Tomb With a View

by Casey Daniels

Just in time, too.

  “Here it is.” Gloria shuffled back into the room holding a business card. She handed it over. Sunshine grumbled when I got too close.

  Gloria pointed at the name printed on the card in raised lettering. “See? See, right there. It was Ted Studebaker himself, all right. Just like I said. I saw a car pull up. Something slick and shiny. I knew it wasn’t anybody who’d been here before so I went over to see what was going on. You know, the way a good neighbor would. Nick was just coming out of the house and he introduced me. That’s when Ted Studebaker gave me that card.”

  I gave the card a careful look. It was printed on quality paper and embossed with an eagle in the background. Ted Studebaker Antiques, it said, was located in Chagrin Falls, a charming and highfalutin suburb to the east, and it said that Ted was a specialist in presidential “autographs, memorabilia, and ephemera.”

  “So Nick was talking to a presidential collector.” I said this to no one in particular, but of course, Gloria assumed I was talking to her.

  “That’s right.” She grabbed a plastic cigarette lighter from a nearby table and fired up another smoke. “I heard them. You know, when I was on my way over there. Nick was telling Ted Studebaker to come on inside, telling him he had lots to show him. Ted, he wasn’t even through the front door and Nick was asking about what stuff was worth and if anybody would want it.”

  “Did Studebaker say anybody would?”

  “Well, it never got that far. Not as far as I heard, anyway. Because that’s when me and Sunshine, we showed up to see who the stranger was and we introduced ourselves. Didn’t we, Sunshine?” She kissed the dog on the top of the head.

  At least it wasn’t on the lips. I took comfort in the thought.

  “I can tell you that Studebaker, just looking inside the Klinker place from the front porch, he was practically foaming at the mouth. That’s how excited he was to get in there and start rooting through things. When we were leaving, they went into the house, and I heard Nick say something about how he wanted to sell it. All of it.”

  I thought about the neat piles of Garfield kitsch in Marjorie’s house. It made sense that Nick would have been through it. Especially if he wanted to sell it all.

  Well, maybe all wasn’t exactly the right word. There was still the matter of the floor tile Marjorie had stolen off the wall at Lawnfield. And the box full of Marjorie’s stuff in the trunk of my car.

  Those were problems for another day. So was Ted Studebaker. For now, I had more important things to think about, so I thanked Gloria for her help, got in my car, and did that thinking.

  Remember, at our first meeting, Gloria was the one who told me she wanted Marjorie Klinker dead.

  She was also the one who swore up and down that she didn’t really know what the statue of President Garfield at the cemetery looked like, because she’d never been to Garden View.

  At the next red light, I reached in my pocket and pulled out what I’d swiped from Gloria’s coffee table.

  It was a brochure from the Garfield Memorial. Yep, the same brochure we hand out to visitors.

  13

  Every time I picked up the newspaper, I expected to see some screaming headline about how the cops (read that, Quinn) had made major strides in solving Marjorie’s murder. Every time I turned on my TV, I held my breath, hoping against hope that I might not see You-Know-Who’s gorgeous face looking back at me. I knew him well, see, and I knew that when the big moment came, when the lights were on and the cameras were rolling, he’d be his usual chilly as a frozen cucumber self in front of the crowd. Oh yeah, he’d be all about business. His jaw would be tight. His shoulders would be rock steady inside a suit no cop should be able to afford. His voice would be impassive as he told the world he had a suspect in custody.

  His eyes, though . . . his eyes would spark with a message meant just for me: Take that, Pepper. I solved it before you did!

  The fact that he didn’t even know I was investigating said something about how paranoid I was about the whole thing. And how determined.

  Was it any wonder I was itching to get back to my investigation?

  Too bad working at Garden View tends to get in the way of my real life. Perfect example: the next day. After missing work on Wednesday in the name of paying a visit to Nick’s home, then darting off to Marjorie’s, I couldn’t very well call off again. So there I was, all day Thursday, stuck in the memorial. And all day, there were people in and out.

  None of them was Jack. This was unfortunate, because it meant I didn’t have a chance to satisfy my curiosity about either what he was up to or if he was really as good a kisser as I remembered. And no, the sign outside the stairway that led up to the ballroom wasn’t moved again. I knew that for certain because I dragged myself up and down those darned winding steps five times that day, just to check.

  So that part of my investigation was at a dead end.

  There was no sign of the president, either, so even though I doubted he’d been paying enough attention to remember one tourist, I couldn’t question him about Gloria Henninger’s visit to the memorial. I wondered if she was part of the comings and goings he complained about. I wondered why Gloria lied about never being in the cemetery. I wondered what business she could have had there, and of course, considering how much she liked “that Klinker woman,” I wondered if she’d murdered Marjorie.

  I had no answers and no way to find them considering I was stuck inside catering to tourists like . . . well, like I was the cemetery’s official tour guide.

  And again, my investigation was up against a brick wall.

  With nothing left to do, I actually worked like a dog that day. I showed visitors around, and talked about presidential history and mosaics and marble and all that other stuff, and even though I mostly didn’t know what I was talking about and made up half of what I told them, they all seemed pretty pleased and left there thinking they knew more than they did when they walked in. Even at four o’clock when it was time to lock up, I still wasn’t done. At Ella’s request, I headed to the administration building to proofread the latest edition of her Garden View newsletter. After bailing out on her the day before, I figured it was the least I could do. It was six o’clock by the time I left the cemetery, and even then, I didn’t head home. I know, I know . . . a private detective’s work is never done. I had no choice. I went right back to Marjorie Klinker’s.

  I still had all her junk in the trunk of my car, remember, and a boatload of questions to ask Nick.

  I parked in what was becoming my usual spot and hurried up the front porch stairs. At that time of the year, it was still light in the evening, and I guess it was a good thing it was. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have screeched to a stop when I noticed the gouges all along the front door jamb. I bent closer for a better look. Sure enough, the lock had been forced.

  My first reaction was surprise. But I am ever practical. Especially when it comes to danger. My second thought was that I needed reinforcements. Obviously, when anything happened in the neighborhood, Gloria and Sunshine were the first to know, and I had already made a move toward their house when I saw that there was no car in Gloria’s driveway, no lights on in the house, and no signs of movement from inside. Didn’t it figure, the one time I needed the neighborhood busybody, she was out for the day.

  Left to my own devices, I put a finger to the door and pushed. It had been closed, but not all the way, and it swung open. I’d seen my share of cheesy horror movies in my day; I knew better than to go inside alone. But honestly, I couldn’t help myself. I took one look and caught my breath. I just had to step inside for a better look.

  Close up, what I saw was even more astounding. The neat piles of Garfield pictures had been swept off the couch and were scattered all over the floor. The books were unstacked from the chairs and tossed all around. The pile of knickknacks near the fireplace looked like it had been hit full force by a tornado. Stuff was everywhere, knocked over, messed up, gone through.

  Gone through. Yeah
, that’s what I said. Like somebody was looking for something.

  I couldn’t imagine what, so I guess it was a good thing I didn’t have a chance to think about it. Then again, when I heard a noise from the den, I wasn’t sure that was a good thing, either. Too late, I realized that just like what happens in all those B horror flicks, I wasn’t alone in the house.

  Something told me it wasn’t Nick. From what I’d heard about his sudden change of heart, I knew he wouldn’t have been skulking around in parts unknown. He would have been there in the living room, weeping over the mess and cataloging like a fiend even though he should have been home concentrating on those pink and red M&Ms.

  The realization settled in my stomach like ice, and I held my breath and inched back toward the front door. I should have moved faster. That way, I would have been within getting-out distance when a man walked out of Marjorie’s den.

  I don’t know who I was expecting, but it sure wasn’t friendly-as-a-teddy-bear Ray Gwitkowski. I shot forward, surprised, sure, but relieved, too. “What on earth are you doing here?” I asked him. “And what happened to this place?”

  “Don’t ask me.” As if I’d just told him to stick ’em up, Ray held up both hands, distancing himself from the mess. “It was like this when I walked in. Honest. And hey, kid . . .” He bent forward as if he needed a closer look to be sure it was me. “You’re the last person I expected to make a return appearance at Marjorie’s. What are you doing here?”

  Don’t think I didn’t notice that he’d asked the same question I’d asked him.

  Or that he’d never answered mine.

  “It sure didn’t look like this the last time we were here, did it?” Ray propped his fists on his hips and looked around. “You know, the night we both were here to see Marjorie.”

  “And it didn’t look like this yesterday, either,” I told him. “Yesterday it was all organized and neat. And today . . .” I looked back toward the smashed lock on the front door. “Did you do that? Did you break in?”

  “Absolutely not. No way. I just stopped by and I wasn’t even planning to come in. But then I saw that the lock was banged up, and the door was open and . . .” His shoulders sagged and he scraped a hand through his hair. “It’s like this . . . I was hoping to get in and out of here and I was praying that nobody would notice. And now here you are.” Ray was still wearing his Garden View volunteer shirt. It matched the one I was wearing except that mine had the word STAFF embroidered over the heart. His face turned as sickly yellow as the color of our shirts. “I think I might be in big trouble, kiddo.”

  It wasn’t what he said that made me believe him. It was the way he looked. Miserable. Ray’s arms hung limp at his sides. His eyes were tormented. I picked my way through the framed pictures of President Garfield and the books spread out all over the living room floor, sat down on the couch, and patted the seat beside me. “You want to tell me about what’s going on?”

  “I don’t want to tell anybody. It’s too embarrassing. And . . .” He shoved his hands in his pockets and looked up at the ceiling. “I’m pretty sure what I did was illegal, too. I don’t . . .” When he looked at me again, his eyes were pleading. “I don’t want to get in any trouble. I’ve led a good, honest life. It’s a little late in the game for me to be going to jail.”

  Had I just invited a murderer to sit down beside me?

  I admit, the thought crossed my mind. Too late to take back my invitation. Ray came over and plunked down on the couch.

  I consoled myself with the fact that, number one, I was wearing sneakers and not high heels. Which meant I could probably get through the minefield that was Marjorie’s living room pretty easily, even if it did mean crunching a couple pictures of President Garfield in the process. Number two, Ray was old, and he was visibly shaken. I was pretty sure I could outrun him.

  Just to be sure, I glanced at the front door, gauging the distance and the best way to get there. Sure of my escape route, I got down to business. Obviously, I do not mean cemetery business.

  “I know it doesn’t seem likely,” I said, folding my hands in my lap, the better to look professional and proficient. “But I’ve had some experience when it comes to things that are illegal.”

  He nodded. “I’m not surprised. You’re one smart girl, and I heard Ella talking once. She said something about how you helped find out who killed somebody.”

  I sloughed this off. After all, if Ray was a murderer, I didn’t want him to think I was too good. “Ella tends to exaggerate. But I have been . . . well, sort of involved in a couple investigations. That’s why I went to Big Daddy Burger to talk to you the other day, Ray. I’m trying to figure out some things. You know, about Marjorie’s murder.” I wisely did not mention that one of those things was who dun it. Just in case. Instead, I kept things cool and noncommittal. “I’ve just been wondering. That’s all. You know, about everything that happened. I can’t figure it out.”

  “Wish I could help.”

  I stared at him in a way that should have told him he could, if only he’d open up and tell me what was going on. But since Ray was so busy wringing his hands and looking at the floor, I guess he didn’t notice. That’s why I had to egg him on.

  “What are you doing here, Ray?” I asked.

  He cleared his throat. He tapped one foot against the carpet. Just when I thought he was going to spill the beans, he folded. “I can’t,” he said. “It’s too embarrassing.”

  “More embarrassing than the way Marjorie strung you along so that you’d take her to dinner and the movies?”

  It was a good move on my part. He had no choice but to shake his head. “Not more embarrassing than that,” he admitted. “But still . . .”

  I am not usually an ease-into-the-subject sort of person. It’s a waste of time, and honestly, I don’t have the patience for that sort of nonsense. But I could tell that Ray was going to need some coaxing.

  I eased into the subject.

  “Nobody liked Marjorie,” I said, and sure it was an understatement and went without saying, but remember, I was easing here. “She was a bully.”

  “A self-righteous bully.” Ray’s shoulders rose and fell. “That’s the worst kind.”

  “Which doesn’t mean she should have died the way she did.”

  I was hoping he’d agree with me. Instead, he sat up straight and asked, “Do you think it’s all right to pay somebody back for the bad things that somebody did to you?”

  I turned in my seat, the better to keep both eyes on Ray. “You mean Marjorie.”

  He nodded. “Do you think revenge is all right? I mean, if it’s justified?”

  My throat was suddenly dry. I swallowed the sand. “If you’re talking about murder—”

  “Murder? Oh my, no way!” A touch of green added to the sallowness of Ray’s complexion. “I hope you don’t think—” He blanched because, of course, from what he’d just said, it was the only thing I could think. He slid me a look. “You gonna tell the cops?”

  “Not if there’s nothing to tell them.”

  “You gonna think less of me?”

  “That, I can’t say.” I scooted just a titch closer. I was trying to establish some kind of rapport, after all. I needed every advantage I could get. “I don’t know what I’ll do or say until you tell me what’s bugging you.”

  He laughed uncomfortably. “It’s a biggee.”

  “Bet I’ve heard it before.”

  I was pretty sure my strategy wasn’t working. Ray sat there like a lump, and I was all set to chalk the whole thing up to faulty psychology when he pulled in a breath and let it go along with a sigh. “That day when you came to see me at Big Daddy Burger, I wasn’t exactly truthful with you, Pepper,” he said. “Not completely anyway. And it wasn’t like I wanted to lie to you. I just couldn’t help myself. You see, when you asked me what I was doing here at Marjorie’s that night—”

  “You told me you came here to tell her to get lost. Because of that rude note she sent you about Nick
’s wedding.”

  Ray nodded. “Well, that’s true insofar as it goes. That’s why I came here. I wanted to tell her that I was tired of being taken advantage of. And I did. I wanted her to know that Ray Gwitkowski is nobody’s patsy. And I told her that, too. I wanted to make her understand—loud and clear—that I was tired of her stringing me along. I did that, too. But I also . . .” He hung his head. “I did something else, too.”

  So he wasn’t about to confess that he’d killed Marjorie. Not that night, anyway. Not unless he loaded her body into a car, drove all the way to the cemetery, dragged her into the memorial and up that corkscrew stairway just so he could hurl her off the balcony.

  I breathed a sigh of relief. Whatever he told me, it couldn’t come anywhere near murder.

  “I never meant for it to happen,” Ray said. “It was just . . . well, you remember, Marjorie and I went into the den to talk. That’s when I was all set to tell her how I was tired of waiting for that get-rich scheme she promised me. I’d had it with her. I would have told her right then and there, too. If you hadn’t knocked over whatever it was you knocked over in here.”

  I looked toward the fireplace. The day before, that vase with the long, old-fashioned hat pins in it had been set right next to it. Today, the vase was knocked over and lying on its side about five feet away.

  “It was those hat pins,” I told Ray, pointing. “They made a lot of noise when they hit.”

  He nodded. “And Marjorie came running. That’s when I had a couple minutes alone there in her den and that’s when . . .” Color shot up his neck, and even the tips of his ears burned red. “I was in there by myself,” Ray said. “And I was waiting for Marjorie to get back and I was just standing there by the desk. And that’s when I saw it.”

  “Saw—?”

  Before I could even finish my sentence, Ray leapt up off the couch and went into the den. Apparently old people can move pretty fast when they want to. I told myself not to forget it, and just in case he was planning to come back into the living room with some kind of weapon, I got up, too, and edged over to the door.