Read Online Stump Speech Murder by Patricia Rockwell - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Patricia Rockwell
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down! We’ve got the guy where we want him. Tried and convicted or just arrested and in jail, he’s not going to be moving up any more in any polls.”
“Yeah,” smirked Brewster. “Well, see to it that he doesn’t.” The three men closed ranks and became even more agitated in their discussion—yet much quieter. Rocky and Pamela were unable to overhear any additional conversation. They sauntered up the hill and towards the parking lot. As they passed one particularly leafy old tree, a man dressed incongruously in a grey raincoat and a rain hat–much too warm for this August day, appeared from behind the trunk.
“Dr. Barnes,” he greeted Pamela. “Mr. Barnes.” The tall, gangly man positioned himself in front of the couple, impeding their ascent.
“Detective Shoop!” cried out Pamela. “I’m surprised to . . . well, actually, I’m not surprised to see you here. Apparently, the entire Reardon police force is here for this funeral. I should have guessed that you’d be around somewhere.”
“Detective,” said Rocky, acknowledging him and shaking hands with the officer. “Here looking out for my wife?” Pamela nudged him and sneered.
“So, Detective,” said Pamela, ignoring Rocky’s comment. “Does this massive outpouring of Reardon’s finest indicate that our police officials may have some second thoughts about the guilt of James Grant?”
“I might ask you the same thing, Dr. Barnes,” said the lanky detective, with a small nod at his sometimes civilian partner. “Did you know the deceased, Stacy Grant, or are you and your husband merely looky-lou’s?”
“I’m just an escort, Shoop,” said Rocky with a shrug. “Just along for the ride, so to speak.”
“Actually,” explained Pamela, looking up at the tall man and being forced to squint in the bright sunlight, “I don’t—didn’t know her—or James, but some of my closest colleagues—Joan Bentley and Willard Swinton—did. Joan worked on James’s campaign and Willard is quite close with James’s campaign manager Martin Dobbs.”
“Good answer,” said Shoop, nodding slowly. “I’d hate to think that the two of you were doing any snooping out here.”
“Snooping?” exclaimed Rocky. “No, sir. Not us. Just paying our respects. Enjoying the lovely weather, the beautiful scenery.”
“Because if you were snooping, Dr. Barnes,” continued Shoop, leaning in closely to Pamela’s face, “it might make me very curious. It’s just that I know that whenever you get mixed up in an investigation, Dr. Barnes, it’s because you have suspicions and that when you have suspicions, things tend to go awry.”
“Things don’t . . . go awry, Detective,” she countered, “because of my involvement. It’s just that at times I’ve noticed when things were already . . . awry . . . at least, that’s what I did in our past . . . adventures . . . and I merely pointed these . . . things . . . out to you. If you recall.”
“I do recall, Dr. Barnes,” said Shoop, with a nod, his eyes still focused on Pamela’s face. “Now, here you are . . . at the funeral of the wife of a high profile murder suspect. It makes me wonder what you know–or at least–what you are thinking and what sort of trouble you may be planning on getting into.”
“It seems to me, Detective,” retorted Pamela, “that what you should be wondering is not what sort of trouble I might get into. It seems to me what you should be wondering–if you genuinely believe that my presence is portentous– is just what my thinking or my knowledge might be with regards to the guilt or innocence of the young candidate James Grant.”
“Do you know something about Mr. Grant that impacts on his guilt in this case, Dr. Barnes?”
“No, Detective,” she replied with a glimmer in her eyes—eyes that never wavered from Shoop’s penetrating stare. “I don’t know anything. But I do have my suspicions. And
“Yeah,” smirked Brewster. “Well, see to it that he doesn’t.” The three men closed ranks and became even more agitated in their discussion—yet much quieter. Rocky and Pamela were unable to overhear any additional conversation. They sauntered up the hill and towards the parking lot. As they passed one particularly leafy old tree, a man dressed incongruously in a grey raincoat and a rain hat–much too warm for this August day, appeared from behind the trunk.
“Dr. Barnes,” he greeted Pamela. “Mr. Barnes.” The tall, gangly man positioned himself in front of the couple, impeding their ascent.
“Detective Shoop!” cried out Pamela. “I’m surprised to . . . well, actually, I’m not surprised to see you here. Apparently, the entire Reardon police force is here for this funeral. I should have guessed that you’d be around somewhere.”
“Detective,” said Rocky, acknowledging him and shaking hands with the officer. “Here looking out for my wife?” Pamela nudged him and sneered.
“So, Detective,” said Pamela, ignoring Rocky’s comment. “Does this massive outpouring of Reardon’s finest indicate that our police officials may have some second thoughts about the guilt of James Grant?”
“I might ask you the same thing, Dr. Barnes,” said the lanky detective, with a small nod at his sometimes civilian partner. “Did you know the deceased, Stacy Grant, or are you and your husband merely looky-lou’s?”
“I’m just an escort, Shoop,” said Rocky with a shrug. “Just along for the ride, so to speak.”
“Actually,” explained Pamela, looking up at the tall man and being forced to squint in the bright sunlight, “I don’t—didn’t know her—or James, but some of my closest colleagues—Joan Bentley and Willard Swinton—did. Joan worked on James’s campaign and Willard is quite close with James’s campaign manager Martin Dobbs.”
“Good answer,” said Shoop, nodding slowly. “I’d hate to think that the two of you were doing any snooping out here.”
“Snooping?” exclaimed Rocky. “No, sir. Not us. Just paying our respects. Enjoying the lovely weather, the beautiful scenery.”
“Because if you were snooping, Dr. Barnes,” continued Shoop, leaning in closely to Pamela’s face, “it might make me very curious. It’s just that I know that whenever you get mixed up in an investigation, Dr. Barnes, it’s because you have suspicions and that when you have suspicions, things tend to go awry.”
“Things don’t . . . go awry, Detective,” she countered, “because of my involvement. It’s just that at times I’ve noticed when things were already . . . awry . . . at least, that’s what I did in our past . . . adventures . . . and I merely pointed these . . . things . . . out to you. If you recall.”
“I do recall, Dr. Barnes,” said Shoop, with a nod, his eyes still focused on Pamela’s face. “Now, here you are . . . at the funeral of the wife of a high profile murder suspect. It makes me wonder what you know–or at least–what you are thinking and what sort of trouble you may be planning on getting into.”
“It seems to me, Detective,” retorted Pamela, “that what you should be wondering is not what sort of trouble I might get into. It seems to me what you should be wondering–if you genuinely believe that my presence is portentous– is just what my thinking or my knowledge might be with regards to the guilt or innocence of the young candidate James Grant.”
“Do you know something about Mr. Grant that impacts on his guilt in this case, Dr. Barnes?”
“No, Detective,” she replied with a glimmer in her eyes—eyes that never wavered from Shoop’s penetrating stare. “I don’t know anything. But I do have my suspicions. And
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