Tomb With a View

2

I climbed the steps to the imposing turquoise-colored front doors of the one-hundred-and-eighty-foot-tall sandstone memorial building with trepidation in my heart. Believe me, it wasn’t just because I knew Marjorie was lurking inside, waiting to pounce on me and rip me to pieces like she had poor Doris. Sure, Marjorie was a royal pain, and crazy to boot, but heck, in my time as a private investigator I’d handled hit men, nasty ghosts, and all sorts of bad guys. Crazy and annoying was a piece of cake. I didn’t want to deal with it, but if I had to, I could.

No, the reason a cold shiver raced up my spine and goose bumps popped up along my arms was the same reason I’d been avoiding the memorial in the weeks since I’d finished the cemetery restoration project.

Here’s the scoop: While I was involved with that project, I had reason to be in the memorial, and one of the people I was working with took my picture. Little did he know (being more than a little crazy himself) that when that photo was developed, it would show exactly what he saw through his viewfinder—me next to the statue of James A. Garfield—as well as something he didn’t—the ghostly shape of the president standing on the other side of me.

I suppose I should have been impressed. I mean, what with this new ghost having been president and all. But honestly, I wanted nothing to do with the old guy.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I’m not used to ghosts by now, and I’m sure not afraid of them. After all, they’ve been bugging me ever since the day I hit my head on one of the mausoleums at the cemetery. And I’ve been a good sport about it, if I do say so myself. I solve their murders. I help clear their names and their reputations. Sure, I’ve considered bailing on this goofy Gift of mine plenty of times, but in the end, I’ve never shirked my responsibilities toward those pesky spooks. They want closure, I give them closure, even if it means risking my own life.

What do I get in return?

I get walked out on by the man I loved.

It’s wrong, not to mention unfair, and after three weeks of soul searching, I had decided what I was going to do about it—I was officially out of the private investigation business for the dead.

Commander in chief or not.

My mind made up, even if my hands were trembling just a little, I inched open the door that led into the entryway of the memorial. Even I wasn’t sure who I was more reluctant to see, Marjorie or the president. “Anybody here?” I called.

Nobody answered.

Relieved, I stepped forward, and the door clicked closed behind me. Aside from the fact that I knew a ghost hung out there, I had to admit that the memorial was really a pretty impressive building. It was built way back when and featured a round tower on top of a hulking, square building. Outside, there were carvings along the walls that depicted the life of James A. Garfield. Inside . . .

I looked around at all the marble and the mosaics, at the tiny office and gift shop to my right and the steep, spiral staircase to my left that led downstairs to the crypt and upstairs to a balcony, where visitors could look down on the rotunda where the president’s statue was displayed. There was an observation deck up there, too, and even a ballroom, though it was closed to the public and hadn’t been used since like forever. Ahead of me and up two shallow steps was the rotunda where that picture of me had been taken, the one with the ghost in it.

Fortunately, there was no sign of the presidential poltergeist—or anyone else. Relieved, I ducked into the office, saw that no one was in there, either, and thanked my lucky stars. If Marjorie was nowhere to be found, I could head back to the administration building with a clear conscience.

My hopes were dashed the moment I heard footsteps pounding on the marble staircase. I turned just in time to see Marjorie come huffing and puffing down the steps.

It is important to point out that even on the best of days, Marjorie was not an attractive woman. She was a retired librarian, after all, and while I don’t think that automatically meant she had to be frumpy, she’d apparently led a life so lost in stacks of books, she’d forgotten that, once in a while, she needed to make human contact, and that when she did, it never hurt to put her best foot forward.

Marjorie was nearly as tall as I am, and as thin as a rail, but not in model-gorgeous mode, more in a yikes-is-that-woman-bony sort of way. She teased her poorly dyed maroon-colored hair into a sixties beehive and always— summer or winter, indoors or out—topped off the do with a filmy head scarf tied into a boa constrictor knot under her chin.

The rest of her wardrobe was volunteer standard issue—khaki pants and a Garden View polo shirt that was slightly yellowed under the armpits. In fact, the only thing that stood out about Marjorie at all—and I do not mean in a good way—were her pointed, rhinestone-encrusted glasses, the red lipstick she applied with more enthusiasm than skill, and the perfume she must have put on with a ladle. It was sweet and cloying, like gardenias, and like gardenias, it always made my nose itch.

Marjorie’s skin was usually pale, like she didn’t get out in the daylight enough. That morning, though, there were two bright spots of color in her cheeks that matched the red geraniums on her head scarf.

She saw me standing in the office, came to an abrupt halt at the bottom of the steps, and fought to catch her breath. Behind the pointy glasses, she blinked like a startled owl, and she tapped nervous fingers against one hip. “I thought I heard someone. I thought . . .” Marjorie was no spring chicken. If I had liked her more (or even a little), I would have pulled out a chair and told her to sit down and take it easy. The way it was, I counted on her figuring that out for herself.

Instead, she pulled back her shoulders and raised her chin before she walked into the office. I always had the sneaking suspicion that Marjorie didn’t like it that I was taller than her.

“I wouldn’t have bothered to hurry if I knew it was just you,” she said, then smiled the way people do when they say something rude and expect you not to be offended. “What I mean, of course, is that I thought you were a visitor. Obviously, the people in charge here . . .” She said this in a way that made it clear I was not one of those people. “They rightly expect me to show a great deal more enthusiasm with our visitors than with employees. Employees, of course, can wait.”

“Not employees with lots to do.” Since Marjorie lifted her head, I did the same. I’d have her beat by a couple inches, even if I wasn’t wearing sky-high shoes. “Ella says we have to work on this commemoration thing together.”

“Yes.” It was hard to believe anyone could make one syllable sound so sour. Marjorie’s breaths were finally steadying, and all that color drained from her face and left her looking more bloodless than ever. Still, she drummed her fingers against her hip, or I should say more accurately, against the pocket of her khakis.

“I tried to talk some sense into her.” Her comment pulled me out of my thoughts.

“Me, too.”

“I pointed out what she obviously hadn’t thought of, that we can’t afford to let things get out of hand. I have experience with this sort of thing. I know. With a project this big, it can be easy to lose control, and then before you know it, things fall through the cracks. The commemoration is too important to let that happen. I told Ms. Silverman it would be best if all the planning was handled by just one person.”

I wasn’t sure if I liked it that Marjorie and I were on the same page. Still, I managed a smile that was far friendlier, and far less acid, than hers. “Imagine that! That’s exactly what I told Ella, too.”

Marjorie’s smile was as stiff as her hair. “Though my argument was solid, Ms. Silverman didn’t listen. I finally gave in, and I told her I wouldn’t mind an assistant if it was someone who would take the project seriously, someone who has the proper respect for the president and the proper knowledge of history. Someone who’s able to take direction and do what needs to be done without questioning or second-guessing me. I hate to have to be so blunt, Ms. Martin, but I think we’ll get off on the wrong foot if we don’t lay our cards out on the table. I told her I’d rather work with anyone but you.”

“Which is exactly what I told her. Anyone but Marjorie.” Because I knew in my heart Marjorie was the kind of woman who didn’t approve of twinkling, I twinkled like all get-out. “Looks like we’ve got something in common after all.”

She didn’t excuse herself when she sidled past me to get to the desk. “Well, if we have to work together—”

“Apparently, we do.” I rubbed a finger under my nose. Already, Marjorie’s gardenias were getting to me.

“And if we have to design a celebration that will be the highlight of the cemetery’s year—”

“I guess that’s the plan.”

“There are some ground rules.” Marjorie straightened her shoulders and gave me a look that reminded me of a dead tuna. Not that I’d actually ever seen a dead tuna up close and personal, but I have a pretty good imagination. “I’ve watched as you give some of your tours. You play fast and loose with facts.”

“Which is why you always feel obliged to shove me out of the way, step into the spotlight, and take over.”

Her sigh was all about being pushed to the limit. “One does what one has to do.”

“One needs to remember,” I said, the emphasis on that first word, “that most of the people who come through Garden View on tours aren’t all that worried about drop-dead accuracy. They’re just looking to see the place. You know, to absorb a little of the atmosphere and hear some interesting stories, and maybe to see some stuff they consider art.”

“Stuff?” When Marjorie’s top lip finally unfurled, there was a smudge of red lipstick under her nose. “You obviously don’t take your work seriously.”

“As seriously as I have to.”

“You try to entertain people with cute stories. Rather, you should be working to educate them.”

“Oh, that would keep them coming back.” We were—what?—three minutes into this conversation, and already I was getting pretty tired of being lectured. Not to mention bored. Big points for me, though, I was doing a better-than-usual job of holding on to my temper. That is, until Marjorie started up again.

“If you’re going to be working for me—”

“Hold on there!” I’d been reasonable, and more than a little accommodating. But never let it be said that Pepper Martin is anybody’s doormat. It’s not for nothing that my parents stopped calling me by my given name, Penelope, and started in on Pepper. It was easier to yell, for one thing, and it reflected the temper that came with my red hair. At that very moment, the spurt of anger that shot through me felt as fiery as my gorgeous tresses.

I stuck out a hand in front of Marjorie’s face to demonstrate that she had to stop, and now. She swallowed whatever it was she was going to say, and sure that I had the floor, I propped my fists on my hips. “We need to get something straight, all right. Right from the start. The first thing is that I don’t work for you. It’s with you. Get the difference? If you don’t, you might want to back off right now. I’m the one drawing the paycheck around here. It might not be much, but to my way of thinking, that means I don’t answer to someone who pops in once in a while just to show off and make nice ladies like Doris Oswald cry.”

“Did I? Make Doris cry?” There was a chance I might have forgiven her if Marjorie had looked surprised rather than smug. She sloughed off the whole thing with a lift of one shoulder. When she did, another wave of gardenia washed over me. I sneezed just as she said, “That just goes to show you what a flighty, silly woman that Doris is.” There was a stack of weighty-looking books on a nearby chair, and before Marjorie lifted one, she scraped her hands against her khakis. She hugged the book to her heart.

“History is not an inaccurate science,” she told me, her voice warming with her passion for the subject. “History is facts and it is dates and it is what happened, not what almost happened or what could have happened. You’d think anyone who took the time to volunteer at a cemetery as important as this one would know that. Yet Doris breezed in here this morning, talking about our dear president as if she knew everything there was to know about him. She got his wife’s name wrong, for one thing. Called her Letitia instead of Lucretia and said Lucretia and the president were married in 1859 instead of 1858. Imagine.” She snorted. Never a pretty thing for a woman to do, but Marjorie took it to new unattractive heights.

“If Doris can’t stand to be corrected when she’s giving the wrong information, then maybe those of you who work here . . .” She paused here, the better to put the blame on me. “No doubt you can find something else useful for her to do, like stuffing envelopes or emptying trash cans. She needs to be kept away from visitors. We owe that much to the memory of our wonderful, dear James Abram Garfield.” Her voice clogged. Her eyes got all misty. “It’s my duty to do everything I can to let the world know what a capable leader he was, what an asset to this country. It’s the least I can do,” she said and she swiveled a stony look in my direction, daring me to contradict her. “After all, I am one of his descendants.”

Oh yeah, by this time I was plenty steamed. It wasn’t even so much her looniness that was driving me up the wall as it was the whole superior attitude thing. Remember what I said about kicking Marjorie in the shins? This was the moment I would have done it if I wasn’t worried that kicking in peep-toe sandals would ruin a perfectly good pedicure. Without the option of physical violence, I decided to get to her where it really hurt.

“I was talking to one of the other volunteers the other day,” I said, as innocent as can be, and careful not to mention any names lest the unsuspecting volunteer incur Marjorie’s wrath. “Your name came up.”

This pleased her so much, she actually simpered. “Well, of course. The other volunteers look up to me. When I can’t be here to make sure things are handled correctly, I can only hope they do their best. Someday they may know enough to take over as volunteers here at the memorial. If they pay attention and learn from me.”

As if I agreed, I nodded. “This volunteer was talking about Garfield’s family. You know, Letitia and the kids.”

“Lucretia.” Marjorie’s lips puckered.

I laughed, but then again, I could afford to. I was about to get even with Marjorie for what she’d done to Doris, and I was feeling righteous. “Anyway, this volunteer told me they had a bunch of kids.”

“Yes. Seven. Eliza was born in 1860, and the poor darling died when she was just three years old. Then there was Harry. He was born in 1863. Harry Augustus, that was his full name. Then James. He was born on October 17, 1865, and then—”

“Whatever!” Maybe Marjorie was right when she said I liked to ignore facts. Hers were boring me to tears. “The volunteer also told me that there are plenty of descendants of those children. I mean bona fide, legitimate descendants. You know, ones who can prove they are directly connected to the president.” Wide-eyed, I traded her look for look. “You’re not one of them.”

She twitched as if she’d been slapped, but Marjorie never backed down. In fact, the smile she beamed at me teetered on the edge of rapturous. “That volunteer apparently hasn’t been paying attention, though I can’t understand how. I’ve told all of them the story. Dozens of times. I’ve told them that, in the 1860s, James Garfield had a relationship with a young woman named Lucia, Lucia Calhoun.”

I thought back to everything she’d said earlier, and wondered if it was as much of a surprise to Marjorie as it was to me to realize I’d actually been paying attention. “But you said he and this Letitia chick—”

“Lucretia.”

“You said they got married in 1858. Wow. You mean the old guy had an affair.” I leaned forward far enough to peer into the rotunda and gave the statue there the thumbs-up. “Who would have thought an old fossil like that would have had the life in him!”

Marjorie clutched her hands at her waist. “He wasn’t old. Not then. As a matter of fact, he was never old. He died before his fiftieth birthday. President Garfield was born in 1831. He was in his thirties when he met Lucia. She was a reporter for the New York Times, certainly an unusual job for a woman at the time, especially considering that she was only eighteen.”

I made a face. “Thirty-year-old guys and teenagers should not be getting it on.”

Marjorie ignored these words of wisdom. “He eventually stopped seeing Lucia,” she pointed out. “But not until after his wife threatened to divorce him. That, of course, would have ruined his reputation and destroyed his political career. In the great scheme of things, I suppose it was all for the better. Otherwise, the country would have been denied one of its truly great presidents.” Her chin came up another fraction of an inch. “My mother, Lucy—named after Lucia herself, of course—is the granddaughter of Rufus Ward Henry, the son of Lucia Calhoun and the president. He, of course, was raised by relatives who took him in and made him one of their family. There really weren’t other options available to women at the time. Not to women who had children out of wedlock.”

Everything Marjorie said fed right into my revenge-for-Doris strategy. Did I gloat? Just a little. “Yeah. I think that volunteer said something about how you think that’s true. Thing is,” I pointed out, “that volunteer said there weren’t any children from that affair. And that you don’t have one shred of proof that says there were.”

All Marjorie did was grin like she knew some big secret. It wasn’t the reaction I was hoping for, and it didn’t give me a whole lot of satisfaction on Doris’s behalf. “Is that what that person said? Well, we’ll see about that!” Humming under her breath, she did a little hop-step toward the desk and sat right down. She set the book she was holding on the desk in front of her. There was a black-and-white photo of a bearded man on the cover of the book, and I’d seen the statue in the rotunda so many times, I recognized him right away.

If I was casting a Biblical epic movie, I would have chosen James A. Garfield to play God. He was a big, burly man with a stubborn chin and eyes that looked like they could bore right through a person. Of course, the beard helped reinforce the whole Old Testament image. He had a hairline that had receded up to the top of his head, a long, broad nose, and a set to his shoulders that said he wasn’t going to stand for nonsense—from anybody.

“He was born right here in Ohio, you know. Not too very far from where we are right now.” Marjorie skimmed a loving hand over the picture. “He was a teacher, and an attorney, and the president of a college. He was also a staunch abolitionist, and a hero in the Civil War. He was promoted all the way to major general, and he only left the military because he was elected to serve in the House of Representatives, and Abraham Lincoln himself personally begged him to give up the Army and come to Washington, where he could be of even better service. He was elected to the presidency in 1880, took office in March, and by July . . .”

I doubted Marjorie was allergic to gardenias, but she sniffled just like I did. “He was shot by a crazed man in July and died of his wounds the following September. The assassin was put to death for his crime. He was hanged. But in spite of the fact that justice was done, our country suffered a terrible loss. The president was truly an amazing man.”

And I had the truly amazing (and sounding more impossible by the moment) task of working with this Garfield-a-holic. With no other choice, I figured we’d better get down to business. It was that or tell Ella I’d lick envelopes and empty trash cans while somebody else dealt with Marjorie.

“That means we’re going to want to put on some kind of amazing commemoration party for him, right?” I didn’t wait for her to answer because, frankly, I didn’t much care what she had to say. “What exactly does Ella want us to do?”

“Nobody said Ms. Silverman’s plans were set in stone. She’s thinking of a small, tasteful display here in the memorial using some of the items the cemetery owns supplemented by some of my own things.”

I was almost afraid to ask. “And you’re thinking . . .?”

“I’ve got a collection!” Marjorie’s dark, beady eyes sparkled. As if just thinking about it got her all hot and bothered, she fanned a hand in front of her face. A whiff of gardenia rose into the air. Rather than start sneezing again, I went to stand near the doorway that led into the memorial’s entryway. “It’s a wonderful collection! You’ll see. You’ll come to my house tomorrow.” It wasn’t a request, and since she knew it, she rattled off her address. “Seven o’clock. I’ll show you some of my special things. That way I can choose what will go on display and you can—”

“Schlepp it over here for you?” I was going for ironic. She didn’t get it.

Marjorie nodded. “It would be useful to have someone help me transport my collection, but only if you can be very careful.”

“Oh, I can.” I zoomed right past irony all the way to sarcasm, but she never noticed.

“We’ll go through it all systematically. First the Garfield books, then the artworks, then Garfield memorabilia,” she said, oblivious to the glazing over of my eyes. “Then we’ll move on to the Garfield ephemera, you know memorial cards from the funeral service, the invitation to his inauguration. I’ve even got an original tintype of him taken in his Army uniform. Very rare, of course, and quite valuable.”

I was supposed to be impressed. There was no chance of that, but everything Marjorie said did start to fall into place. “Aha!” I pointed a finger her way. “That explains the whole thing! You collect all this stuff because you’re looking for proof that you’re really related to him.”

“I’m not looking for anything.” She said this in the superior sort of way she said everything else so, of course, I didn’t pay much attention. “What I’m doing is upholding a sacred trust. I’m helping to preserve the memory not only of one of my ancestors, but of one of the truly great American presidents. His term in office was certainly short, but it is often underrated.”

“You would know.”

Again, my words hit the irony wall and bounced back without making a dent. Marjorie simply smiled. “Yes,” she said, “I do know. Because in case you haven’t noticed, I’m something of an expert. In fact, I would go so far as to say that I know more than anybody about the late, great president.”

Oh yeah?

I wasn’t so sure.

Because just as she was saying this, there was a little ripple in the air right behind Marjorie and a mist that took shape little by little until it was unmistakable, down to the beard.

If Marjorie knew everything there was to know about James A. Garfield, I wondered if she knew his ghost was standing right behind her.