Tomb With a View

9

Believe me, when it comes to the men-and-romance department, I have more than enough experience, some of it good, some of it is disastrous. I knew better than to have my head turned by Jack’s smile, or Jack’s charm, or Jack’s gorgeous body.

That didn’t mean I wasn’t grinning—just a little—when I locked up the memorial and headed to the other side of the cemetery for Marjorie’s funeral.

Or that I didn’t have to remind myself that standing at the edge of an open grave and grinning probably wasn’t the most politically correct thing to do.

I wiped the little glowy aftermath of my encounter with Jack from my expression and did my best to concentrate on what the minister was saying about Marjorie. No easy thing considering it was all about how dedicated she was, how wonderful she was, how knowledgeable she was about all things James A. Garfield, and blah, blah, blah.

To my way of thinking, it would have been way more interesting if the plump, bald minister could have given me some insight into who tossed her over that balcony.

With that in mind, I took a careful look around the crowd of mourners. It was no surprise that most of them were familiar, Garden View employees and volunteers. I mean, really, did I expect Marjorie to have friends?

I gave the people I knew a quick once-over. Ella and Jim Hardy (our big boss) both looked appropriately solemn. So did Ray Gwitkowski. He was just behind Ella, next to Doris Oswald, and both Ray and Doris had their eyes cast down, looking at the simple, but tasteful, program we’d all been given that listed the bare essentials of Marjorie’s life: birth date, death date, and the plot number where her copper-colored casket would soon be lowered into the ground. It also included a note of gratitude from her nephew, Nick Klinker, who said, as Marjorie’s only relative, he was grateful for all the kindnesses shown to him in his hour of need.

Or maybe the program wasn’t what Ray and Doris were looking at.

I’m tall, remember, so I sometimes get an interesting perspective on things. I craned my neck for a better look, and from where I stood, I could see what a lot of the other mourners couldn’t: Ray and Doris didn’t have their eyes averted out of grief, or even respect. They weren’t reading the program. Both of them had their gazes focused on where their fingers were entwined.

Old people, holding hands like lovestruck teenagers? I would have been grossed out if I wasn’t so busy wondering what it meant and if it could have anything to do with my case.

Ray had mentioned that he was dating someone new, but I never expected it to be Doris, and talk about a new perspective! Suddenly, ideas weren’t just niggling at the back of my mind, they were jumping up and down, shouting out the possibilities. Here’s pretty much the way my thought processes went:

Marjorie made Doris cry. Marjorie made Doris think about leaving the cemetery. And Doris loved her volunteer work at the cemetery.

This told me there was no way Doris could have been all that fond of Marjorie.

Marjorie blackmailed Ray into taking her to concerts and movies and parties. Marjorie demanded his time and his attention. She dangled the promise of a get-rich scheme in front of him like a fat worm on a hook, and because of it, she expected him to jump at the drop of a hat. She had not only stolen Ray’s time—time he could have been spending with his new honey, Doris—she’d also humiliated him and played him for a chump.

This meant that Ray wasn’t a big fan of Marjorie’s, either. In fact, I knew this to be true, because Ray had gone to her place that night I visited to throw that wedding invitation back at her.

Could old-folk love run deep enough to spark jealousy? The kind that resulted in murder?

I didn’t know, but I did remember that both Ray and Doris were in the cemetery the morning Marjorie was killed. If I recalled correctly (and yes, I usually do), when I ran into them, they both looked a little flustered. And I hadn’t forgotten that back at Big Daddy Burger after all the flipping and the squirting was done, Ray lied to me about something. Nobody was that jittery when they were telling the truth.

I tucked all this away for further consideration, and since the minister was now saying something about Marjorie’s dedication to always looking her best (yikes!), I continued to study the crowd. I’d gotten there a couple minutes before the service started and talked to Ella, so I knew the man standing closest to the minister was Marjorie’s nephew, Nick. He was in his thirties, and not bad looking, considering he was related to Marjorie. He had eyes that were a soft shade of blue, mousy brown hair, and a high forehead. He was wearing a dark suit that was just outdated enough for me to think he only pulled it out of his closet for weddings and funerals. Ella said he was a software engineer, and I wasn’t surprised. I pegged him as a geek.

Nick’s wedding was the one Marjorie had tried to browbeat Ray into attending, so I assumed the petite blonde who stood at Nick’s side was his fiancée. She, too, was wearing a dark suit. Every strand of her shoulder-length hair was in place and her nails were perfectly manicured. One look, and I knew that Marjorie and her soon-to-be niece-in-law did not share the same good taste, especially when it came to shoes. No alligator green platforms for this woman! She wore a pair of Dolce & Gabbana pointed-toe slingbacks made from a combination of earth-toned patent, suede, and snakeskin, and I experienced an instant pang of shoe envy.

“Amen!”

I was jolted out of my thoughts when the minister finished his prayer and the folks all around me mumbled, “Amen,” in response.

Before the mourners scattered back to the cars parked along the winding road, I knew I had to talk to Nick. For one thing, I had a trunkful of Marjorie’s Garfield memorabilia I was anxious to get rid of. For another . . .

Well, experience has taught me more than just what’s what where men are concerned. I knew that when it came to murder, it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility to suspect the victim’s nearest and dearest. I also knew it would be stupid not to take this opportunity to question Nick. After all, if anybody knew Marjorie, it was probably her only living relative.

I was all set to close in on Nick when I saw him approach Ella. I didn’t want to butt in. He might have been doing something sappy like thanking the staff on behalf of the family for all their concern and support. Or he could have actually been as nutsy as his aunt and eager to talk about President Garfield and his supposed connection to the family. Either way, I wasn’t taking any chances. I waited until Ella walked away before I made my move.

“I’m Pepper,” I said by way of introduction. “I’m the one who—”

“Found her. Yes, of course.” Nick’s expression softened. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am—” He stopped short and glanced at the woman at his side. “I can’t tell you how grateful Bernadine and I are for all you did for my poor, dear Aunt Marjorie.”

I carefully avoided pointing out that by the time I found her, there was nothing I could have done for Marjorie even if I’d wanted to. She was that dead. I sloughed off his gratitude. “All I did was call the cops. It was nothing.”

“It was the final act of kindness for a woman who was nothing but kind herself.”

See? I was right. He was getting all mushy. Funerals do that to people. I knew this for a fact when this total stranger reached over and gave my arm a squeeze. I guess it was a good thing I was so distracted by the gesture, since it kept me from saying what I was thinking, and what I was thinking in relation to this horse hockey about Marjorie being kind was, “Huh?”

Instead, I tried to keep myself—and my investigation—on track. “Speaking of cops . . .” We weren’t, not exactly, anyway, but I wanted to, and this was my perfect opportunity. “I’ve been wondering if you have any theory about what might have happened to your aunt?”

“Theory?” Nick and Bernadine exchanged glances. “It seems pretty obvious what happened. She went over the railing of the balcony. The police say she was pushed.”

The what was all pretty straightforward. It was the who I was worried about. There wasn’t exactly a good way to inch closer to the subject so I jumped in with both feet. “Do you know anyone who disliked your aunt enough to do that?”

Nick’s nose scrunched. His eyes scrinched. If I didn’t know that Quinn had already asked him the same question—and believe me, I knew he had; there was no way a guy as thorough as Quinn would let something so obvious get away from him—I would have said that Nick was surprised by the very thought.

“You work here,” Nick said. “And Aunt Marjorie spent so much of her time here. I have to imagine you knew her well. So it shouldn’t come as a surprise when I tell you exactly what I told the police when they asked me that question. No one disliked Aunt Marjorie. How could they? She was sweet and compassionate. She truly cared about other people, about their interests and their ideas and their feelings.”

“Right.” I hoped I looked more enthusiastic than I sounded, and when I was afraid I didn’t, I settled for hoping Nick wouldn’t notice. “But someone did throw her off that balcony,” I reminded him. “If we could figure out who—”

This time, he patted my arm. “Aunt Marjorie was a big believer in law and order, and so am I. I have faith that the police will find the real murderer. Until then, all we can do is wait, and hold Marjorie in all our hearts.”

Actually, there was something else we could do. “Speaking of that . . .” I hoped I wasn’t stepping into something I couldn’t easily get out of, and braced myself in case Nick started babbling on about the long-gone president and I had to make a quick exit. “I was at Marjorie’s the other night, and she has all that memorabilia and—”

“Of course! Aunt Marjorie told us all about that commemoration she was in charge of for the cemetery, didn’t she, Bernadine?” His fiancée’s nod was a reflection of his. “I just told Mrs. Silverman . . .” He looked back to where Ella was chatting with the minister. “None of her collection means anything to me. I don’t want any of it, and we certainly don’t have room for it, do we, Bernadine? I’ll be liquidating every bit of it as soon as I’m able. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” The minister had turned toward his car and I knew Nick had to catch up with him so I backed off. Good thing I did, too, or I would have missed out on the most interesting thing that happened that day.

Well . . .

I remembered Jack, and now that the funeral service was over, I allowed myself a smile at the same time I corrected myself. This was the second most interesting thing that had happened that day.

Because just as I turned around, I saw Ray head toward his car.

And as soon as his back was turned, I watched as sweet, fluffy Doris kicked dirt on Marjorie’s grave.

Just for the record, one o’clock is a lousy time for a funeral. By the time it was over, it was too early to head for home, and too late to get much accomplished back at the office even if I was inclined to go over there. My wisest course of action seemed to be to head back to the memorial. After all, it was officially closed for the rest of the day, and that meant I could officially take my time, free of the gawkers, and try to get a line on my investigation.

I parked and walked around to the front of the building, and it wasn’t until then that I second-guessed my plan. But then, that’s when I noticed a movement in the huge rhododendron bushes over on my right. And that’s when I remembered the creepy guy with the baseball cap and the chilling gaze.

As if he was looking at me right then and there, I froze, watching the branches of the bush twitch. My heart in my throat and my knees already starting their morph into Silly Putty, I thought about how alone I was, and gauged the distance back to my car. I’d already taken a step in that direction when the rhododendron branches parted and Jack walked out.

He looked just as surprised to see me as I was to see him.

“I’ll bet this looks weird, doesn’t it?” He strolled up to me and poked a thumb over his shoulder and back toward the bush. “I wasn’t doing whatever you think I was doing.”

“Since I can’t imagine what you were doing . . .” Baffled, I shrugged. “What were you doing?”

His answer was simple enough. “Communing with President Garfield.”

I wasn’t sure if I should be relieved or worried. If Jack and I shared a Gift and he really was talking to the president, it would save me the trouble of maybe someday having to explain the whole I-see-dead-people thing to him. That being said . . .

I glanced around.

I didn’t see any sign of President Garfield.

Which meant maybe I should be worried that Jack was as weird as the weird guy who’d weirded me out earlier in the day.

Something told me Jack could read the cascade of worries and doubts that filled my head. He laughed. “Communing with the president. Up there,” he said, and because from where we stood I couldn’t see what he was talking about, he grabbed hold of my hand and gently pulled me to the side of the building. “I was trying to get a better look at the bas-relief sculptures.”

Bas-relief. It’s one of those terms I should have learned when I got my degree in art history. Since I didn’t, I had to learn it when I started taking visitors around the cemetery. Bas-relief describes a sculpture that’s made from chipping away stone so that the picture stands out from the background. In the case of the memorial, there are five of them, high up on the walls. Each one shows a different aspect of the president’s life: Garfield as a teacher, a soldier, a congressman, the president, and at his death. The figures on each of the reliefs are life-size.

“I was trying to get a better look,” Jack explained. “And then I realized that from down there . . .” He glanced toward the bushes. “I was just trying to see the sculpture from a different perspective. I know it’s hard for you to understand. You’re surrounded by all this incredible history all the time.”

I think that’s the first we both noticed that we were still holding hands. My brain flashed back to Ray and Doris at the graveside. My body was focused on something else. Like the heat that intensified when Jack tightened his hold on my fingers and grinned. Still hand in hand, he led me over to one of the nearby picnic tables and we sat down.

“I’m so impressed with this place, I can’t even begin to tell you,” he said. “I just can’t get enough of it. That’s why I hung around, even after you closed up the memorial and left for the funeral. How was it?”

I’d been so busy staring up into Jack’s incredible blue eyes, funerals were the last thing on my mind. I shook myself back to reality. “Funerals are never fun. And when the person getting buried is a murder victim, it’s even worse.”

“Was the family very upset?”

I thought back to everything Nick had said about his aunt, and mumbled, “Delusional more than upset,” but when Jack didn’t catch what I said and asked me to repeat it, I told him it was nothing.

It was just as well since he was staring up at the Garfield sculptures again. On the relief he was looking at, the president was posed just like the statue inside, with one arm bent and his head high. He was surrounded by other figures. Some of them looked like the men I’d seen around the table when I got a glimpse of the ghostly cabinet meeting.

“It’s the kind of beauty money can’t buy,” Jack said on the end of a sigh, and I was all set to bat my eyelashes and make some half-baked protest about how I’d been blessed by good genetics and a better-than-average understanding of skin cleaners, moisturizers, and really good sunscreen, when I realized he wasn’t talking about me, he was talking about the monument.

I was appropriately peeved, but I didn’t let on. After all, he was a history teacher, and from Indiana to boot. Maybe he just didn’t know any better.

Or maybe he did. When he looked back at me, he grinned, and whether he meant it as an apology or not, I decided to cut him some slack. He was too cute to get pissed at. At least this early in our relationship. “It doesn’t seem right to even be talking about money in a place like this,” Jack said. “Garden View is so impressive and so historic. It’s incredible, and they’re lucky to have a woman as classy as you on staff. Something tells me . . .” He cocked his head and gave me a slow look that spread fire every place his gaze touched.

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.