Tomb With a View pmm-6

by Casey Daniels

  “So you swiped the credit card. That’s what you were getting all tweaky about when I talked to you at Big Daddy that day. Every time I mentioned money, you looked like you were just about ready to jump out of your skin.”

  “I knew you didn’t know I’d taken it. I mean, how could you? But I still felt plenty guilty. I was just going to string Marjorie along. You know, the way she did to me all that time with her promises. I was never planning to use it. In fact, I was just thinking that I’d stop by the memorial the next day and leave the credit card on the desk there where I knew she’d find it. By then, she would have missed the auction and that stupid paperweight she wanted. Would have served her right.”

  “And did you?”

  Ray’s cheeks got chalky. “You mean, did I stop by the memorial? Or did I use the credit card?”

  “Ray!” I closed in on him, flapping the card in his face as I did. “You used it? Somebody else’s credit card? Do you know how incredibly dumb that is?”

  “I did. I do. I shouldn’t have, but . . .” He went back over to the couch and collapsed, his head in his hands. “After I left here, all I could think about was the way Marjorie had lied to me all those months. She told me we were going to get rich together, and instead, all she did was lead me on and treat me like a fool. I didn’t start out being angry, just disgusted with myself. But the more I thought about it, the crazier it made me. Finally I was so mad, I couldn’t see straight. And then I thought about the credit card I put in my pocket, and how it would serve her and this Bernard guy right if I got back some of my own. I’d taken Marjorie out for so many dinners, waiting for her to tell me more about how much money we were going to make. So . . .” He sniffed. He coughed. He scraped a finger under his nose. “I went to Ruth’s Chris on the way home and had myself a really nice meal.”

  Truth be told, I couldn’t blame him. Even if I never would have had the nerve to do the same thing myself. Instead of admitting it, I went for the obvious questions. “They didn’t flag the card? You got away with it?”

  “They never batted an eye. And I spent a lot of money. I don’t get out much these days. Me and Vanessa, we used to go out to dinner once in a while, you know, for special occasions. But then she got sick and the bills started piling up, and . . .” He rubbed his eyes with his fists. “In my whole life, I never enjoyed a steak as much as I did the one I ate that night. Until I got home, that is. I was up all night with indigestion, and it wasn’t the food, I know that. It was my conscience talking, telling me that I didn’t deserve that expensive dinner, that I’d done something I shouldn’t have done. The next morning, I checked the phone book, but I couldn’t find anyone with the name that’s on that credit card. So I did the next best thing. I worked three extra shifts at Big Daddy that week, got the money together, and sent cash to that restaurant, just to make myself feel better. Cost me a bundle, but at least I’ve been able to close my eyes every night.”

  He knew he did the right thing, he didn’t need me telling him. Besides, I was too deep in thought to say much of anything. I tapped the credit card against my chin, thinking, and I was still wondering what it all meant when we left the house and closed the door behind us and when I stared at that credit card all night, unable to sleep.

  Of course the solution hit me right around three in the morning when it was too late to do anything about it. I waited until the sun was up and hit the cemetery early, the better to get into my office and in front of my computer before anyone was around to bother me.

  I found two Bernard O’Banyons listed, neither of them local, and made the calls.

  As it turned out, the first Bernard O’Banyon was a bar in Wichita and the man it was named after? Well, he hadn’t been around since sometime in the 1850s. I was hoping his descendants were, and tried the Bernard O’Banyon listed in the Topeka phonebook.

  Credit card in hand, I punched in the phone number and started into my spiel. It was all about how I was from the credit card company, and I really needed to talk to Bernard.

  “Well, you must have the wrong person.” The woman on the phone sounded sleepy, but then, I didn’t account for whatever time it was in Kansas. “My Bernard, he didn’t believe in credit cards.”

  I felt my spirits deflate. “You’re sure?” I asked.

  “Sure as sure can be. He used to have one of them gas station cards. You know, for filling up the Buick. But he gave that up back in ’04. That’s when he got his identity stolen.”

  My deflated spirits perked up. So did my ears when she added, “That thief, he got it all. Even Bernard’s Social Security number. Used it to rent an apartment in Denver. Imagine the nerve of some people.”

  I told her I couldn’t and asked if I could talk to Bernard.

  “Talk to him?” I didn’t have to see her to know she held out the phone and gave it a look, like she could see me at the other end of it. “What do you mean, talk to him? Bernard, he up and died back last Christmas.”

  Did I thank her for the information before I hung up?

  I honestly don’t remember.

  But that’s because I was too busy thinking again. About credit cards belonging to dead people, and stolen Social Security numbers. About Marjorie.

  And if maybe there was a lot more to her than any of us ever imagined.

  14

  To catch a thief, I had to think like a thief.

  Only I wasn’t trying to catch a thief, was I? I was trying to catch the murderer who killed the thief.

  No matter. As one of my college professors used to say, it was all just semantics, though what the meanings of words had to do with Jewish people, I didn’t know.

  Maybe Ted Studebaker was Jewish. But that didn’t matter, either. Unless he was Orthodox and his shop wasn’t open on Saturdays. What did matter was that I had to wait until then, but once the weekend rolled around and I didn’t have my pesky nine-to-fiver to worry about, I drove out to cute, picturesque, pricey Chagrin Falls.

  Yes, there really is a waterfall. It’s nowhere near the Niagara variety, but it’s still pretty, in a picture postcard kind of way. The river that feeds the falls meanders through the village of charming cottages and gardens and spills over a twenty-foot drop right near an old-fashioned popcorn and ice cream shop. I swear, it’s true. Like something out of a corny movie, only for real, and it brings in tourists by the droves.

  There is also a main street (predictably called Main Street) that features a gazebo and a whole bunch of boutiques and gift shops where scrumptious-looking fall clothes were displayed in the windows. It was a shame I didn’t have time to browse and shop. But then, I didn’t have the money to shop, either, so unless like Marjorie, I was planning on using Bernard O’Banyon’s credit card . . .

  No worries. The card was safe at home, hidden in the bottom drawer of my dresser underneath the wool sweaters I had a feeling I would be taking out any day now.

  It was barely September, and I was chilled to the bone.

  An unseasonably cold wind whipped down Main Street, and I wished when I was getting ready to leave my apartment I had paid more attention to the weather than I had to fashion. I was wearing a short-sleeved white linen jacket. It was as cute as can be, but between that and the tank top I had underneath it and my skinny jeans and wedge sandals, it didn’t offer much in the way of warmth. I was carrying an oversized leather tote, so I couldn’t even wrap my arms around myself in the hopes of generating a little heat.

  Good thing Ted Studebaker Antiques wasn’t far from where I parked the Mustang.

  I took a minute (no more, believe me, I was too cold to waste time) to look at the understated display in the front window of the shop. It featured a gigantic American eagle carved out of mahogany. It looked just like the one embossed on Studebaker’s business card. In front of that was a table with fancy legs with a silver coffeepot on it and a tasteful sign in flowing script that said, PRESIDENTIAL COLLECTIBLES A SPECIALITY.

  I sailed right on in like I had every right to be there. But
then, I guess I did. I had questions to ask: about Marjorie’s collection, about Nick’s sudden interest in it, and about the fact that there must have been something in that Garfield lollapalooza that someone was desperate to find.

  The shop was in a big, old building, and it had one of those tin ceilings, and walls that were painted muted gray. It smelled like lemony furniture polish in there, and it was no wonder. Every table and chair and elaborate china hutch was shined to within an inch of its life. Every plate and vase and oversized pitcher and bowl set gleamed so that every picture of every president on those plates and vases and oversized pitcher and bowl sets was shown off to perfection. There were bookcases all around and hundreds of books on them with titles like Jefferson the Statesman, and The Kennedy Years. There were presidential autographs framed and hung on the walls, and portraits, too. Dozens of them. They reminded me of the ones I’d seen in President Garfield’s office—stern-faced presidents in old-fashioned duds, looking grim and important.

  Ted Studebaker Antiques was impressive, all right. Even to me. I reminded myself not to forget it. When I finally came face-to-face with Ted, the last thing he needed to know was that, in reality, antiques give me the creeps.

  And it’s no wonder why.

  If the people who shopped there could see what I saw—which was a whole bunch of ghosts hanging around, too attached to their earthly possessions to leave them behind—they never would have taken the chance of buying the stuff and dragging it (and the ghosts) home. Even so, it wasn’t the spook-a-rama that turned me off. It was the idea of owning something—I mean, purposely—that someone else had owned before. Who in their right mind would want to do that?

  When Ted himself stepped out from a back room, I recognized him right away. I’d seen him in those snippets of Antique Appraisals I’d watched on TV. He, apparently, had never returned the favor and caught even a moment of Cemetery Survivor. Otherwise I was sure he would have recognized me, too.

  “Can I help you?” he asked, and even if I hadn’t seen him on the show, I wouldn’t have been surprised by his deep, baritone voice. It went perfectly with his barrel chest, his shock of wild, silver hair, and his impressive height. Though the window display may have been understated, and the shop was civilized and genteel, there was nothing unpretentious about Ted Studebaker, his two-thousand-dollar suit, his Italian silk tie, or his alligator shoes. He looked me over and grinned, not in a lecherous-old-man way, but in a very gay way that told me he appreciated my sense of style.

  I could see that Ted and I were going to get along.

  He eyed me and my tote bag up and down, and before I could say a word, he said, “If you’re here for an appraisal, I’m afraid I’m going to have to disappoint you. I wish I could help, darling, but no can do. These days, my agent is in charge, and she insists I can’t even think about an appraisal without a signed release form and a camera rolling.”

  “Then I guess it’s a good thing I’m not looking for an appraisal.” He had a dazzling smile, so it wasn’t hard to smile back. “Actually, I was by here a couple weeks ago, and I saw your sign.” I looked toward the front window. There was a roly-poly ghost standing in the way, hovering over a set of china with big pink flowers on it. Not that it mattered. Studebaker couldn’t see the ghost. And I didn’t need to see the PRESIDENTIAL COLLECTIBLES sign. “I was wondering, do you just sell presidential memorabilia? Or do you buy, too?”

  Like collectors everywhere, Ted’s eyes lit up at the prospect of discovering something new and different that wasn’t on the market yet. He rubbed his hands together, and the heavy gold rings he was wearing glittered in the light. Unaware of the short, pudgy ghost wearing a miniskirt she shouldn’t have been caught dead in standing in the way, he ventured closer. When he got too close to her for comfort, a shiver snaked over his shoulders, but something told me he must have been used to the chilly feeling. With as many ghosts as were hanging around the shop, he must have run into their icy auras all the time. There was a glass case nearby chock-full of old jewelry and he came to stand near it.

  Little did he know he had positioned himself right next to another ghost. This one was a skinny woman in a black Victorian gown. I shooed her out of the way with a look that told her I didn’t appreciate getting flash frozen and joined him.

  “You’re interested in selling?” he asked.

  I hoisted up the leather tote and held it in front of me in both hands. “Maybe. If what I have is worth selling. But if you tell me that, that would be like you giving me an appraisal, right? I don’t want you to get in trouble with your agent.”

  “I’ll handle her.” He gave me a wink and looked at the tote. “You have it with you?”

  I did. I set the tote on the counter.

  “He’s going to try to flimflam you, kid.” The voice came from just over my right shoulder and I looked back to see a ghost wearing a suit and tie who looked like he’d just stepped out of one of those old black-and-white gangster movies. He had a pug-dog nose that sat a little crooked on his face and a nasty-looking scar that followed the outline of his jaw, all the way from his left ear down to his chin. “Don’t let him con you, sweetheart. I seen him do it, see. To plenty of other suckers. Whatever you’re selling, hold out for a good price. Before you agree to anything, make him hand over the cabbage.”

  It wasn’t like I could tell the ghost the price Studebaker quoted didn’t matter, that I wasn’t there because I was looking for money, but for information.

  I reached into the bag.

  The ghost leaned forward. “Don’t be a pushover, doll.”

  I ignored him and pulled out one of the pieces of Garfield garbage . . . er . . . memorabilia that had been in the trunk of my car since the night before Marjorie was killed. It was a framed front page from the Kern County Weekly Record in Bakersfield, California, dated July 7, 1881. PRESIDENT GARFIELD—HIS ATTEMPTED ASSASSINATION, the headline read. HOVERING BETWEEN LIFE AND DEATH.

  If they only knew!

  I presented the piece to Studebaker and waited, giving him my best look of eager anticipation.

  Just like he did on TV when he was sizing up some piece of junk or another, he stepped back, his weight resting on one foot, and pursed his lips. He clicked his tongue. He turned the frame toward the light for a better look.

  “It’s interesting, surely,” Studebaker said. He set the framed newspaper page on the counter and tapped one finger on the glass. “I’ll give you twenty dollars for it.”

  “Told you he’d try to pull a fast one,” the ghost in the suit hissed in my ear. “He does it all the time. You shoulda been here the day some dame waltzed in with a musty old book of poetry. Studebaker turned up his nose, all right, and offered the babe five smackers. She refused, and I was glad. If Studebaker woulda taken a closer look, he woulda seen there was a letter tucked in the pages of that there poetry book, signed by that Hemingway guy. Wish I could tell him. That would teach him a lesson!”

  I tuned the ghost out and turned back to Ted. Truth be told, I wasn’t surprised that the newspaper page was practically worthless. Marjorie had come right out and told me she wouldn’t dare entrust me with much of anything that was valuable. Still, I couldn’t let on. “I thought it might be worth a little more,” I said. “It’s pretty old.”

  “Oh, darling! Everything in this place is pretty and old. Including me! That doesn’t mean anyone’s going to pay big bucks to take me home.” Studebaker’s laugh boomed through the store.

  My smile was anemic. But then, I was playing hard to get. “But you’ll turn around and sell it for more, right? I mean, that is your business. So if you’re going to sell the newspaper and get more for it than you gave me, I thought . . . well, I thought maybe you could up your offer a little.”

  I think he was just trying to let me down easy when he gave the framed newspaper page another look. “I’m being honest here,” he said, at the same time the ghost at my shoulder muttered, “Don’t believe it, sister. He don’t know the meaning of the
word.”

  “I’ll need to have it looked at by an archivist to see if there’s anything that can be done to preserve the old newspaper,” Studebaker said. “And it will probably need to be reframed. Even once all that’s done, the most I can ask for it here in the shop is sixty dollars or so. So you see, I’m being as generous as I can possibly be.”

  I pretended I was disappointed and scooped the newspaper page off the counter. After all, I couldn’t really sell it. Somewhere along the line I had to get it and all the other nonvaluable stuff Marjorie had saddled me with back to Nick.

  Studebaker watched the newspaper page disappear back into the tote bag. “You have more?” he asked. “At home? More old newspapers? More Garfield collectibles? The president was from this area, you know. There’s a great deal of Garfield memorabilia left in northeast Ohio.”

  “I might have a little more. I used to think it was valuable, but after what you’ve told me, I guess none of it is worth very much.” Rather than stand there and clutch the tote bag, I set it on the counter. “Tell me, Mr. Studebaker, what kinds of things are valuable? Are some presidential antiques worth more than others? And why?”

  “Ah, you’re being sly!” He shook a finger at me. Not like he was mad, more like he knew I wasn’t as obtuse as I was pretending to be. I wasn’t. But not in the way he thought. “You do have more collectibles at home. Tell me about them.”

  I thought back to Marjorie’s house and how it had been neat and organized one day, and completely trashed the next. “All the obvious stuff couldn’t be that valuable, because all the obvious stuff was overlooked,” I mumbled. “And Nick—”

  “Nick? Nick Klinker?” Studebaker threw back his head and laughed like a jolly Santa Claus. “Now I see what you’re up to. You’re Nick’s fiancée, aren’t you?”