Tomb With a View pmm-6

by Casey Daniels

  Though I’m not sure what it means and I don’t know who would want to look inside an animal’s mouth in the first place, I am a firm believer in never looking a gift horse in the mouth. I stuck out my hand and shook Studebaker’s. “You can call me Bernadine,” I said. “I know you’ve been to . . .” I coughed, but then, it was kind of hard to get the words out without gagging. “To dear, sweet Aunt Marjorie’s house to look things over. But really, Mr. Studebaker . . .” I leaned closer. “I’m sorry to be so secretive, but Nick has been acting so strange. He says not much of what dear Marjorie had is very valuable. I just can’t believe that’s true!”

  He hesitated, weighing the wisdom of getting in the middle of a family argument. I liked to think it was my winning personality that helped him make up his mind. “Nick is right. About some of it,” he finally said. “But Marjorie had a good eye when it came to Garfield collectibles. That tile from the railroad station!” His eyes glowed. “Now there’s something I’d love to get my hands on. I saw something similar once on the wall at Lawnfield. You know, the president’s home.”

  “And the tile?” I did a sort of slow-mo rerun through my last visit to Marjorie’s. As far as I could remember, the framed tile was right there on the floor with everything else that had been left behind. “Is that tile especially valuable?”

  “It doesn’t have as much monetary value as it does historic value.” Studebaker studied me closely. “What are you getting at, Bernadine? I’ve had a couple long talks with Nick and he assured me he’d been through everything and he was being totally up front with me. Is there something Marjorie had that he hasn’t told me about?”

  I could play coy with the best of them, and I went all out. I glided one finger back and forth over the glass countertop, then realized I probably shouldn’t have. As sparkling as the whole place was, I hated to be the one who left fingerprints. I also couldn’t take the chance of Studebaker noticing my definite lack of an engagement ring. “There are a few more things I need to look through. You know, boxes in the attic. That sort of thing. I’m not even sure Nick’s seen them yet. I just wondered if I should pay more attention to certain things. You were saying, about how some things are more valuable than others. Like what?”

  He thought about it. “Well, one-of-a-kind things, that’s for certain. And if you’re not sure if something’s one of a kind, all you have to do is call me. I’ll be glad to pop over and take a look for you.”

  “That’s so kind.” I smiled my thanks. “So what would be one-of-a-kind?”

  “Well, certainly anything of national significance.” Studebaker made a face. “Obviously, you’re not going to find anything like that. Marjorie knew her stuff when it came to the president. Anything like that, she would have donated to the government. You know, so it could be put on display.”

  “Display.” The word ping-ponged through my mind for a couple confused moments. I wasn’t sure why until I thought about the first time I’d met with Marjorie about the commemoration. “She was all happy about something,” I said, remembering Marjorie’s weird, secretive grin. “She wouldn’t say what it was. She only said it was important and that she was going to put it on display.”

  “Maybe it was something—”

  Before Studebaker could continue, the front door opened and the mail carrier walked in. “I’ve got that package you’ve been waiting for, Mr. Studebaker!” she chirped.

  Studebaker excused himself and went running.

  “Heard what you said!” The ghost with the scar along his jaw crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the glass-front display case. “What’s the story, morning glory? You’re asking an awful lot of questions. Seems to me, you ain’t getting very far with the answers, neither.”

  “You got that right.” I kept my voice down so Studebaker and the mail carrier couldn’t hear me. “There was a break-in, see, and I’m trying to figure out what whoever broke in was looking for.”

  “And this Nick guy . . . ?” The ghost angled me a look. “He the one who’s been calling here?”

  “Calling? Here?” I wasn’t as dense as I was surprised that a ghost would have been paying attention.

  Predictably, the ghost thought dense was the likelier explanation. “Calling. You know, sister, like on the Ameche, the horn, the blower.” He held a hand to his ear like he was talking on the phone. “I heard Studebaker jabbin’ on the phone just the other day to some fella named Nick. That Nick, he must have been talkin about sellin’, ’cause Studebaker, he was talkin’ about buyin’.”

  This wasn’t news.

  Studebaker was walking along with the mail carrier toward the door, and I knew I didn’t have much time. “Did he say what he wanted to sell?” I asked.

  The ghost grinned. A couple of his front teeth were missing. “That Nick, he must have said as how it was something personal because Studebaker got all excited like. But then he sort of froze. You know, just as he was about to say somethin’ else. He listened to the Joe on the other end of the horn say somethin’, and I swear, I thought Studebaker was gonna have some sort of apoplexy or somethin’. ‘What? What!’ he says, and I’ll tell you, he’s usually such a hotsy-totsy Abercrombie. But I swear . . . I swear, I thought the guy was gonna cry. That’s how excited he was.”

  Studebaker opened the door to let the mail carrier out. “Thanks,” I told the ghost.

  “Soitenly!” He had already faded away when Studebaker came back.

  “Now . . . you were saying . . . about some of the other things Marjorie may have owned . . .”

  But I had already found out all I needed to know.

  I thanked Studebaker for his help, promised him that my darling Nick would be in touch with him soon, and headed outside.

  The ghost was waiting for me on the sidewalk.

  “So you got the lowdown, right, sister?”

  There was a couple passing by, so I couldn’t answer. I just nodded.

  “You wanna share?”

  I didn’t especially, but I owed him that much. “Nick Klinker’s got something personal that once belonged to President Garfield,” I told him. “That’s what he’s been so excited about. It’s not just an inaugural invitation, or a newspaper or anything like that. It’s got to be something the president actually owned.”

  “And . . . ?” The ghost waited for more.

  “And I think that means it’s plenty valuable.”

  “Now we’re talking!” He rubbed his hands together. “You think this Nick is gonna sell it?”

  I thought back to the mess that was Marjorie’s, and now that I thought about it, I thought back to the night I had visited her at home, too. Just as I was driving away, I saw her tearing through the house as if she’d lost something. “I think Nick would be happy to sell it if he could find it,” I said. “And I think—no, I know—that two people know it exists. One of them is Nick, and the other is Studebaker. The only thing I need to figure out now is if either one of them might have wanted it so bad, they were willing to kill for it.”

  I was sure I was right, and so caught up in what it all meant, I walked away. It wasn’t until I heard the ghost behind me that I turned back around.

  He was standing outside the antiques shop and he raised one hand. “Abyssinia,” he said.

  It was a corny joke, but this time, I couldn’t help but laugh.

  15

  Thanks to the talkative ghost, I knew more when I left Chagrin Falls than when I got there. As I drove back home, I made a mental list that went something like this:

  1. Both Nick and Ted Studebaker were aware of an item in Marjorie’s collection that had once belonged to President Garfield.

  2. Whatever that item was, Nick wanted to sell it, and whatever it was, I suspected that it had gone missing. Which brought me to:

  3. The logical conclusion, which was that his search for the missing item accounted for why Nick was spending hours over at Marjorie’s and why the place had been turned upside down.

  But wait (
as they say in those awful commercials), there really was more. My incredible deductive powers didn’t stop there. I also knew that:

  1. Just because she was dead didn’t make me think Marjorie was any less crazy, but I had a feeling that whatever that missing item was, it had something to do with the family connection to Garfield that she claimed to have. Because:

  2. That would explain why she was so smug about the surprise she was going to reveal at the opening of the commemoration event.

  3. It also explained why Nick thought that mystery item would bring in some big bucks. It stood to reason that anything actually owned by a president had to be worth a bundle, especially if it revealed some family secret.

  What all this told me, of course, was this:

  Both Nick and Ted Studebaker had motives for offing Marjorie. That is, they each wanted to get their hands on this mystery item.

  But that didn’t mean they were my only suspects.

  Even though he didn’t fit into any of my numbered lists, I hadn’t eliminated Jack when it came to what-was-he-up-to.

  Let’s face it, he was acting plenty fishy. Sure, he was a great kisser, but there was no way I’d forgotten that turned-around sign.

  As luck would have it, just as I arrived at my apartment and was thinking all this, my phone rang. It was Jack, all right, and when he invited me to meet him for dinner that evening at XO, an oh-so-posh steak house in the trendy Warehouse District, I didn’t have to pretend to be thrilled.

  Yes, I was more than willing to go, and yes (again), I fully intended to enjoy myself. But contrary to popular gossip, I am nowhere near as shallow as all that. I was glad to be seeing Jack again not because I was hot for him (well, I was, but that’s neither here nor there). I wanted to see him again because I had every intention of grilling him. And no intention whatsoever of ending up in bed with him. Really. For one thing, I’m not that easy. Ask Quinn. We knew each other for months before that fateful night we finally took the plunge that ended up putting us in over our heads. For another thing . . . well, I have a hard-and-fast rule: no sex with a guy who definitely has something up his sleeve, and just might be a murderer, too.

  I told myself not to forget it.

  It wasn’t easy considering Jack was gorgeous in a gray suit, a white shirt, and a gray tie streaked with blue that wasn’t quite as intense as the color of his eyes. He was generous, too; he ordered the most expensive bottle of wine on the menu and insisted I get the twelve-ounce center-cut filet although I told him there was no way I could even eat all of the eight-ounce. He said I’d appreciate having the leftovers for dinner the next day. Fishy or not, I think he must have known something about the salary of a cemetery tour guide.

  Oh yeah, Jack was every bit as delicious as our meal, and as charming as hell, too.

  But I am strong, remember, not to mention determined. We exchanged small talk over dinner, but when our waitress brought coffee and a vanilla bean crème brûlée for us to share, I knew it was time. I had cut Jack enough slack.

  “So how are things at school?” I asked him.

  He was as smooth as the crème brûlée. “We don’t start until next week. Which is why I decided to stay in Cleveland another couple days. There’s so much to see here. Man, I can’t believe the whole summer has flown by. Vacation always goes too fast.”

  “And you must be knee-deep in getting ready for the new school year, what with lesson plans and all. I get so mixed up sometimes!” I made sure I rolled my eyes when I said this, the way I’d seen the truly dim girls do. “I remember you said you were from Hammond, Indiana, but where did you say you teach? Laramie High School?”

  “Lafayette High School.”

  I smiled like I was too dumb to keep track. Like being the operative word. “And you teach math, right?”

  “History.”

  I hate a liar who can keep his story straight.

  I spooned up some crème brûlée. “A history teacher probably knows a lot about . . . well, history! I mean, presidential history.”

  “Exactly.” Jack took two bites of dessert to my one, and I saw that if I didn’t get a move on, he was going to get more than his share. The crème brûlée was that good. “That’s how I developed my interest in President Garfield.”

  “So a history teacher would know about his life.”

  “Sure.” He took another bite of dessert, but his eyes were on me. I do not have an overactive imagination, but I swear, there was a flash of irritation in those incredibly blue eyes of his. I knew what it meant. No matter how innocent my questions, by asking them I was challenging him.

  And Jack didn’t like to be challenged.

  He kept his eyes on mine. A not-so-subtle signal that no matter how innocent or clever I was, he wasn’t going to cave. He sat forward and propped his elbows on the table. “Would you like to know what year he was born? It was 1831. Or when he accepted a teaching position at the Western Reserve Eclectic Institute? That was 1856. Just a year later, he was named president of the school. It’s called Hiram College now, you know.”

  “No, no. Nothing like that. That’s not what I meant.” I didn’t know enough yet; I couldn’t afford to alienate Jack. I kept my tone as light as can be. “What I was really wondering about is any family secrets he might have had.”

  It wasn’t my imagination the first time and it wasn’t this time, either. That little spark in Jack’s eyes tamped back. I hadn’t even realized his shoulders were stiff until I saw him relax. He put down his spoon and sat back. Which gave me unspoken permission to finish the dessert. While I did that, I watched him watch me, and damn, but I wished I could read the thoughts going through his head. Did he know I was on to him and his lies about Lafayette High School? Maybe. But there was one thing for sure—he was a cool customer. Too cool to show it.

  “You’re talking about his affair with Lucia Calhoun,” Jack said. He drank his coffee hot and black, just like Quinn did. I sipped. He gulped it down. “That’s no secret. Garfield admitted the indiscretion to his wife. She forgave him.”

  “And there were no children.”

  “Not as far as anyone knows.” Jack sat up. “Wait a minute! Are you telling me you think there were? That there’s some kind of proof?” Since I was being coy in the name of detecting, it was just as well that I had a mouth full of crème brûlée and couldn’t say a thing. He went right on. “If you did have some kind of proof . . . wow . . . that would create quite a sensation.” He smiled at the prospect, but little by little, that smile faded. By the time it was completely gone, there was nothing but worry in Jack’s eyes.

  A guy who cares enough about me to worry.

  It’s one of those things that always gets to me. Especially true when Jack reached across the table and covered my hand with his and little sizzles of electricity danced across my skin.

  I reminded myself about my “no murderers” rule.

  “You told me once that the woman who was murdered at the memorial . . . you said something about how she thought she was related to the Garfields. Now you’re asking about something personal that belonged to the Garfield family. Does this have something to do with the murder, Pepper? Because if it does . . .”

  Chalk it up to flashbacks. This sounded a little too much like the horse hockey I’d heard from Quinn, and I knew what was coming next. Jack was going to say exactly what Quinn would have said in this situation: mind your own business.

  I pulled my hand out from under his and tucked it in my lap, the better to keep the electricity down to a minimum and keep myself from getting burned.

  Maybe I didn’t have to because the next second, Jack asked, “Are you looking into the murder? Investigating? Wow! I’m impressed. But I’m worried, too. That sounds dangerous. And I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.”

  “I’m not exactly investigating,” I told him because, since what I was doing, exactly, was investigating, the last thing I wanted was to admit it. “I’ve just heard some things and talked to some people and
it all got me wondering.”

  The waitress came over to refill our coffee and leave a leather portfolio with the bill in it, and I waited for her to pour, then added sweetener to my coffee. “I guess I just don’t understand why people care about old things and history that doesn’t matter anymore. I thought maybe you could explain it to me.”

  Jack chuckled. He didn’t even look at the bill; he just took out a credit card and popped it in the portfolio. That was when his cell rang.

  He looked at the caller ID and pushed back his chair. “I’m sorry. Really. But I’ve got to take this.”

  I gave him a little wave to tell him it was fine by me. Since he already had the phone up to his ear, there didn’t seem to be much point in saying anything else. Already deep in his conversation, he walked out toward the lobby and I saw him march out the front door to the street and the place where the poor smokers had to go to indulge their nasty habit.

  I sipped my coffee.

  And eyed that leather portfolio.

  Call me nosey. But then, it is my business, isn’t it?

  I checked to make sure Jack was still outside and flipped open the portfolio. He’d put a MasterCard inside that looked just like the MasterCard in the bottom drawer of my dresser, the one with Bernard O’Banyon’s name on it.

  Again, I glanced up. Jack was nowhere in sight and I didn’t know how much time I had.

  I grabbed the card for a closer look and tipped it to the light so I could see the name embossed on it.

  Ryan Kubilik.

  I committed the name to memory, but even as I did, I had a feeling I knew what I’d find when I did an Internet search for this Ryan guy.

  He’d be dead, just like Bernard O’Banyon.

  And I knew what that meant: though I couldn’t imagine how or why, there was a connection between Jack and Marjorie. One that involved phony credit cards. And may have resulted in murder.

  The thought soured the taste of the crème brûlée in my mouth. Lucky for me, I didn’t let it stall me. I tucked the card back into the portfolio and slipped the portfolio back in place next to Jack’s coffee cup just as both he and the waitress showed up.