Tomb With a View

19

I was pretty sure I knew who the murderer was. But there’s this little thing called proof, see, and though I had suspicions aplenty and those brownies helping to point me in the right chocolately direction, what I didn’t have was proof.

I did have another thing, though. That was the heart-pounding, blood-thrilling, brain-buzzing certainty that I was one step ahead of Quinn. Oh yeah, I was jazzed, and so eager to wrap up the case before he somehow caught wind of what I was up to and scooped my suspect out from under me, I was ready to go all-out.

Which explains what I was doing in that conference room Ella had reserved for Marjorie and me to sort and store the Garfield memorabilia that would be displayed at the commemoration.

“There’s got to be something,” I mumbled, thumbing through a pile of old photographs and not caring if Ella knew what I was talking about or not. “We’ve missed something.”

Ella didn’t get it, but then, I didn’t expect her to. She had a normal life, and normal lives don’t include murder. Not routinely, anyway. It was a chilly September afternoon, and she was bundled in a cardigan that wasn’t exactly the same shade of green as her ankle-skimming, button-front dress. She poked her hands into the pockets of her sweater. “Something worth putting on display?”

“Something worth killing for.”

I knew I wasn’t imagining it—her face really did turn the same color as her sweater. She sounded just like I’d heard her sound on the phone when she offered one of her teenaged daughters advice. “If you think you know something that would help solve the case, Pepper, you should leave it up to the professionals. Why not call that nice detective friend of yours.”

I stopped just short of throwing her a look that would have caused her to implode. But only because I liked Ella, both as a boss and as a friend. My smile was sweet, but my teeth were gritted when I said, “First of all, Quinn is not my friend. Not anymore. And second of all, he’s not nice. Never has been.”

“Putting yourself in danger isn’t smart.”

I was holding a handful of photos of the Garfield family and I waved them in front of her face. “Does this look like danger to you? The only thing I’m in danger of is getting bored to death.” I plunked the pictures down on the table and looked around at the mess that was once the neat piles and stacks of memorabilia. “There’s nothing here,” I wailed. “It’s all so ordinary. So dull. I was hoping something that belonged to Marjorie might have gotten mixed up with all this stuff that belongs to the cemetery,” I explained. “But whatever I thought I’d find . . .” When I looked around, my sigh shivered through the room—and caught.

“What is it?” Ella was at my side instantly, one hand out as if she thought I was going to take a tumble and she’d actually have a chance of keeping me from hitting the floor. “You look surprised.”

“Surprised at how incredibly stupid I am,” I told her. I didn’t bother to explain. But then, I really couldn’t. I was already on my way out the door.

Of course I’d forgotten all about the stuff Marjorie gave me that night I visited her at home and I stowed in the trunk of my car. I mean, who wouldn’t? She’d pretty much come right out and told me none of it was all that valuable, so naturally after I dug out that newspaper page I’d shown to Ted Studebaker, I hadn’t bothered wasting any brain cells on what any of it was.

What it was, as it turned out, was exactly what Marjorie had promised: not much.

There were a few photographs of James Garfield the soldier and James Garfield the congressman and James Garfield the president. There were a couple postcards that showed the newly opened memorial. There was a poorly done watercolor of the log cabin where the president was born, a half-dozen or so shots of the canopy under which his body had been displayed when it was first brought back to Cleveland, and a couple ancient magazines, their covers promising “new and surprising information” about the president’s passing.

It seemed even after she was dead, Marjorie had gotten the last laugh: she said she wouldn’t trust me with anything important, and she hadn’t.

There was a piece of newspaper at the bottom of what I thought was the now-empty box, and I grabbed it so I could wad it up and throw it away.

Which was when I realized that what I thought was an empty box wasn’t empty at all.

I lifted out a sixteen-by-twenty-inch frame and stared at the single piece of paper behind the glass.

Ella was still in that conference room with me, and when I read what was written on the paper and my eyes lit up, she knew something was going on.

“What is it?” she asked. In her excitement, she bounced up on the heels of her flat, chunky shoes. “Is it something valuable?”

“It depends who you ask,” I told her, and even though it was late, I headed back to the memorial.

It was time to confront the one and only person who could give me a straight answer.

If Ella knew I was standing up on the marble dais next to the statue of the president, she would have gone into cardiac arrest. National treasure and all that stuff. I was so not in the mood to care. I stood right next to that statue, the framed letter I’d found in one hand and my voice raised so that not even the dead could fail to hear.

“I need to talk to you, Mr. President, and I need to talk to you now!”

It must have been a slow day at the White House. Not two seconds later, he poofed into shape beside me.

“Really!” Honest to gosh, the president’s nose was up in the air. “To think you can disturb the chief executive this way!”

“The chief liar, you mean.” I held up the frame and its contents. “You know what I’ve got here? Well, maybe you don’t. Because maybe you never thought anybody would find it, that nobody would ever know about it.”

He harrumphed in a presidential sort of way. “I can’t imagine what you’re talking about.”

“Really?” I gave him a moment to come clean, and when he didn’t, I cleared my throat and read:

My dearest Lucia,

You have, no doubt, heard of the misfortune that has brought me to this delicate point in my life. The reports are sadly true. I was shot by a man with murderous intent, and though I did not succumb to the attack immediately, I have been most inconvenienced and in much pain. The doctors tell me there is hope, but I watch them as they turn from my bed, their eyes downcast and their expressions somber. They dare not speak the words. They do not have to. I know that I am dying.

Here I paused and looked up at the president. He was as still as that statue over on my left and as pale as the marble floor at our feet. He didn’t say a word so, of course, I had no choice but to keep reading.

I cannot leave this earth, my dear, without conveying to you my last good-byes. Though ours was a fragile and momentary relationship, it has remained as clearly etched upon my heart as if it were the love of a lifetime. I cannot part this world, and from you, my dear Lucia, without imploring of you one last request. Give Rufus . . .

Oh yeah, I admit it . . . I raised my voice here and read slowly and carefully, getting the most I could out of the moment.

Give Rufus Ward Henry my love, and tell him how I do so regret that I was never able to properly acknowledge him . . .

I paused again. After all, this was the big moment.

. . . acknowledge him as being as dearly beloved as are my other sons.

That was where the letter ended, and besides, I think I’d pretty much made my point. His eyes glassy, the president swayed on his feet and staggered back, one hand to his heart.

“I remember now,” he said, drawing in a labored breath. “It was in those steamy days of September. I lay on my deathbed, weak and delirious, haunted by my past, my mistakes.” He swallowed hard. “My regrets. I was so much in the throes of emotion and pain, I could hardly think straight. I called . . .” He passed a hand over his eyes. “I called to Jeremiah Stone for paper and ink. I intended . . . I intended . . .” The president stumbled back toward the center of the rotunda, and when he did, the scenery around us shivered and shifted. I fully expected to see that we were back in that White House office, but instead, I found myself standing in a spacious, neat cottage. There was a window opposite from where I stood, and through it, I saw a sweep of beach and, beyond that, the slow rolling waves of the Atlantic Ocean. No way I was as much of a Garfield fanatic as Marjorie, but at this point, even I knew enough about the president to know where I was: at Long Branch Beach along the Jersey shore, the place where President Garfield died.

I was alone, or at least I thought I was until I saw a movement underneath the blankets of a nearby bed.

“Stone! Stone!” Even though it was breathless and thready, I recognized the president’s voice. When I stepped closer to the bed, though, I realized I wouldn’t have recognized him as the man under the blankets. Not for all the world.

His skin was gray. His eyes were sunken. He was at least a hundred pounds lighter than the robust ghost who haunted the memorial.

“Stone!” Even as I watched, the president shifted in bed. A spasm of pain crossed his face. His skin was slick with sweat. His eyes were glassy. “Stone, I must write a letter!”

“Of course, Mr. President.”

A door over on my right opened, and as efficient as ever, Jeremiah Stone marched into the room, the ever-present portfolio in his hands. “I am terribly sorry, Mr. President,” he said, as oblivious of me now as he’d always been. “I was just discussing a certain matter with Mr. Windom, your secretary of the Treasury.”

“All is . . .” Another spasm of pain crossed his face, and the president closed his eyes against it, then opened them again. He wasn’t about to let that stop him. Though it obviously hurt, he sat up, and Stone shifted the pillows behind him. “All is well, isn’t it? There are no . . . no . . .”

“No problems of national import. No, sir, certainly not.” Stone adjusted the glasses pinched to the bridge of his nose. “It was nothing more than a trivial thing we discussed and I regret leaving your side so that I might attend to it. What can I get for you, sir?”

“Paper.” The president’s voice was so small and shallow, Stone had to lean closer to hear. “Paper and ink. I would . . . I would like to write a letter.”

“Certainly.” There was a table next to the bed, and Stone set his portfolio down on it. He reached into his breast pocket, pulled out one of those old-fashioned fountain pens, and set that down, too, before he backed toward the door. “I have no blank paper with me, sir, but I will get some for you. I will be back in just a moment. And when I do return, sir . . .” Stone’s gaze darted to the portfolio. “There are papers that must be signed, sir. I know it is inappropriate of me to insist so strongly when you are so discommoded, but really, sir, we must get these out of the way before—”

Realizing what he’d almost said, Stone blanched.

The president reassured him with a wheezing chuckle. “I do not hold it against you for nearly saying the words no one else dare speak, Stone. You are an honorable and efficient aide to me, and I cannot fault you for verbalizing the truth. You wish me to sign these papers before I pass into a better place. That is true, is it not?”

Stone nodded.

“We will take care of it when you return,” the president assured him. “For now, if you might bring me that writing paper . . .”

Stone disappeared, but honestly, I don’t think the president even noticed. For a minute, he was so still and quiet, I thought he might have died. But then he sighed, and like a sleepwalker, he groped toward the bedside table, reached into the portfolio, and drew out a piece of paper. Slowly and carefully, he began to write.

My dearest Lucia . . .

I watched him write out each word, pausing now and then to fight for a breath or reposition himself in bed.

“. . . as are my other sons,” he mumbled as he wrote, and his strength gave out. The pen dropped out of his hand and onto the blankets. The letter fluttered under the bed.

“I remember desiring to communicate with Lucia on that, the last day I spent among the living.” When the president’s ghost spoke, I realized we weren’t at the sea-shore anymore. We were back in the memorial. “I remember that Stone went to get pen and paper. But the letter . . . I have no memory of writing it. And yet there it is, framed and in your hand. Are you telling me it was never delivered? Does that mean it never made its way to Lucia? That I never had a chance to say good-bye to my darling?”

“Please!” I turned the word into two emphatic syllables. “All this time, you’ve held the key to the mystery and all you can think of is your love puppy?”

He had the good sense to look embarrassed—at least for a moment. The next, he was back to his old, blustery self. “It is inappropriate to share such a sensitive piece of information with—”

“Give me a break!” I was pissed, and just to prove it, I stomped one foot on the marble floor. “News flash, nobody cares! Not anymore, anyway. You had a kid with your mistress. Big deal! These days in the world of politics, that’s small potatoes.”

His chin went rigid. “It should not be. Such a lapse of moral judgment should never be taken lightly. It would surely have destroyed my career if the public knew of my relationship with Lucia. And should they have learned there was a child born from our liaison, that would have resulted in the ruination not only of me, but of my family as well. That is why the boy was raised by a distant relative of Lucia’s, why I was unable to acknowledge him as my own. Had word gone out that he was my son, I would have never been elected to office. I would never have been able to hold up my head in public again.”

“Yeah, well, that was back in the old days when politicians had consciences. You should have told me about the letter. You should have told me you and Lucia had a son.”

“It cannot be of great importance. Not to your investigation.”

“It is if your son, Rufus, went on to have a family of his own.”

The president glanced away. “He did.”

“And if his children had children and their children—”

“Yes. Yes!” I was glad he interrupted me. I wasn’t sure about all this genealogy stuff and didn’t know how many children’s children’s children I needed to list.

Rather than even worry about it, I gave him an icy stare. “Yes or no. That’s all I want from you. Not an explanation and not a speech. Was Marjorie Klinker really one of your descendants?”

“Rufus was married at an early age. His wife died after giving birth to their first child. He then remarried and fathered a number of children with his second wife. Through that side of the family, there is a convoluted bloodline that—”

“Ah!” I held up a hand to stop him. “Not what I asked. Was Marjorie related to you?”

The president’s shoulders never wavered. “Yes.” “Well, damn! Wouldn’t that just make her day? Or at least it would if she was alive to hear the news.”

Sarcasm—no matter how well placed—apparently doesn’t work on ghosts. Or maybe it’s just presidents who are immune. Thinking over the possibilities, he rumbled, “You think that unfortunate woman’s murder had something to do with . . .” He dismissed the very idea with a lift of his broad shoulders. “No. That is hardly possible.”

“It is possible if somebody knew about this letter. And if that somebody wanted Marjorie to part with it. Her nephew, Nick, talked to an antiques dealer about selling a piece of your personal property. Well, it can’t get much more personal than this. What if he wanted to sell it and she didn’t? She wanted to reveal the news to all the world at the opening of the commemoration. She said she had something to display, something wonderful and valuable. Don’t you see? If Nick wanted her to sell the letter and she refused because it was too precious to her . . .”

“Yes, yes.” The president nodded. “I understand. Of course I do. They may have quarreled. They may have fought. He might have killed her to get his hands on the letter.” He glanced at the frame in my hands. “But he did not get it, it seems. Did he?”

The little piece of presidential one-upsmanship did not sit well with me. Then again, I guess I could forgive Mr. Garfield. He didn’t know the whole story.

“Marjorie wanted to pull out this little bombshell at the commemoration,” I explained. “And until then, my guess is that she had it at home, where she thought it was nice and safe. But that night I visited her, she was plenty upset by the time Ray dumped her and walked out. So when she gathered the stuff she wanted me to bring over here, she somehow grabbed the letter, too. That explains why I saw her running through the house like a crazy person when I drove away.”

Another thought hit and stuck, and I gave myself a mental slap. “It explains that voice mail message she left at my office, too. She said she had to see me the next morning. She said it was important. Of course it was! Marjorie couldn’t find the letter anywhere else so she knew I had it. She had to get it back. It was the most important piece of Garfield junk . . . er . . . memorabilia she owned.”

The president hung his head, and if I didn’t remember he was a politician (which automatically made him a liar in my book), I might have been more inclined to forgive him when he said, “I am terribly sorry. If I had remembered the letter . . . if I thought it had any relevance . . . You believe it does.”

It wasn’t a question. I nodded, anyway. “If somebody wanted to sell this letter and Marjorie didn’t—”

“Then that same person—”

“Killed her. And then when he couldn’t find the letter among her things, he ransacked her house and her locker here at the cemetery, looking for it.”

The president’s brow creased. “It seems to me, that means he might still be looking for this letter of mine. And that if he knew you were in possession of it—”

“He’d be real eager to get his hands on it.” I slid the president a look. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” I asked.

A smile sparked in his blue eyes. “Only if you’re thinking we might still use this letter as bait to catch a killer.”