“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.
10
I may have been wondering what on earth I was supposed to do next as far as my investigation was concerned, but believe me when I say I had no such reservations about choosing an outfit the next morning. I was going to lunch with Jack, so no khakis and polo shirt for me. Instead I picked out a sleek little cotton dress: square-necked, sleeveless, form-hugging. I grabbed a matching, kiwi-colored bolero on my way out the door of my apartment just in case the memorial was cool. Since Jack was hot (and oh, how I was counting on that!) and I didn’t want to look too dowdy, I could strip off the bolero before he arrived.
What I wasn’t counting on was getting down to my car parked behind my apartment building and finding that two of the tires had gone flat. I grumbled, sure, but never let it be said that Pepper Martin isn’t a woman of action. I called AAA on my way back up to the apartment, where I took off the kiwi-colored dress, carefully folded it, and stashed it in a carry bag so I could change back into it at lunchtime. That done, I pulled on the dreaded khakis and polo shirt and, as long as I was at it, a pair of sneakers, too. Sure the open-toed slingbacks I’d been wearing were adorable, but just as sure, I could never walk the mile from my apartment to the cemetery wearing them, even if it weren’t all uphill. The slingbacks, too, got tucked into the bag. Thus prepared, I started out for the monument.
It was a sticky morning, so even if it was born of necessity, bringing clothes to change into was an act of pure genius. Just like cute shoes with high heels aren’t meant for walking, perspiration stains on a gorgeous dress make such a bad impression. Especially when the fabric is dry clean only.
By the time I had climbed all those stairs that led up to the front door of the monument and stuck the key into the lock, I was breathing hard and desperate to sit down.
So one can only imagine how much I did not want to be greeted by a certain dead commander in chief.
“This is impermissible.” President Garfield paced the entryway like a caged lion. He’d obviously been waiting for me, he was so worked up, the great orator actually sputtered. “I simply will not tolerate . . . I cannot abide . . . these sorts of interruptions are unconscionable, not to mention rude. Comings and goings and—”
“It’s Tuesday. I’m supposed to be here.” I was sweaty and tired, remember. I couldn’t afford to stand on ceremony, even with the president. I trudged into the office, set down my purse and my carry bag, and flopped into the chair behind the desk. It was blessedly cool inside the monument and I fanned my fiery cheeks and wished I could enjoy a few moments of peace. You’d think a man who’d made it all the way to the White House would have been smart enough to pick up on that.