Tomb With a View

4

Never let it be said I don’t have a social life.

There were plenty of things I could have been doing the next evening. Honest. For instance, I usually call my dad in prison out in Colorado on Thursdays, and when I’m done talking to him, I call my mom to fill her in. That particular Thursday, I also could have gone to a car show with none other than Absalom Sykes, one of the guys I’d worked with on the cemetery restoration project. Sure, Absalom is a car thief, and yes, I suspected he was going to the show mostly to case the joint, but that was beside the point. Even though he’s big, and gruff, and scary looking (and he practices voodoo, too), I like Absalom. We would have had a good time.

Unfortunately, by the time Absalom called to invite me along, I’d already given in and given up to Ella’s pleading about how much she needed my help with the whole goofy commemoration, and what a team player I was, and how much she admired my willingness to pitch in, and blah, blah, blah. As much as I didn’t want to—and believe me when I say that was a whole lot—I agreed to go to Marjorie’s that evening.

None of which means I was particularly happy about it.

Marjorie lived in a nondescript house in a nondescript neighborhood, and I stood on her front porch, rang the bell, and braced myself. Not even that was enough to prepare me. When she answered the door in her cheap jeans and her white T-shirt with a picture of President Garfield on the front of it, I couldn’t contain myself. Everything I felt for Marjorie bubbled out of me, and the words just came pouring out of my mouth. “I’m here exactly why?” I asked. Marjorie was not put off. For one thing, she was wearing a pair of shoes with the highest heels I have ever seen except for the girls on stage at The Thundering Stallion (trust me, I was there in connection with an investigation even though the owner tried to get me to audition). This was a pair of sandals untastefully done in black and white patent leather with an ankle strap, a two-inch alligator green platform, and heels in a color to match. Just to make sure I noticed she was taller than me, Marjorie raised her head and pulled back her shoulders. She was on her home turf, and if I thought she was condescending, annoying, and just plain nasty back at the cemetery, she was twice as condescending, annoying, and just plain nasty in her home sweet home.

“I’m happy to see you’ve come to your senses in regard to the commemoration.” Happy, huh? She didn’t look happy. She didn’t sound it, either, when she added, “I have to admit, it probably would have been simpler and far less irritating for me to just handle the entire thing on my own. But since you’re here, I suppose we should try to make the best of it.” When she sighed, the president on the front of her shirt jiggled. She ushered me inside with a sweep of one arm and finally got around to answering my question. “You’re here to see my collection, of course.”

And see her collection I did.

The second I was in her living room, I found myself inundated, surrounded by, and totally swamped with James A. Garfield. There was a portrait of him hanging above the phony, electric-log fireplace. There were glass figurines of him on the mantel. There were books piled on the pine coffee table that featured his stern, unsmiling face on their covers, and there were all sorts of Garfield-y things framed and hung on the walls, such as an invitation to his inauguration, and an eleven-by-twenty photograph of Lawnfield, his house. Like I’d seen Absalom do with one of his juju dolls, Marjorie touched a finger reverently to a framed item that caught my eye. “Ah, you noticed this, did you? Maybe you’re not a lost cause after all.”

I think that was supposed to be a compliment. I leaned closer for a better look. The item in question looked like an old, battered floor tile. There was a little brass plaque mounted underneath it that said it was—

“A piece of the floor from the railway station where James A. Garfield was shot by Charles Guiteau?” I read the words on the plaque, only there was no question mark except in my voice. “You have a piece of the floor of the railway station?”

Marjorie puffed with pride, so much, in fact, that she wobbled on her high shoes. “It’s not just any piece of the tile. The presidential collector who sold it to me assured me that this tile was taken from the actual waiting room of the Baltimore and Potomac Railway Station where the president was shot. If you look really closely . . .” She did. I didn’t. “It could be my imagination, of course, though I doubt it. After all, those who are related often feel an uncanny attachment to each other. I think . . . no, I’m sure there’s the tiniest bit of his blood on that tile.”

I backed away like . . . well, like somebody told me I was looking at something that had blood on it. “Let me guess,” I said, and I wasn’t really guessing. Unfortunately, I’d known Marjorie long enough to know the answer. “That’s one of the things you’d like to put on display for the commemoration.”

“Oh, that, and a number of other wonderful things. One especially. It’s going to cause quite a sensation!” She said this in the singsongy way people do when they think they know some big secret, but since I really didn’t care, I didn’t take the bait, and Marjorie gave up with a sigh. She wobbled her way around the room, stopping now and then to admire some piece of Garfield memorabilia. “I’ve decided that we’ll do a sort of revolving exhibit. There will be one main display inside the rotunda, and that will remain the same throughout the commemoration. After all, it will have some very important things in it!” There was that tone of voice again. Her eyes shone. When I didn’t bite, she kept right on.

“We’ll also have a display downstairs outside the crypt. That’s the one we’ll change each month. Of course, just the idea that there will be new and interesting things to look at each month will keep people flocking back to the memorial. And since I have so much I can share that has never been on exhibit before, it would seem . . . well . . . un-American to keep all these wonderful things away from the public eye. We can do inaugural items one month, then the next, something like national bank currency that features the dear president’s picture. We could even do a display of modern items that honor him.”

“Except I doubt there are any.”

I should have known better. A weird sort of half-smile on her face, Marjorie led me through the dining room, where there was a vinyl tablecloth decorated with American flags on the table, and into a back room that she used as a den. She paused just inside the doorway and glanced at the items displayed all around the room.

“Garfield pen and pencil sets, Garfield salt and pepper shakers, Garfield teacups,” she said, and believe me, she was not talking about that fat and sassy orange cat. The entire room was crammed with things like commemorative plates, and ashtrays, and bookmarks and napkin rings and keychains, all with the image of the president on them. There was even a President Garfield mousepad on the desk next to a computer. There was a credit card on it, covering the top of the president’s head and his face, but I’d know that beard anywhere.

“Hey, look at this!” A photo hanging nearby caught my eye. It showed the president standing at the head of a table where eight men were seated. They looked awfully familiar. “Who are these guys?”

“Those guys”—Marjorie spit out the word as if it tasted bad—“are the president’s cabinet.” She pointed to the men I’d seen around the table in the rotunda. “Here’s Chester Arthur, who was Mr. Garfield’s vice president and became president after his death. And this is James Blaine and William Windom, and Robert Todd Lincoln. Yes,” she added quickly, though I wasn’t going to say a thing. “That other president’s son. Then there’s Wayne MacVeagh, Thomas James, William Hunt, and Samuel Kirkwood. Unsung heroes. Every single one of them. Then again, our dearest president wouldn’t have chosen them for his cabinet if he didn’t think of them as honorable, hardworking men.”

“Where’s Jeremiah Stone?”

“Well, it looks like I may have underestimated you after all, Ms. Martin. You’ve done your homework!” Marjorie practically smiled at me. It was kind of disturbing. “Mr. Stone was the president’s personal aide and not a member of the cabinet so he, of course, isn’t in this photograph. I may have one of him around here somewhere.”

“That’s OK,” I told her because I didn’t have the time or the patience to wait while she went off and looked for it. “I have a pretty good idea what he looked like.”

She didn’t ask how, which was OK, because I wouldn’t have told her, anyway. “Mr. Stone, now there was a dedicated young man!” Her voice warmed to the subject. “Even after the awful incident at the Baltimore and Potomac Railway Station, Mr. Stone was always at the president’s side. You see, though the president was shot on July second, he didn’t die until September. He suffered the entire time, poor man, enduring the pain of the bullet and the ineptitude of the doctors who were supposed to be healing him, but really only made things worse. And the entire time, Mr. Stone took care of the day-to-day details the president needed to know about, made sure he was kept apprised of political news, handled correspondence. You know, the things that needed to be done to keep the ship of state afloat. I doubt there are many men these days who are as devoted or as trustworthy or—”

Marjorie’s doorbell rang. It was clear she wasn’t expecting anyone else, and she smoothed a hand over her T-shirt then tottered back into the living room and toward the front door. Rather than be left in the den with James A. Garfield staring at me from bowls and pencil toppers and the covers of old, framed magazines, I followed along, and got to the living room just in time to see her peek through the peephole in the door and step back, suddenly looking as gooey as a tweenager at a Jonas Brothers concert. There was a basket on a table near the front door filled with those goofy filmy head scarves of hers, and she whisked off the one she was wearing (apparently it was an everyday head scarf and not suitable for company, which told me exactly where I stood) and grabbed one with giant yellow mums on it. She tied it under her chin, checked her reflection in a mirror that hung nearby, and pasted a smile to her face before she opened the door.

“Why, Ray! What a lovely surprise.”

The Ray in question was Ray Gwitkowski, another of the Garden View volunteers. He was a tall, burly sixty-some-year-old guy who was a high school math teacher before he retired. Ray had been a cemetery volunteer for years, and ever since the winter before when his wife died, he’d been spending more and more time at Garden View. Like Doris, he was one of the good guys; he was friendly to staff and visitors and he did whatever we asked. That night, he was wearing khakis, a blue button-down dress shirt, and a worried expression that cleared up the moment he caught sight of me.

“Pepper! Hey, kid, what are you doing here?” He zoomed right past Marjorie like she wasn’t there and headed my way. “You’re the last person I expected to see here.”

“This is the last place I expected to be,” I admitted. “But—”

“Ms. Martin is going to be my assistant on the Garfield commemoration project.” Marjorie wasn’t the type who settled for being ignored for too long, or at all, for that matter. She teetered over to stand at my side and I guess it was the first time Ray noticed her shoes. He shot me a look that said he thought she was as loony as I did. Yeah, I liked Ray a lot. “I’m showing her the items I think would be appropriate to put on display. But then, Ray . . .” Marjorie put a hand on his arm. “You know how many interesting things I have to offer!”

Oh yeah, that was as creepy as it sounds. So was the look Marjorie gave Ray.

I’m pretty sure Ray thought so, too. That would explain why he slowly drew his arm out of Marjorie’s reach. “I know all about your Garfield collection,” he said. “There’s no need for you to show it to me again.” He glanced around as he said this, and stopped when he got to the invitation to the Garfield inauguration.

Clearly, he was surprised, and just as clearly, Marjorie couldn’t have been more pleased. Especially when Ray blurted out, “You bought it? That invitation you talked about seeing in the on-line auction? I thought you said it was too expensive to even bid on.”

“Sometimes the cost of an item is of no account.” She simpered and stepped to the side, the better to put herself in too close proximity to Ray. “Sometimes a woman just has to take a chance. Go for it. You know what I mean, Ray?”

My guess is that he did. That would explain why Ray looked a little green and ran a finger around his collar.

Marjorie wound her arm through his. “Ms. Martin will be back another time to pick up the memorabilia I want to display.” She shot me a look as sharp as a laser. “You were just leaving, weren’t you?”

I had no intention of arguing, and maybe Ray realized it. Seeing that I might walk out and leave him there—alone—with Marjorie, a look very much like panic filled his eyes, and he got right down to business.

“No, no. I refuse to interrupt whatever you two girls are up to,” he said, drawing away from Marjorie. “I’ll just be a minute and then you two can get back to work. Marjorie . . .” He would have been taller than her if she hadn’t been wearing those goofy shoes, and he pulled back his shoulders. “Marjorie, we need to talk. In private.”

She grinned—it was not a good look for her. “Of course,” she purred, and she led Ray toward the den.

Left to my own devices, I sat down on the red, white, and blue plaid couch, but staring at all those books with James A. Garfield’s face staring back at me made me nervous, so I got up and poked around. I checked out a framed memorial card issued when the president died, and a glass case chock-full of campaign ribbons and buttons. There was an old photograph hanging above it of my newest ghostly contact in his Civil War uniform, and curious to see what he looked like when he was younger, I leaned closer to it. OK, I admit it, I wasn’t paying attention. If I was, I would have noticed the round-bellied oil lamp at my elbow, the one with the president’s face painted on it. Or at least I would have noticed it before it was too late.

The way it was, I bumped the lamp with my arm, and as if it were happening in slow motion, I turned just in time to watch it skid to the edge of the table, tip, and teeter.

Believe me, I knew what was going to happen next, and it wasn’t going to be pretty.

My heart bumped, my adrenaline pumped, and I reacted as fast as I could. I stretched, grabbed, and saved the lamp from ending up in a million pieces on the floor.

Trouble is, when I did, I also knocked into a tall skinny vase (yes, Garfield’s face was painted on that, too). It was filled with a bunch of those really long, old-fashioned metal hat pins, and the vase tipped, but lucky for me, it didn’t fall and break. The hat pins fell out, though. Every single one of them bounced against the table on the way down. Except for the rumble of Ray’s voice and the murmur of Marjorie’s, it was deadly quiet in the house. The hat pins ping, ping, pinged like gunshot.

I cringed and froze, and that’s how Marjorie found me when she came . . . well, it wasn’t exactly running, seeing as how she was still wearing those high shoes.

“What on earth!” She looked at the hat pins scattered across the floor, so upset, the tight knot of the head scarf under her chin quivered. She tottered over, picked up the hat pins one by one, and set them back where they belonged. “Really, Ms. Martin, you need to learn to be more careful around precious objects. One would think you would have learned that working in a place as full of treasured things as Garden View. Sit down, why don’t you.” It was more of an order than an invitation. “And keep your hands to yourself. I’ll be right back.”

She marched . . . er . . . tottered back the way she came, and afraid she might be right and I might get in serious and possibly expensive trouble if I tried to look at anything else, I did as I was told. I plunked down on the couch and waited.

I would have stayed right there, too, if Ray’s voice didn’t float out from the back room. It was louder than it had been before, and more insistent. I couldn’t catch exactly what he said, but let’s face it, that made me more curious than ever.

I got up and sidled my way into the dining room.

“I don’t know why you’re getting so upset. Mistakes happen. And that’s all it was, just a mistake.” This was Marjorie speaking, and even long distance, I could hear that she was trying so hard to sound honest, there was no doubt she was lying. “I was confused. I spoke before I should have, before I had all the information. Now . . . well, now I know things aren’t going to work out the way I thought they would. I was sure you’d understand. I never dreamed you’d hold it against me, Ray. I can’t believe you’re that kind of man.”

“This is the last straw, Marjorie!” I didn’t know people ever really said that, I mean, not in real life. I tipped my head to try and catch every word. “So what you’re telling me is that you’ve been leading me on. Is that it? This whole thing . . . it’s been nothing but a charade. And now this!” Ray paused like maybe he was showing something to Marjorie. “This just about proves it. You don’t care about anyone’s feelings but your own. You act like I’m some sort of trained monkey.”

“But, Ray . . .” Marjorie must have known how desperate she sounded. She swallowed so hard, even I heard the gulp. When she started up again, she tried so hard to sound sexy, it was pathetic. Not to mention nauseating. “You aren’t going to ruin a perfectly good thing just because—”

“There is no good thing. Don’t you get that? There never has been. Whatever relationship we have—”

“It could be good. It could be better than good.” Maybe she saw that trying to reason with Ray was getting her nowhere fast. Marjorie’s voice iced over. “I simply can’t believe you’re getting upset about such an insignificant thing. If you’d just give me a chance—”

“I’ve given you all the chances you’re going to get. I’ve been patient. And I’ve been willing to believe you’d come through with what you promised. And all I get is the runaround.”

“That’s not it at all.” Suddenly, Marjorie’s voice sounded closer, as if Ray had walked out of the room and she was following. I scooted back into the living room. “It’s just that I want things to be good for us, to go smoothly. If you can’t see that—”

“It doesn’t matter, don’t you get it? I’ve had it with this whole thing. I’ve had it with you.” Ray’s voice was louder, too. I sat back down on the couch, and grabbed one of the books off the coffee table, the better to look like I was busy reading—and not eavesdropping.

Just in time, too.

His cheeks flushed, Ray walked into the living room. I think that’s the first he remembered I was there. He stopped long enough to acknowledge me, then headed to the door. “I’ll . . . I’ll see you around Garden View, kid,” he said, and he didn’t wait for me to answer. He was out the door in a flash.

“So, where were we?” Marjorie was either very good at pretending or a complete idiot. Her hands clutched at her waist and her chin high and just about steady, she acted like nothing had happened. “Oh, of course. We were getting together some things for the exhibit. Here.” She tilt-o-whirled around the room, grabbing books and magazines and a couple framed pictures off the wall. She glanced around, caught sight of an open carton next to the front door, and stowed everything in it. “There are some other items in this box that I’ll want to exhibit, too,” she said. When she dumped the whole thing into my arms, I couldn’t help but notice that she might act like Ray walking out on her was no big deal, but her bottom lip quivered. “You can bring it all to the cemetery tomorrow and we’ll sort it out. And remember, Ms. Martin, even though I’ve made sure to entrust you only with things that memorialize the president and never actually belonged to him, even these small things must be well cared for. You can do that, can’t you?”

And before she even gave me a chance to answer, I found myself with box in hand, standing out on the front porch.

Too bad she closed the door before she had a chance to see me sneer.

But not so bad that I was finally free.

Cheered by the thought, I headed for my car at the same time I wondered what was up with Ray and Marjorie.

I might have had a chance to come up with some sort of theory, but just as I got to my car, a hand clamped down on my shoulder.