A Candidate for Murder

by Joan Lowery Nixon

  “I’ve been thinking,” she said. “There’s just some things I can’t take. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  I shivered with the cold that crawled up my backbone. “What are you talking about?”

  “Maybe you don’t know, but if you figured it out … You see? They can’t be sure. They don’t know if they can take the chance.”

  In the background I heard a man call out, “Nora?” The woman gave a little squeak, and the line went dead.

  I sat on the bed, trying to calm down by thinking it out. Who was Nora? What was she trying to tell me, and why had she been in such a hurry to hang up? She acted like someone who was afraid, but what did that have to do with me?

  Was Nora just one of the crazy, crank callers Dad had talked about? She had to be. We didn’t know any Noras. Drunk or sober—and this time I guessed she was sober—what she had told me didn’t make any sense. She was some strange weirdo who had managed to get hold of my unlisted telephone number, and I told myself I’d be as goofy as she was if I let myself get frightened by her calls. I’d tell Mom or Dad about Nora, and then I’d forget about her.

  I polished off what was left of my cookies and went back to the kitchen to get a soft drink.

  Velma had been listening to the Channel 13 newscast, but as I pulled a cola from the refrigerator and popped the can, she turned down the volume and said, “They said your father’s office got trashed.”

  “That’s right. The police think it was just some kids with a spray paint can.”

  Velma shook her head slowly. “I sometimes wonder what this world is comin’ to,” she said. “Bad kids causin’ so much damage. It’s sad. It’s truly sad. When I was growin’ up in Beaumont, we’d never have got away with anythin’ like that. Why, my cousin Billy Joe …” She went on talking for another ten minutes about her cousin’s comeuppance when he got in trouble dropping water balloons on people passing under the church steeple.

  I was finally able to end the conversation by mumbling “homework.” I gathered my books from the hall table and walked toward the stairs. In spite of my decision to put Nora out of my mind, I found myself trying to figure out who Nora was and what she wanted.

  From behind the staircase in the entry hall someone suddenly stepped forward, and I gave a yelp before I saw that it was Dexter Kline.

  Dexter moved so silently he could come into a room and I wouldn’t know he was there, and when he spoke I’d jump, just as I had now.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said in his soft, low-pitched voice.

  “It’s okay,” I reassured him. “I didn’t hear you come in.” How many times had we said these same words to each other?

  “Your mother called,” Dexter said. “She’s with a client and asked if dinner could be a half hour later than usual. She asked me to inform you that if you’d prefer, you could be served dinner alone.”

  I began to wonder, was Dexter really this formal all the time, or did he act like this because he was trying to be a good butler? What was Dexter really like?

  It dawned on me that Dexter was waiting patiently for my answer. “Oh … I-I’ll wait and eat with Mom and Dad,” I said.

  Dexter gave a little nod. He went toward the kitchen, and I trotted up the stairs, my thoughts turning back to Nora. I don’t want you to get hurt, she had told me, but she hadn’t said enough.

  Who was it who wanted to hurt me? And why?

  Chapter 6

  Dad and Mom were quieter than usual when they arrived home for dinner, about five minutes apart. Dad’s shoulders drooped, and there were dark gray shadows under Mom’s eyes.

  Mom looked around the dining room as she entered and her eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Don? Ralph? Nobody’s with you?” she asked Dad.

  “I insisted that I needed some time alone with my family,” he said and held out Mom’s chair for her.

  “I’m surprised they agreed.”

  “I didn’t give them a choice.”

  Dexter, dressed now in a white coat, entered the dining room, carrying our salad plates. Mom thanked him, and Dexter glided silently out of the room.

  “Did the cleaning company work out?” Mom asked Dad. “Poor Edwin Sibley took it awfully hard.” She shook out her napkin and laid it across her lap.

  “The office is fine now,” Dad answered, “and the last time I saw Sibley he was hard at work.” He smiled. “I’ve got some good news. It looks as though we’ll get some campaign support from Senator Bowins.”

  “Wonderful!” Mom said.

  “By the way,” I asked, “who’s Edwin Sibley?”

  Mom looked surprised. “You met him.”

  “I think Cary means, what is his relationship to the campaign,” Dad said. “Mr. Sibley is a volunteer.”

  “What I really mean is, what does he do? What is he like? What kind of a job does he have? All that stuff. Do you know him? Have you worked with him before?”

  “No,” Dad said. “You’ll have to ask Delia about him.”

  “Shouldn’t you know all the people who work in your office?” I asked.

  Dad shook his head. “That would be ideal, but impossible.” He studied me. “Why all the questions about Mr. Sibley?”

  “I was thinking about the blue paint,” I said.

  “You don’t suspect Mr. Sibley, do you?”

  “I don’t know. Oh, I suppose not. He’s a little strange, but I guess he’s all right,” I said, “but what if you get somebody really weird who comes in and wants to work for your campaign? Do you just tell them no thanks?”

  “You can’t do that,” Dad said.

  Mom stepped into the conversation. “I can answer that one,” she said. “A few years ago I worked for Betty Aldrich when she ran for the United States Congress. We took all the helpers we could get and were glad they were there, but once a woman came to the office whose behavior was somewhat strange, and we were all a little afraid of her. Connie, who was managing the campaign office, gave her such boring work to do that the woman finally gave up and didn’t come back.”

  “The office manager couldn’t just tell the woman not to come?”

  “You have to be subtle,” Mom said. “Candidates for all offices badly need their volunteers, so volunteers are treated royally. You can’t afford to offend anyone.”

  I wondered, what if a volunteer weren’t just strange? What if the person might be dangerous? How polite do you have to be to someone who’s a threat?

  There was silence for a few moments while we ate, but Dad suddenly started and said to Mom, “I’m sorry. I should have asked. How did the depositions go?”

  She sighed. “It was a difficult afternoon. The defendant’s attorney has an attitude problem.”

  Thank goodness neither of them remembered to ask me about school. Ten points off on my history paper because it hadn’t been finished on time. I’d have to do makeup work to keep my semester grade high. At least the paper was written now, and I had it ready to hand in tomorrow.

  Dexter came in again, took the salad plates out, and brought the entree. After a few more unsuccessful attempts to start a conversation and keep it going, Mom and Dad both ate slowly, lost in thought.

  I studied Dad, and I tried to put myself in his place. Running for governor was not something he’d thought up overnight. He’d talked a lot about it to Mom and sometimes to me, stressing the extra work, the heavy job of campaigning for the primaries and—if he won in his party—the even more demanding campaigning that would have to be done in order to win the job of Governor of the State of Texas. Knowing how thorough Dad always is, I was sure that he’d tried to think of all the pluses and minuses. But I wondered if he’d even imagined the hatred and ridicule and insults that would be flung at him.

  They hurt Mom and me. They must hurt Dad too. I chomped down on part of a broccoli spear. Dad was a nice guy. What good did it do the D.J. to make up a joke about Dad saying or doing something he didn’t say or do—all of it a lie? Was bashing Charles Amberson worth it j
ust to get a laugh? Did the cartoonist feel extra clever because he’d made fun of Dad? I knew that their careers depended on how funny they were, but I’ve never thought that being mean was funny.

  I couldn’t tell Dad about the second phone call from Nora. He had enough to worry about. However, as soon as I got the chance, I was going to tell Mom.

  That chance came soon after dinner. Dad went into his library to meet with Don Franklin and Ralph Dolan, who were managing his campaign, and I followed Mom upstairs and into the master bedroom.

  The room didn’t match either Mom or Dad. Both of them were businesslike, and the suits Mom wore each day were simple and tailored. But their king-sized bed was covered with the softest of comforters, and the gleaming ivory sheets were made of satin. The pair of armchairs next to the bookcases at the far end of the room were upholstered in rose velvet, and there were lace and velvet pillows everywhere. The bedroom looked as though it had been designed for some glamorous blond movie star. Was this Mom’s fantasy world?

  Mom tossed her blouse and skirt on the bed, stepped into her robe, and zipped it up. “What are you smiling at?” she asked.

  “I was thinking that your bedroom belongs on a movie set.”

  “And that it’s a little out of place for a career woman and an oil company president?”

  “Well …”

  She laughed. “When I was young, there was very little money to spare. My aunt made our sheets herself out of heavy muslin, so they’d wear longer. I’d roll over, my elbows sore from that rough, scratchy fabric, and I’d dream of the kind of bedroom I’d have when I grew up. I read in a magazine about a movie star who had satin sheets and little decorative pillows covered with real lace, and I decided that was what I wanted.”

  “So this is your childhood dream come true?”

  “Exactly, and I love this room, because it’s proof that you can work to make dreams come true.” She yawned. “I’m going to take a long, soaking, hot bath,” she said, “and try to forget what happened to Charles’s campaign office.”

  She waited politely for me to leave the room, but I perched on the edge of one of the velvet chairs and said, “Mom, could I talk to you first?”

  “Of course,” she answered and sat in the chair opposite mine.

  It had always been like that. No matter what kind of a day Mom had been through, all I’d had to do was say, “I need to talk,” and she was ready to listen. I knew how tired she must be and how much she really wanted to be left alone, but this had to be said.

  “I had a couple of strange telephone calls,” I said. “They were from the same person.”

  “I don’t like that,” she said. “Maybe we should ask the phone company to put a tracer on your phone.”

  “I don’t think the caller is just some weirdo,” I told her. “The first time I thought she said my name, but I wasn’t sure, because she sounded drunk. This time she asked if I was Cary Amberson.”

  I could see Mom tense. “What did she say?”

  “Not much. It seemed hard for her to talk to me. For a long time she didn’t say anything. Then she told me there were just some things she couldn’t take and she said, ‘I don’t want you to get hurt.’ ”

  “What did she mean by that?”

  “I don’t know. She rambled around. She said something about how I might figure it out. Nothing she said made any sense to me.”

  “Did you ask her what she meant?”

  “Yes, and I think she was going to tell me more, but I could hear a man call her. She made a funny little noise and hung up.”

  Mom leaned forward. “Did the man call her by name?”

  “Yes. Nora.”

  “I don’t know anyone named Nora. Do you?”

  “No,” I said.

  “We’ll talk to the police about the calls, of course,” Mom told me.

  I felt kind of sick. “Mom, do you think this woman is real? That someone’s really planning to hurt me?”

  “Nobody’s going to hurt you, Cary,” Mom said, her voice firm. “You said the woman was drunk.”

  “Only the first time.”

  “What she told you didn’t make sense in either call, did it?”

  “No.”

  Mom took my hands and held them tightly. “We’ll keep her from bothering you again, honey.”

  “How?”

  “We’ll have the telephone company change your phone number.”

  “I never thought of that!” I was so relieved I laughed. “Oh-oh! That means I’ll have to give the new number to Allie and Justin and …”

  Mom stood and reached out a hand, pulling me to my feet. She wrapped me in a quick hug before she teased, “Cary, my love, will you please, please let me take my bath now?”

  “Sure,” I said. We smiled at each other, and I left the room, but as soon as the door closed my smile vanished. I’d thought of a lot of friends I should give my new private number to—friends who knew the number I had now. Was this how Nora got my phone number? Through someone I thought would keep it private?

  I started down the stairs, and as I reached the landing I saw Velma standing at the foot of the stairs. “There you are, Cary,” she said. “Thank goodness I don’t have to climb those stairs to tell you someone’s here to see you.”

  “Who?” I asked, immediately hopeful.

  “The boyfriend,” Velma said in a loud stage whisper, and my heart gave a jump. “Come to make up, I imagine, ’cause he brought you somethin’.”

  Now the smile on my face was for real. I galloped down the stairs and into the living room where Justin was waiting for me.

  He held out his arms. One hand dangled a small grocery sack. “Peace offering,” he said. “Ice cream. Your favorite. Double chocolate chunk.”

  I laughed and wanted to run right into his arms, but Velma had followed me into the room.

  “You want me to dish that up?” she asked.

  “No, thanks,” I said. “We just need two spoons. We’ll eat the ice cream out on the patio.” It was the perfect place to be on a warm night with the spicy fragrance from the nearby banks of gold and red chrysanthemums, the hum of a few late cicadas in the elm trees, and only a soft blue glow from the underwater lights in the pool to break the darkness.

  Velma brought us two long-handled spoons and turned on the outside lights that spotlighted the patio. As soon as she’d gone inside Justin turned them off. We nestled into one of the porch swings and shared the ice cream and a few chocolate-flavored kisses.

  “I’m sorry about the way I put things,” Justin murmured against my ear. “I didn’t mean them that way. I know how important your father’s campaign is to you. If they want us to work in the campaign office tomorrow, I’m ready.”

  “Thanks, Justin,” I said and added a kiss. A little later I told him, “I shouldn’t have got so angry. I’m sorry about the things I said. You’re right. We have to start thinking about what kind of costumes we’re going to wear to the party.”

  The patio lights flashed on, so brightly that we squinted.

  This time it was Dexter, who announced, “It’s time to lock up now. Besides, it’s late and Cary has school tomorrow.”

  Justin smiled as he got up and pulled me to my feet. “How many parents have you got?” he asked.

  Too many, I thought. I didn’t mind when Velma got a little bossy, but I didn’t like it when Dexter took it upon himself to tell me what to do.

  As I walked with Justin to the front door he said, “See you at school tomorrow.”

  “Thanks for the ice cream,” I said and reached up for one more quick kiss before we had to say good night.

  As soon as I’d climbed into bed, I snuggled between the sheets, pulled the blanket to my chin, and immediately drifted into sleep.

  It must have been very late when, mingled with my dreams, I heard the rumble of men’s voices at the foot of the stairs as Dad said good night to his visitors. And it was even later when I became aware of the slow, exhausted thump of his footsteps as
he climbed the stairs to bed.

  Chapter 7

  Dad’s charges did get covered in the newspapers and on television, along with Ben Cragmore’s denial, but a political columnist, who’d been taking potshots at Dad, wrote a sarcastic story about Dad visiting the scene of the accident only because his advisers sent him and described Dad as being very careful not to get too close so that he wouldn’t get his thousand-dollar suit and handmade Italian shoes dusty.

  I looked at the picture of the writer next to his column. “This guy wasn’t even there,” I said. “How can he get away with a lie like that?”

  Before either of my parents could answer I said, “I know what you’re going to say—it’s politics. But please, please don’t say it!”

  “Don’t pay attention to that column,” Dad said. “The collapse of the freeway is being investigated, so the truth will come out.”

  “If someone’s actually going to print the truth, how will anyone recognize it with all this other stuff being written?” I asked.

  “Cary,” Mom said, “don’t sound so cynical. Your father’s right. The truth will come out.”

  I doubted it.

  Before I had to leave for school a detective, who introduced himself as Sgt. Jim Slater, came to the house, and I told him what I had told Mom. He asked questions and made notes and said practically the same thing that the other detective had said to Dad about strange people who get their kicks out of making threatening calls but never follow through.

  “But the woman didn’t threaten me,” I said. “It was more like she was trying to warn me about something.”

  “Just another form of intimidation,” he said.

  Mom told me that my phone number would be changed during the day, and I went off to school feeling a lot better about the whole thing and looking forward to my first day as a volunteer in Dad’s campaign office.

  By the time I arrived at the office everything had been put back in order. Every trace of the blue paint was gone, and the room was crowded with all sorts of people. With the exception of Edwin Sibley—who nodded to me from across the room—and two men with good haircuts and well-tailored business suits, all the people in the room were women, from a good-looking girl with long, perfectly straight black hair, who was dressed in shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt, to a small-boned elflike woman with thin blue-white curls who was wearing an expensive black St. John knit with ropes of gold chains.