A Candidate for Murder

by Joan Lowery Nixon

  “We’ll inform the police,” Dad said, “and when they’ve examined everything, we’ll get a glazier to come and repair that window.”

  “This doesn’t make any sense,” Mom said. “It’s daylight, and we have a house filled with people.”

  Dexter glanced toward Dad, then looked away as though he couldn’t meet Dad’s eyes. He walked over to where Mom and I were standing and said, “All day either Mr. Amberson or I answered the door. We knew everyone who came into the house.”

  “There was the man from the gas company,” Velma said, “but he didn’t ask to go inside the house.”

  We all looked at her. “This is Sunday. No one from the gas company would be reading meters on a Sunday,” Mom said.

  “Oh, he wasn’t readin’ meters,” Velma said. “He said there was a gas leak somewhere in the neighborhood, and I wasn’t to pay no mind to him. He’d just be checkin’ around outside.”

  Velma didn’t have to read our faces. She realized what had happened and groaned. “He was the one who broke in, wasn’t he?”

  My heart began beating hard again, and I was so scared it was hard to get the question out. “What if the man comes back?”

  Dad put his hands on my shoulders and looked into my eyes. “Cary, none of us knows why he was here,” Dad said. “It was probably a burglary attempt, and because of that tree against the house, your room was the most accessible.”

  We all searched to see if anything upstairs had been taken, but nothing was missing.

  Dad took charge, leading us downstairs, and in just a few minutes the police arrived. A lab crew went upstairs with the detective—Jim Slater again—but in a short while he came down to the kitchen and talked to Velma. Then he sat on the sofa in the den across from Mom, Dad, and me. He was a large man, and the notepad he opened was almost lost in his hand.

  I was curious. “What did Velma say about the man she talked to?”

  “She wasn’t too specific. She was more aware of the uniform than the person wearing it,” Sergeant Slater answered. “She did say she thought he had brown hair, was tall and broad-shouldered, and was probably in his late twenties or early thirties. She agreed to come to headquarters tomorrow morning and go through mug shots.”

  Sergeant Slater asked a few basic questions, and I answered them.

  “In case this break-in was because of you, Cary, you must tell the detective everything. Tell him about the phone calls,” Mom said, so I did, and when we got through the questions which he asked about Nora—most of which I didn’t have answers for—I told him about Ben Cragmore and the man with the scratchy voice, and what I could remember hearing.

  “And you said they were talking about someone named Bill?”

  “I think that was the name.”

  Dad spoke up. “Could it have been Bill Fletcher?”

  “They didn’t say his last name.”

  Dad turned to the detective. “I thought of Bill Fletcher because he’s on the committee that awards the highway contracts.”

  “Bill’s a pretty common name.” Sergeant Slater heaved himself to his feet and said, “We’ll check into everything. The person in your house was probably just someone looking for things he could sell to buy drugs. But we won’t take any chances. The publicity your family is getting could attract some strange types, so we’ll put a watch on your house for a few days.”

  As Mom and Dad walked with Sergeant Slater to the front door I could hear them talking in low undertones. Things they didn’t want to frighten me with, I supposed.

  It was only after the detective had left and I was thinking over everything that had happened that I remembered seeing Dexter tuck something under his jacket behind his back. I still thought it might have been a gun.

  I managed to get Dad aside, which wasn’t easy, and told him what I thought.

  Dad just said, “Yes, Dexter has a gun. More than one, I understand. He works out at a sharpshooter range each week.”

  “A sharpshooter range? Why?”

  “Why not?”

  “Okay. But our house isn’t a sharpshooter range,” I said. “Why would Dexter be carrying a gun around here?”

  “He was planning to go to the range this evening, and perhaps he was getting his guns ready,” Dad said. “I wouldn’t be concerned about it, Cary.”

  “All right,” I answered, but I really wasn’t satisfied. I was still just a little bit suspicious of Dexter.

  Justin didn’t call, and I missed him more and more, so after dinner I called him. Justin’s mother answered and said only that she’d call him to the phone. She didn’t mention what had happened after the dance, but I could feel my face burning, and I had to swallow a couple of times before I could answer Justin when he said hello.

  “I thought maybe you’d tried to call and kept getting the busy signal,” I babbled. I was miserable because I was talking too loudly and saying stupid things, but there was no way to start over.

  “I didn’t try to call you,” Justin said, and I felt even worse.

  “O-oh,” I stammered and wished I could think of what to say next.

  “I’m kind of busy right now,” Justin said.

  Why was he being so mean? I wasn’t the only one who’d said unkind things last night. “Okay,” I said. “If that’s the way you want it.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  I took a deep breath and attempted to sound calm. “I just called to apologize again, Justin. I’m sorry I was rude to everybody last night.”

  “It’s okay,” he mumbled. “Apology accepted.”

  There was silence for a few minutes while my temper began to rise. Finally I said, “That’s it?”

  “Well, sure. What am I supposed to say?”

  “I wasn’t the only one who was rude. How about what you said to me?”

  “I wasn’t being rude. I was just telling you the truth.”

  “You hurt my feelings.”

  “I can’t help that.”

  I was so hurt I wanted to cry, but I tried to stay cool and explain. “Look, Justin, this has been very hard on me.”

  “On all of us, Cary,” he said quickly.

  “All right, then. On all of us. I hoped you’d understand. I hoped you’d want to make up.”

  For just an instant his voice softened. “We don’t have to make up. Everything’s okay, Cary.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure.”

  “Do you want to come over?”

  The edge crept back into his voice. “Tonight? I’m sorry, Cary. I can’t. I left my homework to the last minute.”

  “I’ve still got some stuff to do for English. We could do our homework together.”

  “We’ve tried that. It doesn’t always get done.”

  I gulped and said, “I miss you, Justin.”

  “Yeah,” he said, and I could hear the embarrassment in his voice. “Well, look, I’ll see you at school tomorrow. Okay?”

  “Okay,” I said and slowly hung up the phone, so miserable I felt sick to my stomach.

  Somehow I was able to finish my homework, and somehow I was able to make it through school the next day, in spite of the political cartoon that appeared in one of the morning newspapers. It showed Dad, again with a crown on his head, looking pompous as he was giving a speech. In a balloon coming out of his mouth were the words, “We need to emphasize the quality of education.” Behind Dad was a girl who was supposed to be me, dressed like trash and leaning against a long low car that was more like the Batmobile than Justin’s car.

  Mom squeezed my shoulder and said, “Don’t let it bother you, Cary.”

  “That drawing’s gross, and I’m not like that,” I mumbled.

  “Everyone knows that,” Mom said.

  “No they don’t. People who don’t know me will think I’m awful.”

  “Oh, Cary … I don’t know what I can say that will help.”

  It wasn’t Mom’s fault. Why take my bad mood out on her? “I’ll get ove
r it,” I said, and managed to choke down some cereal.

  A little while later Mom drove me to school. When I stalled about getting out of the car Mom said, “Honey, you’ll find that your friends are on your side. They’ll make it easier for you.”

  “It’s not that,” I said. “I keep thinking about someone being in my room. I’m afraid he’ll come back.”

  “He won’t, and you can’t keep worrying about it.” Mom used her firm tone that probably made juries think twice. I know I always paid attention when I heard it. “The police will take care of things,” she insisted. “And there will always be someone around to keep an eye on you.”

  “Okay, Mom,” I interrupted and gave her a quick kiss good-bye. Cars were lining up behind us, and this was not the place for a long discussion. I hopped out of the car and avoided some of the clusters of kids outside as I made my way into the main building.

  Of course, someone had tacked the cartoon on the main bulletin board in the front hall, and it remained there until somebody in the attendance office spotted it and tore it down. It was harder to take the embarrassed glances that slid away from mine and the hostility I got from a few of the kids than it was to take the teasing. In a way I welcomed the teasing. It laid everything out in the open so we could make fun of it. The shared laughter was a way of saying that everything was going to be all right.

  During lunch period Allie jumped in with enthusiasm. “If you think Cary looked bad, you should have seen me! I looked so tough even the Hell’s Angels would have been afraid of me.”

  “Yeah? I didn’t see any pictures of you in the newspapers,” someone said.

  “Oh, the photographers desperately wanted my picture, but each time they tried to take it their lenses cracked.” Allie tried to strike a glamour pose but lost her balance and fell off the bench.

  Even Greg—who had slunk into class with dark circles under his eyes, looking as though he hadn’t slept the entire weekend—joined in the laughter.

  Allie kept hamming it up, all for my benefit. I wished Justin was with us to hear Allie’s jokes, but Justin had spent the day avoiding me, and there wasn’t anything I could do about it. I’d apologized the night before, I’d told him I’d like to see him, and now whatever happened between us was up to him.

  I didn’t want to face the idea that there might never be anything between us again, because that thought hurt too much. Justin would come around. I had to make myself believe that he would.

  Dexter picked me up in Mom’s Cadillac, and as I climbed into the car, I caught a glimpse of Justin’s white BMW leaving the parking lot. Someone was with him. Cindy Parker. She thought nothing of borrowing my money, my books, and even my makeup. Did she think she could borrow Justin, too? I felt a terrible pang of sick jealousy that hit like a rock thumping into my chest.

  Forget Justin. He was history. That’s the way he wanted it—the way we both wanted it.

  No, it wasn’t. I had really cared about Justin. I missed him, and it hurt.

  I was glad that Dexter didn’t want to talk, because I didn’t feel like talking to anyone. When we got home and I found out that no one needed that car the rest of the day I decided to drive myself to Dad’s campaign office.

  “I think your Mama wants someone to go with you,” Velma said. “Better get Dexter to take you.”

  I didn’t want to go with Dexter. I still felt uncomfortable with him—maybe even a little suspicious. Dad’s explanation hadn’t helped a bit. “I’ll be all right, Velma,” I insisted. “I don’t like being watched over every minute.” I couldn’t help smiling at the brave way I sounded. “At least while it’s daylight,” I added.

  She didn’t think it was funny. “I don’t know about that. Let me go ask Dexter.”

  I took the car keys from the shelf and picked up my shoulder bag. “There’s not enough time. I’ve got to go now. I’ll be home for dinner.” I was out the door before she had time to answer.

  I wondered why I’d even come when I walked into the office. I got some of the same sly turn-away looks that I’d had to put up with at school, and a few people stared rudely, as though their X-ray vision could penetrate my conservative shirt and skirt and discover the wild heavy-metal outfit that must be hidden beneath them.

  Delia, in her customary frantic rush, managed to greet me and shoo me off to my usual table. She plopped a large box of colored brochures next to me. “Label them all,” she said and waved toward more boxes piled against the wall. “There are thousands and thousands to get done. This is an important statewide mailing.”

  “Where are the labels?” I asked.

  “On the table,” Mrs. Lane said, shoving another box toward me. She studied me with disapproval and sniffed as I sat down.

  I picked up the slick-paper brochure on top of the stack in the box and saw the full-color family photo Mom, Dad, and I had posed for a couple of months ago. It was the all-dressed-up kind of photo we sent to friends at Christmas. We were smiling happily, totally ignorant that it wasn’t just Dad who’d be campaigning. It would be Mom and me, too.

  What would the voters think who saw this picture and read the brochure about Dad’s ideas and plans? I tried to put myself in their place.

  Want a governor who’ll give you a good honest government? Forget it. Who’s interested in something as boring as campaign issues? No, we want to base our votes on how much money the candidate has got, what we think of his wife’s hairdo and the estimated price of the clothes she’s wearing, and what his daughter is up to. My, my, the daughter looks like such a nice, wholesome teenager in this photo, but do you want to know the truth? She’s wild. She runs around with drug users. Of course I know what I’m talking about. I saw it on TV, didn’t I?

  Delia swept past, pulling the brochure from my hands and slapping it onto the table. “Cary, dear,” she said, “you can read it later. We are running way, way, way behind schedule, and these have to get out.”

  Obediently I joined Mrs. Lane in slapping printed peel-off labels on the folded brochures and piling them into another box. I wondered when I’d graduate—if ever—to a more interesting job. I had to remind myself that it didn’t matter. Whatever needed to be done to get Dad his party’s nomination, that’s what I’d do.

  Mr. Sibley came from the hallway, struggling to carry a heavy box. He staggered to where I was sitting and dropped his box on the floor next to my chair. A button was missing from his same old vest, and I wondered if the heavy box could have torn it off. But there were more important things than missing buttons on my mind.

  Before he could get away I put a hand on his arm to detain him and asked, “Mr. Sibley, you’ve been working almost every day for my father’s campaign. I’m taking a kind of poll, just for my own interest, asking volunteers why they’re giving up their own time to work on my father’s campaign.”

  Mr. Sibley shrugged and tried to pull away. I could feel his arm trembling, and it surprised me so much that I let go, but I didn’t take my eyes off his face.

  “I-I didn’t have the chance to get involved in politics when I was young,” he said. “Now I’m making up for lost time.”

  “Are you retired?” I asked, but he scurried out of earshot.

  Why didn’t he want to talk to me? I remembered that Mr. Sibley had come to work as a volunteer the day after Mark’s party. Had he been sent here to spy on me?

  Mr. Sibley? No. I couldn’t let my imagination go crazy.

  “How’s it going? Another exciting job?”

  I looked up to see Sally Jo Wilson. “Hi,” I said. “Thanks for the story you wrote about me. It was a good one.”

  Sally Jo’s face crinkled with one of her flashing smiles, but beyond her I could see Delia advancing at a fast pace.

  Then and there I got an idea. I didn’t know if it would work. It might be the worst and dumbest idea I’d ever had, but there was only one way to find out.

  I leaned close to Sally Jo. “Listen,” I said. “Can we get together somewhere? I need to talk t
o you.”

  Chapter 12

  I called home and told Velma I’d be a little late for dinner. She began to argue—as I knew she would—that I was supposed to come straight home, but I quickly said, “Gotta go. I’ll see you later,” and hung up.

  As soon as Delia closed the campaign office at five o’clock, I drove to the small Italian café where Sally Jo had said she’d meet me. The restaurant was in an old house in a small, formerly residential neighborhood, in which art galleries, photographers, and small shops lined the streets. The lawns were neatly mowed and flowers bloomed around the concrete pillars that decorated the wide front porches. This was far from my own neighborhood so I wasn’t likely to meet anyone I knew here. I was sure that’s why Sally Jo had picked it.

  Sally Jo had not arrived when I stepped into the tiny, dimly lit entry. I glanced at my watch. I was five minutes early.

  “Do you want me to show you to a table?” a short, pudgy Italian man asked me, but I shook my head. I felt more secure in the small, dark room.

  “I’ll just wait here,” I told him.

  I leaned against the wall. From where I stood I could see into the dining room, which was filled with square tables covered with red-and-white checked gingham tablecloths, each table decorated with one stubby candle flickering through a red glass hurricane lamp. Fortunately, there were other and better lights in the room.

  Only two tables were taken. A pair of elderly men were bent almost into their soup bowls, slowly and steadily slurping soup into their mouths, and a man and a woman were eating silently, as though they were bored with each other.

  When Sally Jo arrived, we were seated; she ordered a house salad, ziti, and garlic bread. I wanted nothing but iced tea, to the obvious disappointment of our waiter. When it came I sipped at it, but Sally Jo tore into her food as though she were in a contest to see how fast she could make it disappear.

  “I’ll eat, you talk,” she said. “What have you got on your mind?”

  I wasn’t sure how to get into it or how much I wanted to tell her, so I answered with another question. “You told me that reporters know how to find out almost anything about anyone. How do you do it?”