My dearest Lucia . . .
I watched him write out each word, pausing now and then to fight for a breath or reposition himself in bed.
“. . . as are my other sons,” he mumbled as he wrote, and his strength gave out. The pen dropped out of his hand and onto the blankets. The letter fluttered under the bed.
“I remember desiring to communicate with Lucia on that, the last day I spent among the living.” When the president’s ghost spoke, I realized we weren’t at the sea-shore anymore. We were back in the memorial. “I remember that Stone went to get pen and paper. But the letter . . . I have no memory of writing it. And yet there it is, framed and in your hand. Are you telling me it was never delivered? Does that mean it never made its way to Lucia? That I never had a chance to say good-bye to my darling?”
“Please!” I turned the word into two emphatic syllables. “All this time, you’ve held the key to the mystery and all you can think of is your love puppy?”
He had the good sense to look embarrassed—at least for a moment. The next, he was back to his old, blustery self. “It is inappropriate to share such a sensitive piece of information with—”
“Give me a break!” I was pissed, and just to prove it, I stomped one foot on the marble floor. “News flash, nobody cares! Not anymore, anyway. You had a kid with your mistress. Big deal! These days in the world of politics, that’s small potatoes.”
His chin went rigid. “It should not be. Such a lapse of moral judgment should never be taken lightly. It would surely have destroyed my career if the public knew of my relationship with Lucia. And should they have learned there was a child born from our liaison, that would have resulted in the ruination not only of me, but of my family as well. That is why the boy was raised by a distant relative of Lucia’s, why I was unable to acknowledge him as my own. Had word gone out that he was my son, I would have never been elected to office. I would never have been able to hold up my head in public again.”
“Yeah, well, that was back in the old days when politicians had consciences. You should have told me about the letter. You should have told me you and Lucia had a son.”
“It cannot be of great importance. Not to your investigation.”
“It is if your son, Rufus, went on to have a family of his own.”
The president glanced away. “He did.”
“And if his children had children and their children—”
“Yes. Yes!” I was glad he interrupted me. I wasn’t sure about all this genealogy stuff and didn’t know how many children’s children’s children I needed to list.
Rather than even worry about it, I gave him an icy stare. “Yes or no. That’s all I want from you. Not an explanation and not a speech. Was Marjorie Klinker really one of your descendants?”
“Rufus was married at an early age. His wife died after giving birth to their first child. He then remarried and fathered a number of children with his second wife. Through that side of the family, there is a convoluted bloodline that—”
“Ah!” I held up a hand to stop him. “Not what I asked. Was Marjorie related to you?”
The president’s shoulders never wavered. “Yes.” “Well, damn! Wouldn’t that just make her day? Or at least it would if she was alive to hear the news.”
Sarcasm—no matter how well placed—apparently doesn’t work on ghosts. Or maybe it’s just presidents who are immune. Thinking over the possibilities, he rumbled, “You think that unfortunate woman’s murder had something to do with . . .” He dismissed the very idea with a lift of his broad shoulders. “No. That is hardly possible.”
“It is possible if somebody knew about this letter. And if that somebody wanted Marjorie to part with it. Her nephew, Nick, talked to an antiques dealer about selling a piece of your personal property. Well, it can’t get much more personal than this. What if he wanted to sell it and she didn’t? She wanted to reveal the news to all the world at the opening of the commemoration. She said she had something to display, something wonderful and valuable. Don’t you see? If Nick wanted her to sell the letter and she refused because it was too precious to her . . .”
“Yes, yes.” The president nodded. “I understand. Of course I do. They may have quarreled. They may have fought. He might have killed her to get his hands on the letter.” He glanced at the frame in my hands. “But he did not get it, it seems. Did he?”
The little piece of presidential one-upsmanship did not sit well with me. Then again, I guess I could forgive Mr. Garfield. He didn’t know the whole story.
“Marjorie wanted to pull out this little bombshell at the commemoration,” I explained. “And until then, my guess is that she had it at home, where she thought it was nice and safe. But that night I visited her, she was plenty upset by the time Ray dumped her and walked out. So when she gathered the stuff she wanted me to bring over here, she somehow grabbed the letter, too. That explains why I saw her running through the house like a crazy person when I drove away.”
Another thought hit and stuck, and I gave myself a mental slap. “It explains that voice mail message she left at my office, too. She said she had to see me the next morning. She said it was important. Of course it was! Marjorie couldn’t find the letter anywhere else so she knew I had it. She had to get it back. It was the most important piece of Garfield junk . . . er . . . memorabilia she owned.”
The president hung his head, and if I didn’t remember he was a politician (which automatically made him a liar in my book), I might have been more inclined to forgive him when he said, “I am terribly sorry. If I had remembered the letter . . . if I thought it had any relevance . . . You believe it does.”
It wasn’t a question. I nodded, anyway. “If somebody wanted to sell this letter and Marjorie didn’t—”
“Then that same person—”
“Killed her. And then when he couldn’t find the letter among her things, he ransacked her house and her locker here at the cemetery, looking for it.”
The president’s brow creased. “It seems to me, that means he might still be looking for this letter of mine. And that if he knew you were in possession of it—”
“He’d be real eager to get his hands on it.” I slid the president a look. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” I asked.
A smile sparked in his blue eyes. “Only if you’re thinking we might still use this letter as bait to catch a killer.”
20
Oh yeah, that’s exactly what I was thinking, and with the plan in mind, I called in the big guns. Figuratively and literally.
I should have known better. My previous cases had taught me that nothing mucks up an investigation like involving the professionals.
“I still don’t think this is a good idea.” Scott was so fidgety, I had a feeling he would have paced the office of the memorial if Quinn hadn’t positioned himself just to the right of the desk. The way Quinn was standing there—his feet apart and his arms crossed over his chest—it was clear he wasn’t about to move and just as clear that Scott wouldn’t get past him. Not without a physical confrontation, anyway.
“What if he doesn’t show?” Scott asked. “What if he does, and we can’t get to you in time? If you’re putting yourself in danger, Pepper—”
“Pepper likes to put herself in danger.” It was the first thing Quinn said since he’d shown up in answer to my phone call. “It’s one of the things she does best.”
I didn’t bother to respond to this comment. It was juvenile, for one thing, and for another, it wasn’t true. I did a whole lot of things better than I put myself in danger, and Quinn should have remembered that.