem. There’ll be many more attacks like this, and we’ll have to get used to them.”

  “That’s not something I want to get used to. I hate reading lies about Dad,” I said, but I did pull out my chair and sat down.

  “You’re going to hear a lot of things that aren’t true.” Mom leaned over to give me a quick hug. “Don’t let it get to you, honey,” she said. “We have to keep up a good face. How we react and what we do is going to reflect on Charles.”

  “Good advice, but that means you, too, Mom.” I forced myself to smile, trying to make it easier for both of us.

  “You’re right,” Mom said. “I’ll have to practice what I’ve just been preaching.”

  Just then Velma opened the door from the kitchen. Her hair was more gray than blond. It was pulled up into a knot on top of her head and anchored with two barrettes which matched her extra-large-size pink blouse and slacks. “Oh, there you are, Cary,” she said pleasantly. “You and your mother sound so much alike, now that you’re gettin’ older, sometimes I can’t tell if it’s the two of you or if your mother’s talkin’ to herself again.”

  Mom looked surprised. “Talking to myself? You make it sound pretty bad, Velma.”

  “You know what I mean,” Velma said. “It’s when you sometimes like to read your lawyer stuff aloud.” She smiled at me. “Want anything else for breakfast?”

  “No, thanks,” I answered, but I still had questions for Mom. As Velma shut the kitchen door I asked, “Why is this newspaper attacking Dad?”

  “They support the other party. It’s a matter of politics,” she said.

  I shook out my napkin so hard I nearly knocked over my glass of orange juice, but I grabbed the glass in time and managed to get the napkin spread across my lap before I answered. “It should be a matter of truth, not politics. Doesn’t anybody care about the truth?”

  Mom reached across the table and placed a hand over mine. “Honey, it’s not as cut-and-dried as that. To begin with, people have to find out the truth, and that’s what a campaign is all about.” She smiled and added, “That reminds me—Charles told me you’re going to do volunteer work at headquarters.”

  Mom has always called Dad Charles, and he’s called her Laura, but for the first time it struck me how much this tied into Dad’s formal attitude. Didn’t they ever call each other nicknames? I tried to think of Dad as a Charlie or a Chuck or a Bubba and almost laughed. Not Dad. He was definitely a Charles.

  “I want to work in the campaign office every afternoon after school,” I said.

  “That may be too often,” Mom told me. “Your homework comes first.”

  “But I want to help Dad.”

  “Eat your eggs,” Mom said. “We’ll talk about it.”

  I shoved a forkful into my mouth and chewed automatically. The eggs were cold. I saw Mom give a quick glance at her watch so I said, “Do you want to talk later? Do you have to leave?”

  “I have to meet with the people at the center, but I’ve got a few minutes,” she told me. I knew what she meant by “center.” Mom gave a lot of volunteer time and free legal work to the rape crisis center. Her work there meant a lot to her. Sometimes she put it ahead of legal work she’d be paid for.

  I persisted in my argument, trying to lay it out rationally. I found out a long time ago that being rational got points from a lawyer-mom. “Dad wants me to work at the office, doesn’t he?”

  “Of course he does,” Mom said. “It’s just that we’re concerned about your being there every day. We’re afraid it’s going to take up too much of your time.”

  “I’ll get my homework done. I promise.”

  “The time you’ll spend at campaign headquarters has to come from somewhere. What’s going to happen to your social life? To your dates with Justin?”

  “Mom!” I began before I saw the twinkle in her eyes. “I thought you meant it,” I said. “I didn’t know you were teasing.”

  She laughed. “I wasn’t teasing about the homework, Cary. You understand that it has to come first?”

  “I promised it would.”

  The teasing look in her eyes returned. “Maybe Justin will come in and work with you,” she said. “What a romantic setting … counting bumper stickers, making countless telephone calls.”

  I polished off the last drop of orange juice and said, “No kidding, Mom. I really am going to ask Justin if he’ll come in and work after school with me, at least a couple of days a week. Allie told me she might be able to.”

  Mom looked at her watch again, stood, and pulled a suit coat over her light blue silk blouse. “Your father is going to take you to school this morning,” she said as Dad came into the room.

  “I’ve got an appointment, Cary, so we’ll have to leave early,” he told me. “Five minutes?”

  “I can make it,” I said and raced upstairs to collect my books. I’d be glad when no one had to drive me back and forth to school.

  Dad was sitting patiently in the car when I dove into the front seat beside him. “Okay,” I said. “So it was six minutes.”

  “Six-and-a-half,” he said, and we both laughed. Dad did have a sense of humor. It was just a lot more quiet than everyone else’s.

  We’d had an early fall cold snap, a blue norther that had swept down in time to color the leaves of the Chinese Tallow trees, which now dusted the landscape with faint shadings of gold and red. But the temperature had climbed back into the eighties, so I adjusted the nearest air-conditioner outlet, enjoying the chill as the cold air blew directly on me. Dad had the radio turned to a station I liked, but as the music ended the disc jockey said, “I’ve got a couple of good ones for you … Did you hear that Charles Amberson is so rich that the last time he cashed a check the bank bounced?

  “And when Amberson was asked what he planned to do for homeless people if he became governor, he said, ‘Homeless? Then obviously, they need to be put in touch with the right real estate agents.’ ”

  I felt the blood rush to my face, and I clenched my fists. “You didn’t say that! The whole thing is a lie!”

  Dad reached out and snapped off the radio. “Everyone knows that. Those were supposed to be jokes.”

  “They weren’t funny!”

  “I agree.” Dad paused a moment, then said, “This isn’t going to be easy for any of us.”

  I slumped back against the seat. “Why do you want to go through all this? Grandpa left you his oil company, and managing it is a big job, so why run for governor?”

  “I’ve talked about my reasons with you, Cary,” Dad said. “I feel strongly that the people of Texas shouldn’t be shortchanged by a governor whose bank accounts are growing at their expense.”

  “Then why don�
�t you just try to have Governor Milco arrested or impeached, or whatever it is you do with crooked politicians?”

  “It isn’t that simple. The investigation would have to go through channels, and criminal intent would have to be proved. There’d be other people involved who’d do everything in their power to cover up any evidence which might hurt them, too.”

  “You make them sound dangerous.”

  Dad shook his head. “Don’t borrow trouble. Governor Milco will play by the rules.”

  What kind of rules did a crooked politician play by? I searched Dad’s face, but his expression didn’t tell me anything. All I knew was that I didn’t feel as confident as Dad seemed to be.

  We were halfway to Gormley Academy when the car phone rang, and Dad answered it.

  The conversation was brief. Dad suddenly slammed down the receiver and picked up speed. “What’s the matter?” I asked. “Where are you going?”

  “To the scene of an accident.” Dad’s voice was tight and raspy as he answered, “A part of the new state highway collapsed. Two workmen were trapped and probably killed.”

  Neither of us spoke as we drove to the scene. Dad had to park his car a short distance away—the other side of a deep and narrow creek, its banks overgrown with shrubbery, that ran under the new highway. He strode toward the accident scene, and I trotted along after him, trying to keep up. We could see a couple of collapsed concrete and steel piers lying under a large, broken, concrete slab. A body, covered with a sheet, lay near the paramedics’ ambulance, and workmen were digging frantically, shouting instructions to each other. Two television crews were already on hand, both of them broadcasting.

  As Dad and I arrived at the cordoned-off area, one of the workmen stood and wiped sweat and tears from his eyes. His voice was flat as he said, “No use. Ortiz is dead.”

  He stumbled to a place on the grass near us, where he dropped to his haunches, pulled a rag from his pocket, and mopped again at his face.

  Dad tried to duck under the yellow police tape, but a uniformed policeman quickly warned us away. Dad told him who he was and showed some identification, but that didn’t help. “Stay behind the lines,” the policeman ordered.

  The workman heard Dad give his name and looked up at us. “You the Amberson who’s runnin’ for governor?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Dad said.

  “You said you was lookin’ into some of the construction contracts. That right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Okay,” he said. “I hope this one’s on your list. These people in charge—I suspect they’re cuttin’ down. Not enough steel, maybe too much sand. I hope you find out what’s goin’ on and tell it like it is.”

  “Can you give me proof?” Dad asked.

  The man shook his head. “I’m nobody important. You get yourself an engineer. Take samples.” He lowered his voice. “There was a supervisor here, name of Herb Gillian. He didn’t like the way things were going, and Cragmore fired him. I don’t know where he moved off to, but see if you can find him. He’ll tell you what you need to know.”

  A young man wearing a business suit and hard hat strode over, his lips pressed into a thin angry line. He immediately snapped an order to the worker. As the worker slowly dragged to his feet he turned to Dad. “Find him,” he said.

  With a screech of tires a third television truck rolled up. A reporter hopped out—a youngish woman I’d often seen on TV. She gave a quick glance around, saw my father, gestured to a cameraman, and the two of them rushed to join us. I heard the reporter give a few opening statements, and as Dad began to speak, a microphone was quickly thrust in his direction.

  “What is your name and your position here?” Dad asked the man in the hard hat.

  There was so much authority in his voice that even though the man blustered and sputtered indignantly, he stammered, “I-I’m G-Gerald Lockman. I’m with the Cragmore Construction Corporation.” His glance flicked back and forth between the reporter, the cameraman, and Dad. He managed to straighten his shoulders, glared defensively at Dad, and said, “I see no reason why you should be here, and I have no intention of answering your questions.”

  Dad ignored Mr. Lockman’s rudeness. “I’d like your permission to enter the area,” he said. “I’d like to talk to some of the workmen.”

  “No!” Mr. Lockman spit out the word, then—with one eye on the camera—struggled to get himself under control. “As you can see, we’ve had a serious accident. Unauthorized persons on the scene will only add to the problem.”

  The reporter squeezed closer, stepping in front of me, and asked Gerald Lockman, “Can you tell us how this accident happened? Was the Cragmore Corporation to blame?”

  Mr. Lockman took a step back, tripped, and nearly fell. “I’m not authorized to make a statement,” he said. He turned his back on Dad and the reporter and hurried away.

  The reporter, seemingly afraid Dad would also leave, shoved the microphone into his face. “Mr. Charles Amberson,” she said. “You’ve made statements about alleged problems in the construction industry. Is that why you’re here? Does this accident somehow tie into the construction problems?”

  Dad said, “As I said in my speech when I announced that I was a candidate for governor, my staff and I are compiling records that will show that during the past three years many low bids on construction projects have been ignored, with contracts awarded to the same small group of contractors at a much higher cost to taxpayers.”

  I’d heard Dad mention at home that these contractors had been heavy contributors to Jimmy Milco’s initial campaign for governor. I wondered why he wasn’t telling the reporter that now. Maybe he was saving it for the big speech he’d talked about—the one he’d give at the fund-raiser banquet in November.

  “Are you saying that Cragmore Construction got this job through political favoritism?” the reporter asked.

  “There were two companies with lower bids. I have copies of those bids, although the records Governor Milco made public did not include those two companies.”

  The other two TV reporters had arrived with their cameramen, and one of them shouted out, “What has this accident got to do with your allegations about the bids?”

  As they held out their microphones I stepped back, out of the way.

  “First,” Dad said, so unruffled I wondered how he could manage it, “I’m requesting that samples from this scene be tested, that impartial engineers be sent here to examine the site.”

  The original reporter asked, “Are you implying that this was not an accident?”

  “Of course it was an accident,” Dad told her. “I’m simply requesting that authorities determine the reason why this accident happened.”

  I heard the screech of brakes and turned to see a large, stocky man jump out of a white Jaguar. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, and his tie was loosened at his neck so that it sailed over one shoulder as he ran toward us. I recognized him immediately. It was the man I’d seen glaring at me through the outside door of the country club ballroom, the man I’d guessed must have been one of the two I’d overheard on the terrace.

  He elbowed his way through the group until he was face-to-face with Dad. His voice was hard as he declared, “This isn’t your territory or your concern, Amberson.”

  Microphones were thrust forward, the reporters listening intently as Dad said, “It’s the concern of the people of Texas, Cragmore.”

  So that’s who the man was—the owner of this construction company.

  A thin, balding man in a brown suit opened the door in a mobile office that was parked nearby, and stood just inside, listening and picking at a dark spot on one side of his chin.

  I heard Dad say, “For the record, I’m going to request an official investigation into the quality of materials being used in the construction of this overpass.”

  Mr. Cragmore’s face flushed red, but he was very much aware of the cameras and reporters. He took a deep breath and said, “You’re fishing, Amberson. Your on
ly reason for being here at the scene is to get a little glory for yourself.”

  I was furious! “That’s not true!” I yelled.

  Mr. Cragmore wasn’t sure who had spoken up. He stared with surprise at the reporters, as though one of them had said it.

  “Cary!” Dad said, looking as though he’d temporarily forgotten I was with him. “I’d better get you to school. You’re going to be late.”

  Mr. Cragmore didn’t answer me, but I knew he remembered who I was, and I hoped he could tell that I recognized him, too. Jerk! To talk like that to my dad!

  Dad nodded toward the reporters. “Thank you,” he said. “I’ll prepare a statement, and my campaign manager will see that you get it as quickly as possible.” Clasping my hand, he strode toward his car.

  I ran to keep up with him, taking two steps to his one.

  As we passed the mobile office, the man at the door turned and said to someone I couldn’t see, “I don’t care what you do. Get those reporters out of here.”

  It was the same strange, rough voice I’d heard on the country club terrace.

  I froze, tugging my hand from Dad’s, and stared at the man in the brown suit.

  His eyes met mine, and the wary expression on his face told me he was aware that I had recognized him.

  The door closed with a bang as Dad asked, “Cary? What’s the matter?”

  I just wanted out of there—as fast as possible. “Come on, Dad,” I said, running ahead. “Let’s get in the car.”

  Once we were inside I asked him, “Did you see the man who was standing inside the door of that trailer?”

  “No,” Dad said. “What about him?”

  “He was at the country club with Mr. Cragmore. I overheard them talking about business and about staying in the ball game. I don’t remember most of it because I didn’t understand it.”

  Dad shot me a quick look. “Then what are you getting at?”

  “Well, if they’re in business together, why did the man in the trailer act like he didn’t want to be seen?”

  “I have no idea,” Dad said, and I knew his mind was on the accident and on what the worker had told him, so I was quiet and let him think.