“Hanged.” He said this in the way a teacher would to a student who didn’t get something, even though the teacher thought it was pretty simple. “There never was any question who shot me. It was Charles Guiteau, of course. I imagine the history books report the facts most competently. The villain waylaid me at a train station in Baltimore. He admitted his crime immediately after shooting me. He never denied it at all. In fact, I would say he was rather proud of having delivered the shots which ultimately resulted in my passing.”
“Then if you know for sure it was this Guiteau guy, you don’t need me to solve your murder.”
“Of course not.”
Jeremiah Stone was back. He shifted from foot to foot, expressing his impatience without having to say a word.
“One moment,” the president told him before he turned back to me. “I do not actually need anything from you,” he said. “And yet . . .” He pulled in a breath and let it out with a sigh. If he had been alive, it would have rippled the mist around us, but since this was one dead president who couldn’t get any deader, those stray wisps just hung in the air between us. “There may be something you can do for me, Miss Martin. I am reluctant to ask, seeing as how you are a woman and it is hardly respectable as it is not within a woman’s responsibilities to handle such matters.”
No way I was going to let that pass, not even from a president. “Things are a little different now than they were back in your day,” I told him. “Since you’ve heard of me and you know I have the Gift, you must also know I’ve handled a whole bunch of stuff that was—”
“Yes, yes. Such unpleasant matters. We will not speak of them.” Apparently that was that, because he got rid of the subject with a shake of his broad shoulders and looked me up and down. “I fear that I am trying to do two things: dare to be a radical and not a fool, which is a matter of no small difficulty. It is therefore no easy thing for me to remember that, in your world, women are more free to do things for which they might not be deemed qualified for or prepared for by way of upbringing, intellect, or temperament.”
Had I just been dissed? By a president?
I wasn’t sure, but I wasn’t taking the chance. If I’d been in my stocking feet, the president and I would have stood just about eye to eye. In my Jimmy Choos, I had the advantage and I took it. I looked down at him. “I’ve heard that back in your day, some women had jobs,” I said, as innocent as can be. “I heard about one who was a reporter for the New York Times. Her name was Lucia—”
“Really, Miss Martin!” The president’s beard twitched.
“Though I am trying to be progressive and learn to live with the reality of women working out in the world, I have yet to reconcile myself to women—or anyone else—discussing inappropriate subjects. In order for our relationship to progress in a manner that is both appropriate and mutually beneficial, you must certainly remember that.”
“In order for our relationship to progress in a manner that is . . .” No way I could remember the rest of it, and I screeched my irritation, not to mention my frustration, and cut to the chase. “How about if you just tell me what you want.”
“Well, there is one small problem.” He seemed almost embarrassed to mention it. “It does not, of course, make me waver in my resolve to execute the duties of my office, but it does make it devilish hard to—” He caught himself and cleared his throat. “You must excuse me, Miss Martin. I have not had the singular pleasure of communicating with a member of the fairer sex for some time, and I am afraid I have forgotten my manners. What I meant to say, of course, is that taking into consideration your more tender sensibilities as a weaker vessel—”
“No wonder history always put me to sleep!” I couldn’t help myself, I had to interrupt. If he kept yammering on, I was going to jump out of my skin. Maybe the old guy and Marjorie were related after all. That would explain why they were both so boring. “It takes you so long to answer a simple question, how did you ever get anything accomplished?”
“Oh, I got a great deal accomplished during my administration. Which is quite remarkable, you will agree, considering I was in office actively for only four months. I ordered an investigation into corruption in the Post Office. I presided over a Treasury refunding in which most holders of maturing six percent bonds agreed to replace them with a three-and-a-half percent rate. I . . .” Maybe he was starting to get the message that I didn’t have the slightest idea what he was talking about; he swallowed the rest of what he was going to say.
I curled my hands into fists at my side. “So this small matter you’d like me to take care of . . .”
“Oh yes. Certainly. It is not that I wish to inconvenience anyone, but I am, after all, the president and—”
Oh yeah, by this time, I was practically willing to beg him to get a move on. Anything to get him to stop wasting my time. “What do you want me to do?”
He finally gave in, but I don’t think it had anything to do with me. Jeremiah Stone was pacing not three feet away, tapping that pile of papers of his and mumbling something about how nothing could be accomplished until the president put his signature on them. “There is a great deal of commotion around here,” the president said, and something told me he wasn’t talking about Jeremiah Stone or the men at the table, who were looking a little restless.
“You mean because of the commemoration.” I nodded. Believe me, I understood! “Well, there’s not much I can do about Marjorie. I think she’s a royal pain, too.”
“It is all disturbing the important work I have to do.” The president stared at me. “You do understand, I am sure. There is a great deal for a president to accomplish, and when he is interrupted by other things . . .”
It was obvious from the way he glared at me that he believed Marjorie wasn’t the only one disturbing his important work.
Dismissed and dissed, all in the same morning.
I walked away, waving a quick good-bye to Marjorie, who was still on the phone, and at the front door, I turned around for one last look into the rotunda. There was the statue, the marble columns, the stained glass windows. Everything was back to normal, and there was no sign of the somber men around the table, of Jeremiah Stone, or of the president.
What with getting tag-teamed by Marjorie and the most long-winded guy ever to hold public office, I needed a break, and fast. I drove to the administration building and snuck in through the back door, the better to avoid Ella and any phone messages Jennine might have taken for me while I was out. I had the latest issue of Marie Claire in my desk and that salad I had brought for lunch. If I could buy myself an hour of quiet time, I could put up my feet and get down to what was really important. An article on the hottest fashions coming for fall sure beat an hour with Marjorie or a dead president any day. Smiling at the very thought of avoiding my coworkers and chilling out for a while, I walked into my office and found—
Flowers!
I swear I felt the blood drain out of my face. I was left feeling cold and clammy, and I stood riveted to a spot near the door and forced myself to take a good, long look around. There was no one there. I knew this for sure because even though my office isn’t very big, I checked out every nook and cranny twice, even behind the door and under my desk. When I was one hundred percent certain that I was alone, I closed the door behind me and went over to the desk for a better look at the bouquet that had been left on my computer keyboard. It was a bunch of white roses and pink carnations with their stems wound with pink satin ribbon, and for I don’t know how long, I stared down at the flowers, listening to the blood whoosh in my ears and my heartbeat pound out a deafening rhythm.