Tomb With a View

TOMB WITH A VIEW

Copyright © 2010 by Connie Laux.

All rights reserved.

For Peggy, Linda, and Stacie, who make our Saturday night get-togethers so much fun

Of course, there was really a James A. Garfield who was the twentieth president of the United States, and yes, he is buried in a wonderful memorial in Cleveland, Ohio. History records that he did once have an affair with a young woman named Lucia Calhoun. In an attempt to make Pepper’s life more interesting and far more complicated, the ghost, the illegitimate child, the murder, and Mr. Stone’s surprise are all figments of my imagination.

1

If I knew Marjorie Klinker was going to get murdered, I might have been nicer to her. Well . . . maybe. Unfortunately, though I have the incredibly annoying “Gift” of being able to see and talk to the dead, I am not psychic. Which means I have no way of predicting the future. That morning in late summer when it all started, I didn’t know what was going to happen in just a little over twenty-four hours, and not knowing it, when my boss, Ella Silverman, informed me that I’d be working side by side with Marjorie, I reacted the way any rational human being would.

I freaked.

“But Marjorie is crazy!” I wailed. I’d walked into my office and put away my Juicy Couture bag and the salad I brought for lunch right before Ella showed up, so my hands were free. That was good, because it gave me the opportunity to add a wild gesture that I was certain said everything there was to say about Marjorie’s mental state.

And Ella? She gave me that look she usually reserves for her three teenaged daughters. The one that has patience written all over it along with the P.S. I’m not going to put up with you acting this way much longer.

The minute she was in my office, Ella sat down in my guest chair. Now, she popped up, the better to look imposing and boss-like. She should have known that wasn’t going to work on me. I was more than a head taller than her. I was more than fifty pounds lighter than her. I had the curly red hair, the attitude, and oh yes, the style that a middle-aged woman in Earth Shoes could only dream about. Ella may have been the boss, but I had the whole imposing thing down pat.

This didn’t stop her from folding her hands at her waist and lifting her slightly saggy chin. It was a gloomy Wednesday and the air outside was heavy with humidity and the promise of rain. Ella must have been watching the local weather when she got dressed that morning. Her pantsuit was as gray as the clouds that hung over Cleveland like an untucked bedsheet. Her expression was just as deadly serious. In fact, the only things that made her look a little less like one of those thunderclouds outside were the pink beads she had looped around her neck twice and the nail polish that matched them perfectly, down to the hint of sparkle. “I know you don’t mean that about Marjorie,” she said, and because she mistakenly thought it got to me every time, she added a motherly smile.

“It’s too hot for senior citizens to come to the cemetery on tour,” Ella added. “And school hasn’t started yet, so there aren’t any school groups requesting tours, either. That means you don’t have that much to keep you busy, so you can’t tell me you do. This is the best use of your time, and really, it’s such a special occasion. You do agree that the commemoration is important, don’t you?” She twitched away the very thought. “Well, of course you do!”

Commemoration?

Like I was actually planning on working that day, I took my time turning on my computer, the better to give my own mental data bank time to reboot. Now that Ella mentioned it, I did recall seeing something in the Garden View employee newsletter about an upcoming commemoration. Seeing being the operative word here, not reading. Since Ella was the one who proudly wrote and edited the newsletter, I couldn’t admit it. At least not outright.

“The commemoration.” I nodded to convince her we were thinking in perfect harmony. “And Marjorie’s part in the commemoration is . . . ?”

“Well, she’s offered to chair the event, of course. I mean, I really didn’t expect any less of her. When it comes to President Garfield, Marjorie is something of an expert.”

Ah, the pieces started falling into place and not a moment too soon. “Oh, that commemoration.” I flopped into my desk chair. After four years of working at Garden View Cemetery, I should have known better, but really, a girl can hope, right? I’d fooled myself into thinking all this commemoration talk involved something exciting, or at least mildly interesting. Just like that, my hopes faded along with my smile.

Something told me Ella realized it, because her rah-rah smile faded, too. “You do remember the President Garfield commemoration, don’t you?” she asked, dropping back into the guest chair. “You did read about it in the newsletter? And you were listening when we discussed it at the last staff meeting, right?”

Yes, Ella is my boss, but she’s also my friend. There is only so long I can try to pull the proverbial wool over her eyes, especially when, since my dad’s in prison and my mom lives down in Florida, she likes to think of herself as the calming, mature influence in my life. Ella has convinced herself—with no actual reinforcement from me, it is important to note—that I will someday follow in her footsteps and be the community relations manager of a fancy- schmancy cemetery like Garden View. This puts her in the precarious position of thinking of herself as my mentor. Every once in a while, she thinks she needs to prove it. Every once in an even greater while, I feel as if I have to live up to her expectations.

I wondered if my expression looked as pained as it felt when I admitted, “I was listening. Just not very well.”

There’s one thing about Ella: she never loses heart. She proved it when she explained things slow and easy: “The commemoration starts this November. That’s because November nineteenth is President James A. Garfield’s one hundred and seventy-ninth birthday. He’s entombed here at Garden View. Of course, you know that. His monument is usually only open in the spring and summer months, but—”

“We’re making an exception for that one day,” I interrupted, and Ella didn’t mind. It did her little cemetery- community-relations-manager soul good to know that, once in a while, I did actually listen.

She nodded. “That day will kick off the commemoration, and it will continue until next year when we celebrate his one hundred and eightieth birthday and the one hundred and thirtieth anniversary of his assassination. Oh, dear.” Ella put a hand to her cheek. “I don’t suppose I should say celebrate. Not when it comes to the president’s death.”

When Ella’s in full cemetery-I’m-lovin’-it mode, there’s no stopping her. Still, I was duty-bound to at least try. “I have no problem working on this whole commemoration thing with you,” I told her, as perfectly honest as I didn’t always have the luxury of being. “But Marjorie . . .”

I save my monumental sighs for situations that warrant them. Those usually involve guys. Or the cases I investigate for the dead. Important stuff. Things that affect my ego, my libido, or situations that involve me putting my life on the line. I wasn’t sure where this one fell, but I did know that avoiding Marjorie was crucial, at least to my sanity. It was, therefore, an appropriate moment for a monumental sigh. “How about if I just do all the commemoration stuff by myself?”

“Isn’t that just like you? What a trooper you are!” Ella said this like it was a good thing. “But you know I’m not going to let you do that. For one thing, it’s too big a job for any one person. For another, tours will be starting up again in full swing soon, and we’ve got to keep your schedule open. I can’t have you completely distracted by the