“That’s sweet.” I batted my eyelashes. “You’re concerned about me.”
“I’m concerned about my case. I don’t want you getting in the way and screwing anything up.”
My chin came up. “Like I ever have.”
“Like you always have.” He beat me out of the office and over to the door of the memorial and stopped there just as he was about to open it. “Consider yourself warned. I don’t want you anywhere near this case. Mind your own business. And leave the mystery solving up to the professionals.”
“Leave the mystery solving up to the professionals.”
Oh yeah, that was me grumbling to myself and sounding all bitchy and bitter. Like anyone could blame me? It was an hour since Quinn had left with that parting shot, and even though he and his cop buddies and the paramedics were gone, I was still at the memorial. That’s because Ella had called and asked me to stick around. Apparently, a couple reporters were being pretty pushy about getting the inside track on the murder, and photos to go with it, and she wanted to make sure no one snuck around that crime scene tape and got into the building. Why didn’t I just lock up the memorial and get the hell out of Dodge? My thoughts exactly, especially once the coroner came and left with Marjorie’s body. No such luck. See, Ella also wanted me to wait for the cleaning crew that would be by to clean up . . . well, everything that needed to be cleaned up. For now, the place was as quiet as the tomb it was. Except for my grumbling. With time on my hands and nothing better to do, I did what I always do best: I obsessed as only a woman can who’s been insulted, minimized, and irritated beyond reason by the man she’d once loved.
I was trying to keep myself busy and focused by looking through the latest issue of the employee newsletter, but let’s face it, reading about landscaping plans for the fall and the upcoming holiday schedule would never be enough to get my mind off Quinn. I side-handed the newsletter across the office and watched the pages hit, scatter, and skid down the wall.
Even that didn’t make me feel one bit better.
But never let it be said that Pepper Martin is not self-aware. I was plenty pissed at Quinn, sure, but I knew there was one—and only one—way to make myself feel better. Not incidentally, what I had in mind would also make him feel worse. I am hardly the type who’s into revenge, at least except in the most extreme cases (which this was), but as soon as I thought of the plan, things started looking up.
I rooted through the desk for a pad of paper, and when I didn’t find one, I went over to the door and the visitors’ book we keep there for people to sign. I ripped out some of the pages in the back of the book where nobody would notice they were gone, grabbed the nearby pen, and got down to some serious self-healing. The cure for my obsession was obvious: if I was going to silence Quinn’s voice inside my head and rid myself of the memory of that condescending look he gave me when he said, “Leave the mystery solving up to the professionals,” I would simply have to solve Marjorie’s murder before he did.
Who Wanted Marjorie Dead?
I was writing on top of the first piece of paper almost before I sat back down. I underlined the words and tapped the pen against my chin. It didn’t take me long to fill in the blank below my heading right between the lines that asked visitors for address and e-mail.
Everyone who ever met her, I wrote in big, bold letters.
Obviously, this train of thought would take me nowhere, and I forced myself to focus and started again.
Gloria Henninger, I wrote, because after all, that’s exactly what Gloria had told me, that she’d like to kill Marjorie herself. I didn’t add Ray’s name since I didn’t know what he and Marjorie were fighting about that night I’d visited her so I had no way of knowing if it was serious. I did write down Sunshine, and I know it sounds crazy but then, I was getting kind of punchy from being locked up in the memorial all morning. Besides, as far as I could see, if the dog had the opportunity, she would have been all for offing Marjorie.
This, of course, did not get me very far.
I plinked the pen against the desktop, thinking while I listened to the rap, rap, rap. That’s when I remembered that frantic message Marjorie had left on my office phone the night before.
“The one you erased,” I reminded myself. I consoled myself with the fact that anyone in their right mind would have erased a phone message from Marjorie. Especially when the anyone in question couldn’t have possibly known that Marjorie was going to go and get herself killed.
I grabbed another sheet of visitors’ book paper and wrote down as much of the message as I could remember. Marjorie said it was an emergency, I was sure of that. Marjorie said she needed to see me the instant I got to work. Marjorie said it was extremely important.
My only question now was if her extremely important issue had anything to do with her murder.
There was no better way to try to figure it out than to go to the scene of the crime.
With that in mind, I left the office, ducked under the crime scene tape draped across the stairway, and headed up the winding, narrow steps to the balcony. It didn’t take a crime scene investigator or any special “professional” (yes, even in my head, the word had a sarcastic ring to it) to see why the uniformed cops had called in Mr. Big Guns Harrison. There were stuttering black scuff marks all across the floor. They started over near the doorway that led onto the balcony and zigzagged all over the place. They stopped abruptly at the railing.
Like Marjorie had locked her legs and fought like crazy to keep from getting dumped over the side.
A shiver raced up my back and over my shoulders, and though it wasn’t especially chilly in the memorial, I hugged my arms around myself and took a few careful steps closer to the railing. From up here, the pool of Marjorie’s blood against the marble floor below looked bigger than I’d expected. It was dark and sticky looking, and it was starting to dry in streaks where the team from the coroner’s office had lifted Marjorie’s body to haul it away.
“We were forced by circumstances and this intolerable ruckus to postpone our meeting. I am particularly put out by this most incommodious turn of events.”
Yes, I was startled by the voice behind me, and yes, I did squeal. I also pressed a hand to my heart and whirled around.
“Don’t do that to me!” I ordered the president. “Especially not when I’m standing on a balcony where somebody just took a header.”
It took him a moment to process the unfamiliar word, but he got it, finally. He nodded and looked over the side, too. “It is truly a terrible way for any person to die,” he said. “All that blood, it reminds me of the Battle of Shiloh. That was in ’62, and I was a brigade commander under Major General Don Carlos Buell. We had just . . .”
He rattled on. I didn’t listen. That was 1862 he was talking about, but even if it had been 1962, I wouldn’t have been interested. Ancient history is not my thing, and I wasn’t going to remember any of it, anyway. Afraid he’d go on and on (and on) if I didn’t stop him, I just jumped right in.
“It would be nice if I could figure out what exactly happened to Marjorie. You know, to satisfy the whole balance of the Universe, right and wrong thing and all that.” I figured it was the kind of argument that would appeal to a politician, even a dead one. Which was why I focused on the justice angle and completely left out the whole Quinn/revenge factor because, really, it was none of his business. “It sure would help if you could fill me in on what went on here this morning.”