He knew he did the right thing, he didn’t need me telling him. Besides, I was too deep in thought to say much of anything. I tapped the credit card against my chin, thinking, and I was still wondering what it all meant when we left the house and closed the door behind us and when I stared at that credit card all night, unable to sleep.
Of course the solution hit me right around three in the morning when it was too late to do anything about it. I waited until the sun was up and hit the cemetery early, the better to get into my office and in front of my computer before anyone was around to bother me.
I found two Bernard O’Banyons listed, neither of them local, and made the calls.
As it turned out, the first Bernard O’Banyon was a bar in Wichita and the man it was named after? Well, he hadn’t been around since sometime in the 1850s. I was hoping his descendants were, and tried the Bernard O’Banyon listed in the Topeka phonebook.
Credit card in hand, I punched in the phone number and started into my spiel. It was all about how I was from the credit card company, and I really needed to talk to Bernard.
“Well, you must have the wrong person.” The woman on the phone sounded sleepy, but then, I didn’t account for whatever time it was in Kansas. “My Bernard, he didn’t believe in credit cards.”
I felt my spirits deflate. “You’re sure?” I asked.
“Sure as sure can be. He used to have one of them gas station cards. You know, for filling up the Buick. But he gave that up back in ’04. That’s when he got his identity stolen.”
My deflated spirits perked up. So did my ears when she added, “That thief, he got it all. Even Bernard’s Social Security number. Used it to rent an apartment in Denver. Imagine the nerve of some people.”
I told her I couldn’t and asked if I could talk to Bernard.
“Talk to him?” I didn’t have to see her to know she held out the phone and gave it a look, like she could see me at the other end of it. “What do you mean, talk to him? Bernard, he up and died back last Christmas.”
Did I thank her for the information before I hung up?
I honestly don’t remember.
But that’s because I was too busy thinking again. About credit cards belonging to dead people, and stolen Social Security numbers. About Marjorie.
And if maybe there was a lot more to her than any of us ever imagined.
14
To catch a thief, I had to think like a thief.
Only I wasn’t trying to catch a thief, was I? I was trying to catch the murderer who killed the thief.
No matter. As one of my college professors used to say, it was all just semantics, though what the meanings of words had to do with Jewish people, I didn’t know.
Maybe Ted Studebaker was Jewish. But that didn’t matter, either. Unless he was Orthodox and his shop wasn’t open on Saturdays. What did matter was that I had to wait until then, but once the weekend rolled around and I didn’t have my pesky nine-to-fiver to worry about, I drove out to cute, picturesque, pricey Chagrin Falls.
Yes, there really is a waterfall. It’s nowhere near the Niagara variety, but it’s still pretty, in a picture postcard kind of way. The river that feeds the falls meanders through the village of charming cottages and gardens and spills over a twenty-foot drop right near an old-fashioned popcorn and ice cream shop. I swear, it’s true. Like something out of a corny movie, only for real, and it brings in tourists by the droves.
There is also a main street (predictably called Main Street) that features a gazebo and a whole bunch of boutiques and gift shops where scrumptious-looking fall clothes were displayed in the windows. It was a shame I didn’t have time to browse and shop. But then, I didn’t have the money to shop, either, so unless like Marjorie, I was planning on using Bernard O’Banyon’s credit card . . .
No worries. The card was safe at home, hidden in the bottom drawer of my dresser underneath the wool sweaters I had a feeling I would be taking out any day now.
It was barely September, and I was chilled to the bone.
An unseasonably cold wind whipped down Main Street, and I wished when I was getting ready to leave my apartment I had paid more attention to the weather than I had to fashion. I was wearing a short-sleeved white linen jacket. It was as cute as can be, but between that and the tank top I had underneath it and my skinny jeans and wedge sandals, it didn’t offer much in the way of warmth. I was carrying an oversized leather tote, so I couldn’t even wrap my arms around myself in the hopes of generating a little heat.
Good thing Ted Studebaker Antiques wasn’t far from where I parked the Mustang.
I took a minute (no more, believe me, I was too cold to waste time) to look at the understated display in the front window of the shop. It featured a gigantic American eagle carved out of mahogany. It looked just like the one embossed on Studebaker’s business card. In front of that was a table with fancy legs with a silver coffeepot on it and a tasteful sign in flowing script that said, PRESIDENTIAL COLLECTIBLES A SPECIALITY.
I sailed right on in like I had every right to be there. But then, I guess I did. I had questions to ask: about Marjorie’s collection, about Nick’s sudden interest in it, and about the fact that there must have been something in that Garfield lollapalooza that someone was desperate to find.
The shop was in a big, old building, and it had one of those tin ceilings, and walls that were painted muted gray. It smelled like lemony furniture polish in there, and it was no wonder. Every table and chair and elaborate china hutch was shined to within an inch of its life. Every plate and vase and oversized pitcher and bowl set gleamed so that every picture of every president on those plates and vases and oversized pitcher and bowl sets was shown off to perfection. There were bookcases all around and hundreds of books on them with titles like Jefferson the Statesman, and The Kennedy Years. There were presidential autographs framed and hung on the walls, and portraits, too. Dozens of them. They reminded me of the ones I’d seen in President Garfield’s office—stern-faced presidents in old-fashioned duds, looking grim and important.
Ted Studebaker Antiques was impressive, all right. Even to me. I reminded myself not to forget it. When I finally came face-to-face with Ted, the last thing he needed to know was that, in reality, antiques give me the creeps.
And it’s no wonder why.
If the people who shopped there could see what I saw—which was a whole bunch of ghosts hanging around, too attached to their earthly possessions to leave them behind—they never would have taken the chance of buying the stuff and dragging it (and the ghosts) home. Even so, it wasn’t the spook-a-rama that turned me off. It was the idea of owning something—I mean, purposely—that someone else had owned before. Who in their right mind would want to do that?
When Ted himself stepped out from a back room, I recognized him right away. I’d seen him in those snippets of Antique Appraisals I’d watched on TV. He, apparently, had never returned the favor and caught even a moment of Cemetery Survivor. Otherwise I was sure he would have recognized me, too.