Free A Candidate for Murder by Joan Lowery Nixon

finishing her sentence for her.
    No sense of humor. She didn’t smile. She rose to her feet, her strands of pearls clattering against each other as they bounced off her chest, and said to Sally Jo, “Will you come with me, please?”
    “I’ll see you later,” I said to Sally Jo.
    “Right,” she answered. She picked up her things and followed Mrs. Lane to the back offices.
    I liked Sally Jo, but I didn’t have a chance to talk to her later, because in about fifteen minutes Delia escortedher to the front door and stood like a guard until she saw Sally Jo cross the street and climb into her car.
    Then Delia turned to me. “Thank goodness that was the
Gazette
, so we won’t have to worry about a partisan slant, but from now on, Cary, I want you to remember that talking to reporters is a no-no,” she said sternly, as though I were three years old. “Requests for interviews should come to me, and if I think they’re suitable I’ll set them up and be right there with you during each interview …”
    I finished her sentence. “To tell me what to say.”
    She wasn’t sure how to take that remark, but she decided on a patient response. “Not exactly. It’s so I can interrupt if you’re asked the wrong questions.”
    “What are the wrong questions?” I was deliberately giving Delia a hard time, and pretty soon steam would probably come out of her ears.
    “We’ll discuss this later,” she said. “I’ve got more important things to do—like find the postage meter. How could a postage meter just disappear into thin air?”
    As she trotted off I reached for another letter to fold and turned toward my tablemate, who had politely stayed out of range while I was being scolded and was now squirming into her chair like a hen settling into a nest. “How did you happen to volunteer to work for my father’s campaign?” I chatted, hoping for some conversation to break the monotony.
    She raised one eyebrow and looked indignant. “I’ve always worked hard for the party. Delia can attest to that.”
    “I didn’t mean—” I began, but the phone was already up to her face, and she began reciting, “We’re reminding you about the reception tonight at seven P . M . at the Hotel Adolphus …”
    Edwin Sibley walked past. He was dressed in the same pants, shirt, and buttoned vest he was wearing when I’d met him. I leaned forward, eager to have somebody—anybody—to talk to. “Hi!” I said.
    “Hello,” he answered, but he ducked his head, avoiding eye contact, and kept going. Was he still blaming himself about that mess with the blue paint?
    At five o’clock, right on the minute, Delia rapped for attention, gushed her thanks for everyone’s hard work, and begged all volunteers to come to the reception. “Charles and Laura Amberson will make their appearance after everything is well under way, at eight o’clock,” she said. “We’re getting good television coverage, and we want as many bodies crowded into the ballroom as possible—
all
of them giving loud support to Mr. Amberson.”
    I winced at that remark. Dad was going to be giving a speech, and I knew he’d been working hard on it. He wanted people to listen and pay attention. He didn’t want just a room filled with noisy bodies.
    Delia’s voice rose a notch higher, and I could hear the excitement in it. “I’ve got some good news you’ll all be interested in. The banquet in November—the big fund-raiser …” She chuckled as she slowly emphasized each word. “… at one thousand, five hundred dollars a ticket—sold out this afternoon!”
    People laughed and clapped. I did, too. That wasn’tjust good news, it was great news! It scared me to think how much it cost just to run for governor—millions of dollars! Even Dad wouldn’t have enough money to handle the expenses alone.
    Delia managed to herd us out of the office while she turned off the lights and locked the door. She was working hard for Dad’s campaign and seemed to be doing a