Tomb With a View

18

That was enough excitement for one day. All the rest of that Saturday, I kept my head down and my nose to the grindstone, for once concentrating on cemetery business because when I even did so much as let my brain tippy-toe toward my case . . .

That image burned in my brain, the one of Ray and Doris together? That was just too freakin’ creepy for words.

Doing my best to keep the memories to a minimum, I checked and rechecked my fall tour schedule and got all the information typed up and put on Ella’s desk so she’d find it first thing Monday morning when she came in. While I was at it, I remembered that she’d been bugging me about writing an article for the Garden View employee newsletter about what it was like to be the one-and-only full-time tour guide in so famous a place. I, predictably, had been stalling. Not to mention dodging and overlooking. Desperate to keep busy, I pulled out all the stops and worked on the article, too, and though it was mostly a lot of hooey about what an honor it was to spend my days among the famous and the dead, I knew it would thrill Ella no end. Not to mention get her off my back.

By the time I had finished everything, locked up my office, and stepped out in the hallway, I realized it was after five and that even Jennine was gone for the day. It was quiet in the administration building. Too quiet. Sure, there were federal agents staked out all around the president’s memorial waiting to waylay Jack if he showed, but that didn’t do me a whole bunch of good. It was time for me to head home and lock myself in the safety of my apartment.

I would have done it, too, if I hadn’t heard another noise from down in the basement.

Believe me, I’d learned my lesson. Even before I started down the steps, I knew I wasn’t going to look. All I wanted to do was remind Doris and Ray to lock up when they were done doing what they were doing.

With that in mind, I paused outside the door to the locker room. I heard no grunting. No sighing. No huffing and puffing. Since that was what I was expecting, I dared to take the smallest of peeks. Good thing I had those sneakers on and hadn’t made any noise coming down the steps. I saw Jack McArthur looking through Marjorie’s locker long before he saw me.

The feds had already come to get the credit cards Ella and I found the day before, but hey, when the moment is right, I’m all about drama. I reached into my purse and pulled out a few of my own credit cards, just so I could wave them in the air when I sauntered into the room and said, “Is this what you’re looking for?”

Jack must have had nerves of steel; he never flinched. But then, I guess a criminal mastermind is made of sterner stuff than ordinary people.

His gaze flickered from me to the cards in my hand. “Where did you find those?”

“Oh, come on!” I made sure I smiled. Like it was funny. Like being alone with him didn’t scare me and like I hadn’t taken the time as I stood there outside the door to call the feds over at the memorial. Hey, I’m not a complete moron!

Just like they asked me to, I did my best to stall Jack. The way to do that, I knew, was to keep him talking. “You know exactly where the cards were. No, wait! You didn’t know where they were, did you? That’s why you’ve been looking for them. First in Marjorie’s house. Now here in her locker. It was the locker,” I said, like it was a no-brainer, and slipped the cards into my pocket before he could get too close a look at them and realize they weren’t part of his phony-baloney stash. “Too bad I got to them first.”

His blue eyes glittered, even in the miserable locker room lighting. “You’re amazing. Have I told you that?”

“So many men have.” I tossed off the compliment with a shrug.

He stepped closer. “What else do you know?”

“Everything.” Sure it was an out-and-out lie. But as long as I was stalling, I was hoping to egg him on into filling in the blanks of my investigation. “I know you’re not a history teacher, but then, I’ve known that practically from the beginning. Before you say you teach at Lafayette High School in Hammond, Indiana, you really should check to see that there’s a school by that name in that city.”

He was as smooth as a pint of Ben and Jerry’s Karamel Sutra ice cream. “I don’t know another woman in the world who would have checked.” He gave me a quick bow. “My compliments. You’re as smart as you are beautiful.”

“And I’ve got a really good bullshit detector.”

Another smile. If the whole criminal genius thing didn’t work out, the guy could do toothpaste ads. “Is there anything else I should know you know?”

“You mean about the rest of the phony credit cards? The ones in the president’s memorial?”

His eyebrows rose the slightest bit. One corner of his mouth lifted into what was almost a smile. Call me egotistical (and who could?), but I actually think I’d just impressed him.

“That’s where Marjorie got the credit cards,” I said. He knew it. I knew it. But it didn’t hurt to run it all by him, just in case some of my information was off target. “It wasn’t this newest batch, either, because this newest batch . . . . well, you’ll find out what happened to them soon enough. The ones Marjorie took were from an older cache of cards. She found them and she was using them to feed her Garfield habit. But what, there’s some kind of system of checks and balances for phony credit cards? Well, there must be. Because you found out that there were a few cards missing. The trick was, you needed to figure out who took them. At first, you thought it might be me, but let’s face it, if I had unlimited access to unlimited spending, I would not still be working here at Garden View, and you saw that right from the start. Marjorie was the only other likely candidate, and she did spend all her time at the memorial. I helped you figure out that part of the puzzle when you asked about Marjorie’s spending habits and I told you about her Garfield sprees, right?”

I didn’t wait for him to answer. There was plenty more I wanted to know and time was running out. The cemetery isn’t all that big, and the feds can drive hard and fast, even when they’re trying to be sneaky. “There was no sign of the missing cards anywhere in the memorial so you ransacked Marjorie’s house looking for them. No dice. That’s why you’re looking here now. You’ve checked everywhere else. How did you find out about the locker in the first place? We just remembered it yesterday.”

He shrugged like it was no big deal. “I heard a rumor.”

I wondered which of the cemetery employees he’d charmed like he’d tried to charm me. I wondered if that was the same way he’d managed to get a key to the ballroom. While I was at it, I wondered if whoever that employee was, if he’d kissed her, too. Maybe that’s what made me testy because, while I was on a roll, I figured I might as well pull out all the stops. “I also know you can drop the phony American accent . . . Jonathan.”

This did surprise him. He stepped nearer. “Splendid,” he said, in that way that Brits can get away with that would sound corny coming out of an American guy. Just that fast, he lost the phony American accent and sounded like he’d just stepped out of one of those PBS presentations where everybody wears funny, old-fashioned clothes and rides in carriages. “You apparently have me all figured out. Care to share how it happened?”

I didn’t. But then, it was a little awkward explaining that the feds were on their way and that they’d better get there fast because I was running out of things to say.

“Care to tell me what all this has to do with murder?” I asked him.

“Murder?” For a moment, he was baffled, as if he really had forgotten that behind the secrets and the scheming and the counterfeiting, there really was a woman whose life had been snuffed out. “You’re talking about that silly woman who took those few cards?”

“So you didn’t kill her?”

He was either horrified at the thought or he was a mighty good actor. “You know me well enough. Or at least, I wish you did.” He looked me over, slowly and carefully. “Ah, Pepper! If only we’d met in another place and at another time. Then you would know I’d never do such a thing.”

“But one of your minions would do the dirty work for you.”

“Minions?” Jack . . . er . . . Jonathan’s laugh was as bright as the lighting was not. “You’ve been watching too much bad American TV. I don’t have any minions.”

“Not even Viktor Patankin?”

This time, he narrowed his eyes, and when he looked me over again, I think he was trying to see beyond the surface. “You’re a cop.”

“I’m a cemetery tour guide.”

“Patankin isn’t my minion. He’s just a silly little man who sometimes performs a few select services for me. Don’t tell me he’s gotten himself in trouble.” He twitched away the thought. “Whatever he says, I’m sure he’s got it all wrong. Viktor’s English isn’t very good. He tends to get things mixed up.”

“Except that he’s pretty much told them everything, and the feds have the credit cards to back up his story.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “You are a fount of knowledge. I’m impressed. With your good sense and your resourcefulness and your . . .” Again, he gave me a careful once-over. “Your other assets. I don’t suppose you’ve ever considered a life of crime.”

“Is that an invitation?”

“Oh, no. This is an invitation.” He was standing close enough now to look me in the eyes. “White sand beaches. Palm trees. Crystal blue waters. I’ve got a place in the Caribbean.”

“And my guess is you’re not sharing the address.” His smile was his only answer. That, along with, “We’d make a great team.” A noise from upstairs distracted him and his smile dissolved in an instant. “Or maybe not. You called the police?”

“Nah, I went right to the top and called the FBI,” I said. “Right before I walked in here. I figured it was my best bet.”

Footsteps pounded down the hallway, but even that wasn’t enough to get Jack flustered. “Don’t worry about the credit cards and leaving me in the lurch,” he said. “I won’t be penniless. There are plenty more credit cards where those came from and plenty of dead people who don’t mind in the least when I appropriate their names. I won’t suffer. In fact, I’m heading to a place where there’s no extradition. You wouldn’t—”

“Care to join you? I’ll have to pass.”

“Just as I thought. Then it’s good-bye, Pepper.” We were toe-to-toe, and he leaned in close, then paused, asking permission without saying a word.

I gave it the same way.

The kiss was deep, searching, and intense, and when it was over, Jack disappeared into the shadows on the far side of the room just as the federal agents burst in.

They scrambled up the old stone stairway that led out into the cemetery, but they never did find him.

Too bad. It would have looked good on Scott’s record to have collared the head of the counterfeiting operation.

Too bad Jack was a crook, too, ’cause he sure was a mighty good kisser.

Call me crazy. Or maybe it was just my hormones talking.

I believed Jack when he said he didn’t kill Marjorie.

I was glad. Sure he was a major felon (at least that’s one of the things Scott called him when he showed up at the cemetery and read the riot act to the agents who’d let Jack get away), but aside from that teensy character flaw, Jack didn’t seem like such a bad guy. Besides, now that I knew he hadn’t killed Marjorie, I could relive those couple knee-melting kisses and not feel guilty. Or grossed out.

Of course, the fact that he wasn’t willing to cop to Marjorie’s murder didn’t help out in terms of my investigation. I had eliminated Doris and Ray as suspects, and now Jack was off the list, too. It was time to narrow the field even more.

With that in mind, I called Gloria Henninger and told her to stop down at the memorial the next Monday afternoon and I would take her to lunch.

I know this doesn’t exactly sound like an investigative strategy, but believe me, I had a plan. I put it into motion the moment she was through the front door.

“You sure found the memorial with no trouble,” I said. Yes, it was a shaky accusation, but desperate times, desperate measures, and all that crap. I pinned Gloria with a look.

She was made of sterner stuff than I’d expected. In honor of our lunch date, she was wearing pink pants and a white T-shirt with a photo of Sunshine on it. Her top lip curled like the dog’s. “The memorial is big,” she said. “So is the cemetery. It’s easy to find.”

I wasn’t about to let her off the hook so easily. I took a step closer, and since I’m like a foot taller than her, it wasn’t hard to look imposing. “You said you’d never been here before.”

“Did I?”

If she was going to play hard to get, I had no choice but to get tough. I hoped it would work because it was my one-and-only chance, and if it didn’t, I was up that proverbial creek without a paddle. “You lied to me, Gloria,” I said, poking a finger in her face and sounding like a detective in one of those corny old movies who reveals the murderer in a big aha! moment. “You’ve been here before, haven’t you? That’s why you didn’t have any trouble finding the place!”

When it came to aplomb, Gloria had exactly none. I was oh so glad. When she realized she’d been found out, she started shaking in her pink Keds.

I couldn’t afford to be nice. I pounced. “You told me you’d just heard about the statue here in the memorial. That you’d never seen it. But I found this . . .” I had the brochure I found at Gloria’s house in my pocket, and I whipped it out and waved it under her nose. “This was in your living room, Gloria. It’s from that rack of brochures right over there.” Just in case she’d missed it when she walked in, I pointed. I’m pretty sure all this pointing wasn’t necessary, but it sure was dramatic. “You’ve been here before. I don’t suppose that just happened to be the day Marjorie died, was it?”

“Yes! Yes, it was.” Gloria collapsed like a cheap lawn chair. Figuratively speaking, of course, because had she really collapsed, I would have helped her. Instead, I watched her snivel for a while and congratulated myself. Getting a confession out of her was going to be far easier than I thought. Gloria pulled a rumpled tissue from her pocket and dabbed her nose. “I was here that morning, all right. I came to . . . I came to . . .”

“Kill Marjorie?”

Her eyes flew open, and this time, I really did think she was going to collapse. Since the floors in the memorial are solid marble, and Gloria is an elderly lady whose bones are probably as brittle as an old bar of soap, I didn’t have the heart to let that happen. I took her by the arm, led her into the office, and plunked her down on the desk chair.

“You hated Marjorie. You hated her because she was a pain in the neck who deserved hating. You hated her for the statue in her garden and for the way it upset Sunshine. You came here that morning, and my guess is you had a fight. Maybe you didn’t mean to push her over that railing—”

“No! No!” Gloria was crying for real now and I almost felt guilty about it. Almost. She covered her face with her hands. “I wanted her dead, yes. But . . .” She raised her head and looked me in the eyes the way I figured a real perp never would. “I could never do a thing like that. Oh, in my dreams, maybe. But not for real! In fact, I came here that day to bring her brownies.”

This sort of bombshell deserved a shake of the head so that’s exactly what I did. Maybe when my brain settled again, the news would make sense. It didn’t. I had to resort to the old-fashioned way and talk things out. “You hated Marjorie so you brought her brownies because . . .”

Gloria’s eyes were rimmed with red. That didn’t prevent her from giving me a sly look. All she said was, “Ex-Lax.”

I swear, I would have burst out laughing if we weren’t talking murder. “You brought Marjorie brownies with laxative in them because—”

“Because I hated that Klinker woman!” Gloria emphasized her point by pounding her fist on the desk. “I was sick of trying to talk some sense into her. Nobody could do that. I wanted my revenge and the brownies were the only way I could think to get it. You know what?” She stood and threw back her scrawny shoulders. “The only reason I’m sorry she’s dead is because now I’ll never get even.”

I was too stunned by all this to say anything so all I did is stand there and watch Gloria march out of the room. Good thing the president popped up right before she walked out of the memorial. He was the one who reminded me that I was passing up a golden opportunity.

“She was here,” the president said. “The morning of the murder. Do you suppose she might have—”

“Did you see anything?” I jumped on the opportunity—and on Gloria, figuratively speaking, of course—before she could heft open the heavy front door. “When you came to give the brownies to Marjorie, was she here? Was anyone with her?”

She clicked her tongue. “If I had seen someone here, young lady, don’t you think I would have told the police? There was nobody around. Not a soul. Not that Klinker woman, not anybody. I didn’t hear anything, either, so don’t ask if there was any yelling or screaming or anything like that. The place was as quiet as a tomb.” Gloria thought about it for a moment before she chuckled. “Tomb, get it?”

I did, I just didn’t care. The president and I exchanged looks, and something told me that if he could, he would have asked exactly what I asked. “And the brownies?”

Gloria looked back at the office. “Left them in there. Right on the desk. Figured it was even better that way because then the Klinker woman would never know who brought them. Why? Is it important what happened to the brownies?”

I wondered, and wondering, I said, “Maybe. Because when I got here that morning, there were no brownies on the desk.” I did a quick shuffle through the mental notes about my case, sure that no one had mentioned brownies or chocolate or—

Gloria might have been too slow on the uptake to realize what was going on, but the president knew exactly when inspiration struck me like a bolt of lightning. An expectant look brightening an expression that was usually somber, he stepped closer.

“What is it?” he asked. “Have you discerned something important?”

Since I wasn’t sure what discerned even meant, I wasn’t sure about that. I did know one thing, though, and if Gloria thought I was weird talking to the empty air beside me, so be it.

“Brownies laced with Ex-Lax. Get it? That’s what we in the business call a big-time clue. It means I know who killed Marjorie.”