She took a deep breath and a pause from her grading as she glanced at her watch. It was almost time for the local evening news and she was anxious to see what—if anything—would be reported about James Grant’s murder case. Grabbing the remote from the end table next to her chair, she flipped the “on” button and turned to channel six—WRER. Ginger Cooper was anchoring the news tonight and she led with the top story—Stacy Grant’s murder.
“Reardon’s District Attorney’s office today announced that DA Charles Findlay will personally prosecute the case against accused murderer James Grant. Findlay said he felt a special obligation to undertake the task himself because the victim, Stacy Grant, had been an assistant DA in the Reardon bureau.”
The screen switched to a video of an attractive older man, with a full head of snowy white hair, speaking in front of a hive of microphone-toting reporters in front of the City Hall that Pamela knew so well.
“Stacy was a co-worker and a friend,” said Findlay, his rich mellow voice resonating. “The DA’s office will not rest until we bring her killer to justice.”
The screen returned to Ginger Cooper in the studio, focusing on the face of the pretty green-eyed redhead.
“In related news,” she said, “the coroner has announced the autopsy results for Stacy Grant. Cause of death is said to be blunt trauma to the head. No secondary causes were determined. We assume that this brief report suggests that Stacy Grant was killed by the blow to her head from the candlestick that was found near her body and that nothing else apparently contributed to her death—such as a drug overdose.”
“Oh, my,” sighed Pamela, setting down her stack of quizzes and stretching her legs. The movement caused the little dog lying on top of her feet to whine in annoyance. “None of this looks good for James,” she said out loud.
“What doesn’t look good for James?” asked her husband, wandering into their bedroom and plopping down on the edge of their bed.
“Just the autopsy report,” she replied. “Blunt trauma to the head.”
“Did you expect something else?” he asked, wiping his hands with a dish towel.
“I guess I hoped maybe they’d find something in her system—like a long-acting poison or something.”
“Wouldn’t that be just as likely to suggest the husband did it?” he prompted, leaning back.
“I don’t know. I’m just gathering information.”
“Something you do so well,” he assured her. He stood up and headed back to the kitchen. “Are you ready for dessert?”
“Dessert?” she asked. “How am I ever going to get rid of these thighs?”
“I love these thighs,” he replied, walking over to her chair and squeezing an exposed area of flesh.
“You won’t if I keep eating your desserts,” she pouted. “What is it?”
“A blueberry cobbler.”
“Just a few spoonfuls,” she said sheepishly.
“Okay,” he agreed and headed off.
“I’ll just feed most of it to you, Candide,” she said to her pet who, upon hearing his name, perked up and rushed up to her and began licking her face.
“Hey, now! Don’t get carried away!” she said to Candide, pushing him away from her cheek. Rocky returned with a small bowl of crispy covered purple fruit, topped with a dollop of whipped cream. “Rocky! This looks fattening!”
“We’ll share,” he offered, sitting on the edge of the hassock and dipping the spoon into the dessert. He then aimed the spoon into her mouth and she nibbled off a small amount with her lips. Candide attempted to intercept the spoon on its way to its target but was unsuccessful, so he leaped off the hassock and pranced out to the kitchen to eat his regular dog food. Rocky finished what blueberry cobbler Pamela had left on the spoon.
“Yum,” she moaned. “Why do you do this?”
“Make dessert?”
“Why do you torture me like this? You know I’m trying to lose weight and you go and make these incredibly delicious things. How can I resist?”
“You can’t resist my desserts—or me,” he said with a sexy smile.
“You aren’t fattening. Your desserts are.” She gave him an annoyed facial expression. He continued to nibble the cobbler and offered her a bite from time to time. She consumed what she was offered without additional complaining.
“Anything on the news about your friend James Grant?” he asked, wiping the spoon clean slowly with his lips, a movement that did not go unnoticed by his wife.
“The DA—Findlay–is going to prosecute the case himself. Oh, and the coroner’s report found that cause of death was blunt trauma to the head. Not much new there.”
“Just that with Findlay prosecuting the case, it might speed things up.”
“I’d think it would slow things down. He’s probably pretty busy. Who knows when he’ll have time to schedule himself for trial.”
“You’d think he’d want to get right to it. He’s probably pretty upset that someone killed one of his assistants.”
“I don’t know. Maybe. I don’t know how any of this will affect James. I know Martin has an investigator working for him. I don’t know what he’s looking for, but I’m guessing he’ll need time to produce information that will help James.”
“And, of course,” added Rocky, giving Pamela one of his knowing looks, “you’ll need time to figure out who really killed the woman.”
“For heaven’s sake, Rocky!” she cried. “Why does anyone think that just because I helped with some police investigations before, that I’m going be able to produce evidence that will exonerate James?”
“Whatever you do, Babe,” he said somberly, “please keep a low profile. You know what happened before. You get going and then you get headstrong and then you get in trouble.”
“I promise I’ll be very discrete,” she said with a raised hand.
“Did you learn anything today when you visited the guy in prison?” he asked.
“The city jail,” she corrected, “and his name is James. He’s actually a nice guy—and heartsick over the death of his wife. He blames himself for it. Not because he did it, but because he wasn’t there to prevent it.”
“I can understand that,” said Rocky, rubbing his wife’s bare legs. She had a feeling that he had another type of dessert in mind now that he’d finished off the blueberry cobbler.
They had been ignoring the news broadcast, playing softly in the background. As Rocky was starting to nibble her ear, Pamela glanced up at the television set.
“Look at that!” she exclaimed. Rocky somewhat grudgingly leaned back on the hassock and glanced over to the TV. A slick commercial, complete with catchy jingle and pulsing music was advertising the candidacy of Hap Brewster. An animated Brewster was presented looking like some type of Superman hero, slaying villains, including one that closely resembled James Grant. The commercial showed that particular villain being soundly flung into a jail cell by the super Brewster.
“Why does he need to advertise?” she asked her husband. “I mean, he doesn’t have any viable competition now that James is in jail.”
“Maybe he’s afraid James won’t be in jail for long,” suggested Rocky.
“Just look at that, Rocky,” she said, pointing at the screen. Rocky focused his attention on the clever political ad designed to capture the attention and votes of Reardon residents. “It’s very good.”
“You mean the ad is good,” he said in clarification. “Not the content.”
“No, I mean, yes,” she replied, flustered. “It’s a very sophisticated commercial. It totally glosses over Brewster’s faults. It doesn’t even mention James, but it hints at his problems—what with that one little creature getting dumped into the tiny jail. Very sneaky.”
“I see what you mean,” he nodded. “Far superior to your run-of-the mill, local, political ad. Most of those look like televised, wanted posters.”
“I know. This one is well done. Too bad James doesn’t have the same person doing his ads—maybe he coul
d get some press that would help his case. He could use some good publicity.”
“Surely his law partner could arrange for that,” suggested Rocky, now totally having given up on getting any romance in the near future.
“I’m afraid that’s the least of Martin Dobbs’s concerns now. He’s focused on exonerating James at best—and defending him in court at least.”
“But it does seem like overkill, don’t you think?” he asked. “I mean, why does Brewster need to exert himself in the campaign when his primary opponent is, for all intents and purposes, out of the race?”
“I guess he just wants to be sure,” she replied. “Nail in the coffin mentality. Cross the t’s and dot the i’s.”
“I wonder,” mused Rocky. At that moment, Candide wandered back into the bedroom, evidently satiated from a nice meal of dog food. He looked from Pamela to Rocky with his soulful black eyes and then a glance at the bedroom door.
“He wants to go out,” said Pamela, with a sigh. “I should do it. After all, you cooked and cleaned up.”
“Stay where you are,” replied Rocky. “Finish those quizzes. Candide and I both need some fresh air. Don’t we, fellow?” Candide responded to his name and to the fact that Rocky was rising and heading out of the bedroom. He began prancing at Rocky’s feet with a happy bark. Man and dog disappeared into the other room. Pamela stared at the television and the amazing commercial she had just seen for Hap Brewster. It hadn’t been created overnight, she realized. It was a professional production that probably took many weeks to do and yet it seemed somehow incredibly apropos to events of the last few days—what with the villain character being tossed into the mini-jail by the super Brewster character. It could all be coincidence, but she doubted it. She wondered what Martin Dobbs would think when he saw it.
Chapter Fifteen
It had been hard for her to concentrate on her morning classes. Now, as her second class was nearing its end and the students were working in groups completing a mini-project related to discernible language differences, Pamela found herself daydreaming about the intriguing case of Stacy Grant’s murder while she wandered around the lecture hall on the second floor, next door to her office. The students were all totally engaged in the activity and all she seemed to need to do was indicate her presence and willingness to assist them if they needed her. She checked her watch and noticed that only ten minutes of class time remained. She sauntered back down the aisle to the lectern at the front of the hall.
“Don’t forget,” she announced, “you need to turn in your group’s responses before you leave.” The students seemed to moan as a unit, but she noticed noises of paper and writing and an increased level of talk as they worked to complete the brief assignment.
One group finished and gathered their belongings and began to leave. One of the members walked up to Pamela and handed her a paper. Pamela quickly glanced down the responses to check to see if the group had followed directions. Assured that they had, she smiled at the student. A second group finished and then a third. Eventually all groups had completed the in-class project and had submitted it to Pamela before they left. As the last student departed, she double-checked to make certain that she had received a paper from each of her six groups.
“Dr. Barnes,” said a female student, causing Pamela to look up into the face of a young woman who typically sat near the back of the lecture hall. “Excuse me for bothering you, but I’m wondering if I might ask you a question.”
“Of course, uh, Mindy,” she guessed at the student’s name. She tried to memorize each of her students’ names, and although she found it fairly easy to remember the names of the students who talked a lot in class or who visited her frequently, it was difficult at times to remember the names of students who tended to remain anonymous—as did this young woman standing before her now. “What can I do for you?” She smiled warmly, hoping she was encouraging this apparently, fairly shy student to speak.
“Dr. Barnes, I was working on James Grant’s campaign,” replied the girl, looking down. She appeared to be having difficulty finding the courage to say what she wanted. “I met Dr. Bentley when we were stuffing envelopes one day. She said she was trying to get you to help with Mr. Grant’s campaign.”
“She succeeded,” said Pamela, with a laugh. “Dr. Bentley can be very persuasive.”
“Yes,” agreed the student. “One time she and I were sitting at a table in the campaign office working on folding flyers and she was telling me about you and how you had helped the police solve some murders in the past.”
“She probably exaggerated my involvement, Mindy,” said Pamela. “I’ve offered my expertise in acoustic technology to local officials in a few instances, but that’s all. Nothing very grand.”
“Not according to Dr. Bentley,” argued the student. “And Dr. Barnes, I was thinking that maybe now that Mr. Grant is in jail, maybe now would be a very good time for you to help out again.”
“Oh, Mindy,” chuckled Pamela, flattered but intent on diffusing this student’s and any student’s conception of her as some sort of local crime-fighter, “I think you have a totally distorted view of what I’ve done for the police. Truly, my efforts in helping the police have been minimal—and, besides, my expertise is in acoustics—sound. There really isn’t any need for my skills in Mr. Grant’s case.”
“I think you underestimate your ability, Dr. Barnes,” said Mindy intently. “I listen to your lectures and I see how you think things through so carefully. Everything you say in class is all about how scientists need to use evidence to build hypotheses. I think your hypothesis should be that Mr. Grant did not kill his wife. Isn’t that how a scientist would start? Then, you could search for evidence that would support that hypothesis, couldn’t you?”
“Yes, Mindy,” she replied. “That’s exactly what a scientist would do. But just because a scientist hypothesizes something, doesn’t mean that he—or she—will eventually be able to support that hypothesis. Sometimes hypotheses are not supported.”
“But, Dr. Barnes,” Mindy pleaded, “I’m just sure that Mr. Grant didn’t kill his wife! He couldn’t! He’s so nice!”
“Just how is it that you got involved in Mr. Grant’s campaign, Mindy?” Pamela asked.
“My family has lived here as long as I can remember, Dr. Barnes,” she said sadly, “and my parents run a small printing company downtown—Gregson Printing.”
“Yes, I’ve heard of it,” said Pamela.
“Hap Brewster has made my parents’ lives intolerable,” the girl continued. “When James Grant announced that he was running against Brewster, my parents were elated. They thought that now maybe some of the abuse and intimidation they had experienced from the Brewster crowd over the years would stop. They were devastated when Mr. Grant was arrested. I told them I know he didn’t kill his wife, but they say it doesn’t matter because with him in jail—even if he gets out—it’ll be too late to stop Hap Brewster.”
“Not necessarily,” said Pamela to the young woman, a hand on her shoulder. “I wouldn’t give up, Mindy. James Grant has a number of excellent people on his team.”
“You, Dr. Barnes?”
“I’ve been volunteering, but I think his greatest help is his partner Martin Dobbs.”
“Oh, yes! Mr. Dobbs is amazing! He’s always at the campaign headquarters—well, I say headquarters–but it’s really just their office.”
“Mindy, were you at the campaign headquarters the night before Mr. Grant was arrested?”
“Yes,” she replied. “It was exciting. The poll had just come out showing Mr. Grant moving ahead of Brewster. Everyone was so excited. The rally was scheduled for the next day and we were all so busy getting posters and flyers ready.”
“Was Mrs. Grant there?”
“I don’t think she was that night. She did stop by once in a while. But not that night.”
“Was Mr. Grant there that you remember?”
“I believe he was—at least at one point. He would stop and
help out every so often—and, of course, it was his law office too, so sometimes he was there working on cases that weren’t related to the campaign.”
“How late did you stay that night?”
“I don’t know, maybe midnight,” she answered. “Is this important information, Dr. Barnes? Will it help you to support the hypothesis that Mr. Grant is innocent of his wife’s murder?”
“I don’t know, Mindy,” she said, “but as a scientist, you know, we need all the information we can get—even if some of it eventually turns out to be unnecessary.”
“Thank you, Dr. Barnes,” sighed Mindy. “And thank you for my parents too.”
“Don’t thank me yet, Mindy,” said Pamela. “I haven’t done anything.” She guided the young woman down the lecture hall’s center aisle and out the doorway, bidding her farewell and entering her office on the right.
Once inside, she grabbed her thermos of tea and got her sack lunch from her mini-fridge. Then she plopped down onto her couch and slid out of her high heels and set her nylon-covered feet up on the cushions. Two hours of lecturing always made her exhausted and famished. Rocky had outdone himself today, providing her with a sandwich of turkey, greens, and chipotle sauce on asiago cheese bread. He also included some fresh kiwi fruit sections. The tea of the day was persimmon—unique and tasty.
She was enjoying her midday meal and contemplating her heart-to-heart talk with her student Mindy when her two best friends and colleagues—Joan and Arliss—came sauntering into her office unannounced. Of course, Joan was the only one doing any sauntering; Arliss trudged most places now, being almost a full nine months pregnant and looking it.
“Oh, Pam,” moaned Arliss, “can we trade places? I really need to put my feet up and if I sit on your desk chair, I’ll probably slide off onto the floor.”
“Of course, little mother,” replied Pamela, rising and guiding her friend into the nicely warmed spot on the sofa. Arliss slid cautiously down and lifted her legs up onto the cushions with apparent agonizing difficulty. Pamela moved over to her desk chair and slid easily into place. On the way, she tossed her lunch sack into the waste basket.
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