Tomb With a View pmm-6

by Casey Daniels

  Of course, I couldn’t help but think about Quinn. I mean, what woman in her right mind who’d been sleeping with the sexiest detective in town wouldn’t? Hot-as-hell smiles tend to do that to me.

  Unlike Quinn, who was all about smoldering looks and pent-up emotions, Jack was much more aboveboard. He was open and honest and said what he was thinking. There was a concept that would throw Mr. Sexy Detective for a loop! It all made me think that, in addition to being as hot as a firecracker, Jack might also be a whole lot of fun.

  “Let me guess, you live in a fancy condo in some trendy part of town.”

  That was Jack talking, and I’d been so busy letting my imagination run wild, I hadn’t even been listening. Maybe he didn’t notice because he went right on to say, “And I suspect you have a great wardrobe, too.” He glanced over my khakis and polo shirt, which obviously weren’t anybody’s idea of a great wardrobe, and his golden eyebrows rose. “You vacation in fabulous places, right? Cancun? Rio? Punta Cana? No way you’re the skiing type. I picture you on a beach, palm trees swaying overhead and a drink in your hand. One of the ones with the little umbrellas in them.”

  “I picture me on a beach, too, and in that fancy condo, but that’s not going to happen anytime soon. Do you have any idea the kind of money a cemetery tour guide doesn’t make?”

  He laughed, but only for a second. “Not to sound morbid or anything, but funny you should mention that. I was walking around here in the quiet and thinking about you over at that funeral, and that got me thinking about that woman who was killed. I wonder how it all looks to her now? You know, life. I think about how I’m always trying to stretch my paycheck so I can make my mortgage payment, and my car payment, and have a little extra every week to go out for a burger and a beer with my friends. And I was just wondering, you know, how if once you’re dead, it all doesn’t seem really stupid. All that scrimping and all that saving, and what does it really come down to? Maybe once you’re dead and up there . . .” He pointed a finger up at the puffy white clouds that floated overhead. “I wonder if you don’t look down on the world and think, ‘I should have bought that fancy condo when I had a chance.’ Or ‘I should have gone to Cancun when I was young. I should have enjoyed life because now it’s over and—’” This time, Jack’s grin wasn’t as hot as it was just plain sheepish. He was as cute as a button.

  He got up from the picnic table bench. “Sorry, I sound like a crackpot! I’ll warn you, I tend to be introspective, but I swear, I’m not usually this focused on death. Honest. I was just thinking, that’s all. You know, about how I hope that poor woman enjoyed her life, how I hope she didn’t nickel-and-dime her way from year to year and miss out on the things she really wanted. Because now she’s dead, and she’ll never get to enjoy any of it again.”

  I waved away his concerns. “Not to worry. One thing Marjorie apparently never did was scrimp and save. She had more James A. Garfield memorabilia than a museum.”

  “Really?” He dropped back down on the bench, all excited in a very history-teacher-like way. “I would have loved to see it. She’d probably been collecting for years. I mean, I read how old she was and that she used to be a librarian, and I’m thinking that once she retired, she would have had to cut back on her spending.”

  “Apparently not. I was at her house and . . .” No, Jack had never met Marjorie. I still assumed he would think I was a loser for visiting her at home. Rather than even try to explain, I smoothly turned the attention away from that particular incident. “Ray—he’s another one of the volunteers—he told me that Marjorie just bought an original invitation to the Garfield inauguration. It was something she talked about buying a few months ago and said she couldn’t afford. But then she turned around and did it, anyway. So I guess that was a good thing. She did just what you said all of us should do, she used her money to buy the things that brought her happiness.”

  “Well, good for Marjorie. I hope she rests in peace.”

  Don’t ask me why, but it was the first time I even considered that she might not, and the very idea sent a claw of icy terror clear through me. If Marjorie dead was anything like Marjorie alive . . . well, if her ghost ever spooked its way into my life, I was going to have to figure out a way to turn in my Gift club membership—fast.

  I guess the thought made me look just as panicked as it made me feel, because Jack leaned closer and automatically tried to comfort me. “It was just a figure of speech. You know I’m kidding, right? You don’t think I believe in—”

  “Ghosts?” I hopped off the picnic table bench. A tiny portion of my brain advised me to get it over with here and now. Tell Jack about my Gift. Lay it on the line. Before I had any emotions invested and anything to miss once he determined I was crazy and walked out on me.

  Would I have done it? Fortunately, I never had a chance to find out.

  His cell phone rang, and he hauled it out of his pocket and took a look at the caller ID. “Gotta go,” he said. “But I’ll be back tomorrow to see more of the memorial. You’ll have lunch with me?”

  He didn’t give me a chance to answer; he just smiled in a way that told me he was looking forward to it.

  And maybe that was a good thing. Just like telling him about my ability to communicate with ghosts might not have been a smart thing, jumping up and down and yelling yes, you betcha, absolutely! probably wasn’t the best course of action for a woman who was trying to play it cool.

  10

  I may have been wondering what on earth I was supposed to do next as far as my investigation was concerned, but believe me when I say I had no such reservations about choosing an outfit the next morning. I was going to lunch with Jack, so no khakis and polo shirt for me. Instead I picked out a sleek little cotton dress: square-necked, sleeveless, form-hugging. I grabbed a matching, kiwi-colored bolero on my way out the door of my apartment just in case the memorial was cool. Since Jack was hot (and oh, how I was counting on that!) and I didn’t want to look too dowdy, I could strip off the bolero before he arrived.

  What I wasn’t counting on was getting down to my car parked behind my apartment building and finding that two of the tires had gone flat. I grumbled, sure, but never let it be said that Pepper Martin isn’t a woman of action. I called AAA on my way back up to the apartment, where I took off the kiwi-colored dress, carefully folded it, and stashed it in a carry bag so I could change back into it at lunchtime. That done, I pulled on the dreaded khakis and polo shirt and, as long as I was at it, a pair of sneakers, too. Sure the open-toed slingbacks I’d been wearing were adorable, but just as sure, I could never walk the mile from my apartment to the cemetery wearing them, even if it weren’t all uphill. The slingbacks, too, got tucked into the bag. Thus prepared, I started out for the monument.

  It was a sticky morning, so even if it was born of necessity, bringing clothes to change into was an act of pure genius. Just like cute shoes with high heels aren’t meant for walking, perspiration stains on a gorgeous dress make such a bad impression. Especially when the fabric is dry clean only.

  By the time I had climbed all those stairs that led up to the front door of the monument and stuck the key into the lock, I was breathing hard and desperate to sit down.

  So one can only imagine how much I did not want to be greeted by a certain dead commander in chief.

  “This is impermissible.” President Garfield paced the entryway like a caged lion. He’d obviously been waiting for me, he was so worked up, the great orator actually sputtered. “I simply will not tolerate . . . I cannot abide . . . these sorts of interruptions are unconscionable, not to mention rude. Comings and goings and—”

  “It’s Tuesday. I’m supposed to be here.” I was sweaty and tired, remember. I couldn’t afford to stand on ceremony, even with the president. I trudged into the office, set down my purse and my carry bag, and flopped into the chair behind the desk. It was blessedly cool inside the monument and I fanned my fiery cheeks and wished I could enjoy a few moments of peace. You’d think a man who
’d made it all the way to the White House would have been smart enough to pick up on that.

  “I have been patient,” the president said, coming into the office and sounding anything but. The way he huffed and puffed, it was like he was the one who’d had to slog to work that morning. “I have been forbearing. I have been as a man who is adrift on a stormy sea, and who sees that there is no beneficial result to be had from raging against the conjunctive forces of Fate and Nature. He must stay his time, and excogitate his plans. He must—”

  With a sigh, I pushed myself out of the chair. “He must get to the point?”

  The president flushed. He had a high hairline and the color flowed over his cheeks and all the way up his forehead. “The point is, young lady, I can no longer abide such disturbances. I have a country to run!”

  It was early. I was hot and tired. There was no coffee-maker in the memorial like there was in the administration building, where I would have stopped first thing if I was in my car instead of on foot, and the caffeine from the cup I’d had back at home had been sweated out of me. I was a little nervous about having lunch with Jack, and a little annoyed that, so far, my case wasn’t coming together. I was a little worried that Quinn was making more progress when it came to Marjorie’s murder, and more than a little sure that if he was getting somewhere more promising than my nowhere, he wouldn’t share any information with me and that he would, in fact, gloat about it the first chance he got. Oh, how I didn’t like the thought of Quinn gloating!

  Like anybody could blame me for blowing a fuse?

  I pounded out into the entryway and flung open the door, stepping back so the president could get around me. “You want to run the country? Fine! Get out of here and go run it. You certainly couldn’t do a worse job than all the other goofballs who think they know what they’re doing.” When he didn’t move fast enough to suit me, I stomped one sneaker-clad foot and waved him toward the outside world. “Go!”

  The president threw back his shoulders and marched to the door. “I will do exactly that,” he rumbled, and he stepped outside.

  If we were in some TV drama, or one of those romance novels my mom likes to read so much, I would have slammed the door behind him and brushed my hands together in a good-riddance sort of way. I was all set to when I looked out to where the president stood on the flagstone veranda and saw his jaw go slack. His shoulders dropped, and he turned as pale as I’d always pictured ghosts would be before I met one and found out they don’t look any different from anyone else. His eyes bulged and he jerked forward and threw his arms out to his sides—right before he let go a cry so gut-wrenching, it rattled my bones.

  I rushed outside, but remember, the living can’t touch ghosts. If any of us do, we’ll freeze up like Popsicles. If I could have put a hand on his shoulder, or given him a shake, I might have been able to get through to the president. The way it was, all I could do was stand there, helpless and panic-stricken, while he writhed in pain and screamed as if he were burning from the inside out.

  “What’s going on? What’s happening?” By this time, I was jumping up and down in front of him, and he was flickering, like a strobe light. On, then off. On, then off. My eyes filled with tears of desperation and a lump of terror in my throat, I realized that each time he flicked off, it took him longer to come back. “What do you want me to do?” I screamed.

  He vanished before he could tell me, and I waited. One second. Two. Three. This was not good. I’d seen ghosts disappear from this world to go into the next before, and aside from one who got dragged to hell and deserved it (the bitch), I had never seen one pass over so violently.

  I waited, my pulse beating out each second, wringing my hands and wondering what to do and how to do it and—

  The president poofed back onto the wide veranda outside the front door, and I let go a breath I hadn’t even realized I was holding.

  “Something’s wrong,” I said. As if he needed me to tell him that. “What do you want me to do?”

  Slowly, as if each move he made was painful, he turned to look at the door. “Inside.” The word didn’t exactly come out of his mouth. It hissed through the air like the wind and chilled me from head to toe. “Must . . . get . . . into . . . the tomb.”

  It was the first time I realized that when we came outside, the massive wooden front door had slammed closed behind us. I prayed it hadn’t somehow locked, too, and I grabbed for the handle, but though I was icy on the inside, my fingers were slick.

  My hand slipped.

  The president flickered.

  “Hold on!” I yelled, and made another try for the door. My fingers wrapped around the iron handle, and once I had a hold of it, I hung on tight and wrenched open the door. A whoosh of air from inside the memorial rolled over us. The president stopped flickering.

  “Quick. Inside,” I told him. I didn’t have to. One step at a time, he dragged himself back into the memorial. Once he was in the entryway, I slammed the door closed behind us and stood with my back braced against it, breathing hard.

  “What the hell—”

  “Really, Miss Martin.” The president puffed like a faulty steam engine. “A woman should never—”

  A laugh burst out of me. “You almost disappeared. Or dissolved. Or exploded. Or something. And all you can worry about is my language?”

  “I am afraid it is a product of my upbringing.” He laughed, too, but then, I guess I couldn’t blame him. I didn’t know what happened there outside the front door, but whatever it was, he was lucky to have escaped. He knew it, too. I could tell because though he tried to keep a stiff upper lip, his eyes were troubled and his expression was clouded. “I am grateful for your assistance,” he said, snapping himself out of the uncomfortable memory. “As you know, I cannot touch things of this world. If you had not been here to open the door for me and allow me back inside—”

  “You could have just poofed right through it.” I nodded to convince him, and myself. “I’ve seen ghosts do that. They can disappear on one side of a wall or door and pop up on the other side.”

  “Certainly, if they have the strength.”

  “And you didn’t.” Just thinking of the way his features had twisted with pain made my stomach swoop. I hugged my arms around myself. “What happened?”

  “You angered me.”

  I was about to tell him no way any of it was my fault when he held up a hand to keep me quiet.

  “You angered me, yes, with your taunting and your insistence that I should take my place in the world rather than keeping to myself here in my tomb. But I should have known better than to give in to so unproductive an emotion. I was weak, and that failing within my character made me act with brazen disregard for all that is true.”

  Like this was supposed to explain things? I leaned forward. “And all that is true is . . . ?”

  The president harrumphed. He grumbled. He muttered. When he was done doing all that, he turned and walked into the rotunda. Just like the first time I went in there with him, the marble pillars around us were suddenly enveloped in sparkling fog. It drifted around my feet and curled up my arms. When a blast of air cleared the mist around us, we were back in the room with the fireplace and the long wooden table with all those portraits of all those presidents staring back at us from the walls.

  “I was president for only four months,” Mr. Garfield said. “You know that, of course. You must pardon me if I sound far too self-absorbed, but really, like all my countrymen, you must be aware of my singular history.”

  I really wasn’t, and I doubted too many other people were, either. I mean, honestly, how many Americans know anything about President James A. Garfield? Though I’d grown up in the area and had attended public schools not all that far away, none of my teachers had ever even mentioned him except in passing. We’d never come to his memorial for a field trip, either, and now that I thought about it, that was a shame. There was a president of the United States entombed practically in our backyard, and I bet thousands of Clevel
and-area schoolchildren didn’t even know it.

  After all I’d seen him go through outside, I didn’t have the heart to make the president suffer any more. Hearing that practically no one but a history teacher like Jack or a nutcase like Marjorie remembered him . . . well, there was nothing to be gained from that. I scrambled to think of everything Ella had told me about the president before she assigned me to his memorial.

  “You were the twentieth president.”

  “Yes.” He nodded, pleased. “That is most certainly true.”

  “You took office in March.”

  “March of 1881.”

  “And you were shot in . . . July?”

  “Yes. Exactly. I was shot by a man named—”

  “Charles Guiteau.” I was pretty proud of myself for remembering it. “But you didn’t die right away. You lived until—”

  “September. September nineteenth, to be exact.” His shoulders rose and fell. “So little time, and so much important work that needed to be accomplished. I could have done so much.”

  I scurried through the mental notes I’d made in case someone who visited the memorial actually wanted to talk about the president instead of Marjorie’s murder. “But you did. There was civil service reform. And that investigation of the Post Office. And—”

  “And all of it important, yes. But I had years stolen from me. Years, and achievements I can still, to this day, only dream of. All taken from me by a man who was brainsick. You see, by his own authority and with no knowledge or encouragement from any member of my staff, Guiteau gave a speech or two on my behalf during my presidential campaign. Once I was elected, he thought himself solely responsible for my success and insisted he should have a post in my administration as a show of my appreciation. Again and again, he wrote to me, and to members of my cabinet. He insisted I should send him to Vienna and name him consul general. Needless to say, I ignored his missives, as did the members of my staff, but that did not stop him. He kept up his incessant supplications. He wrote letters. He waited outside my office at the Executive Mansion. He finally gave up on Vienna and demanded that I name him ambassador and that he be posted to Paris. Imagine the audacity of the man!”