commemoration job because you think it’s going to help ease some kind of broken heart—”
“I figured you’d have some extra time on your hands.”
“And you think I’m crying into my pillow every night and this is somehow going to cheer me up. Number one, working with Marjorie isn’t going to cheer me up. In fact, one day with her and you’ll probably have to call Quinn yourself because there’s bound to be a homicide. Want to guess who’s going to be the victim? Number two, the whole crying into my pillow thing? Way overrated.” I ought to know, I’d been crying into my pillow each and every night for the last three weeks, and it hadn’t helped me feel one damned bit better.
Rather than think about it, I told Ella the same lie I’d been telling myself. “I don’t miss him, if that’s what you think. In fact, I’m glad he’s gone. And I’m not the least bit bored. I’ve got plenty to keep me busy.”
“Yes, of course you do. Like working on this commemoration.” Ella got up and bustled to the door. Something told me she figured if she stopped listening and just kept on talking, things would work out fine in the end. She should have known by now: they never do. “That’s one of the things I admire so much about you, Pepper. I know you’re not fond of Marjorie. But you’re still willing to work with her. That’s really wonderful. It’s so refreshing. And it’s exactly why you’re going to go over to the Garfield Memorial right now. That way you and Marjorie can talk, and you can get to know each other a little better.”
“But I don’t want to get to know her better.” Was that me whining? Absolutely! And I didn’t regret it one bit. The more Ella sounded so sure of herself, the more sure I was that I wanted nothing to do with her plan. “I just want to—”
“Be a team player! Of course you do. I knew that’s what you’d say. Because that’s one of the things you do best, Pepper. You help out when I need it. You step up to the plate. You pitch in and give everything you do your best shot.” She emphasized this last point by poking a fist into the air.
And I knew a losing cause when I saw one. I fished my purse out of my desk drawer, flung it over my shoulder, and headed for the door.
“That’s my girl.” Beaming, Ella opened my office door and led the way out into the corridor. We were nearly in the reception area when we heard the most awful noise. It sounded like a cat with its tail in the spokes of a twelve-speed mountain bike.
Ella and I exchanged dumbfounded looks. Side by side, we hurried into the reception area.
We found Jennine, the woman who welcomed clients and answered the phones, standing over a tiny woman in khaki pants and one of those tastefully embroidered polo shirts I mentioned earlier, only hers said VOLUNTEER on it. The woman’s head was in her hands and she was sobbing so violently, her shoulders were shaking.
Things got even stranger when the bawler had to come up for air and we saw that it was—
“Doris!” Ella beat me to the exclamation. She also beat me to Doris, but then, squatty Earth Shoes get better traction than four-and-a-half-inch heels. Even before I got over to the couch where Doris was sitting, Ella was kneeling on the floor in front of her. She took Doris’s hands in hers. “What happened?” Ella asked. “Doris, are you OK?”
Doris’s silvery hair was cut in a stylish bob that bounced when she nodded. She reached into her pocket, pulled out a lace-edged handkerchief, and dabbed it to her blue eyes. She sniffed. “I’m fine,” Doris warbled.
“You don’t look fine.” Since no one else was going to say it, I figured I had to. I went to stand in front of Doris and gave her a careful once-over. No cuts, no bruises, no smudges of dirt. She hadn’t fallen and nothing looked broken. I reached behind Jennine’s desk, rolled her chair over, and sat down, the better to be eye to eye with Doris when I tried to get her to tell us what happened.
Why did I care?
Truth be told, in the world of cemetery volunteers, Doris Oswald is the exact opposite of Marjorie Klinker.
Marjorie is a pushy pain in the butt.
Doris is everybody’s grandmother.
Marjorie likes nothing better than acting superior to everyone. About everything. All the time.
Doris is sweet and kind, and every time she shows up at Garden View to do one volunteer job or another, she brings stuff like homemade brownies or bunches of flowers from her garden or these really cheesy crocheted bookmarks she makes for everybody and I always make fun of and then keep because, really, they might come in handy if I ever decide to read a book and, besides, Doris is nice enough to make them.
Doris is about as big as a minute, and for a woman in her seventies, she’s got a sense of style, too. I admire that, and I like Doris. Honest. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have cared why she was crying.
“Doris?” I tried to get through to her again because, softie that she was, Ella was crying, too, and I knew she wasn’t going to be any help. “Take it slow and easy. Tell us what happened.”
Doris sniffled. “The ladies from my bridge club came to see the cemetery bright and early this morning.” This did not seem an especially sad incident, but Doris’s voice wobbled over the words. “I showed them the chapel and then we were over in the Garfield Memorial . . .” Her bottom lip quivered like an electric toothbrush. “We’d just walked in and . . . and I was just telling the ladies about James A. Garfield . . . you know, how he was only president for six months and how . . . how he was assassinated and . . .”
“And let me guess, Marjorie showed up and told them everything you said was wrong.”
Doris’s watery eyes lit. “How did you know?”
I shot an I-told-you-so look at Ella, who managed to ignore me so completely, I had no choice but to shift my attention back to Doris. “Then what happened?” I asked her.
“Well, she just . . . she just took over! She acted like I wasn’t there. Like I didn’t exist. Like she’s the only person in the whole wide world who knows anything about President Garfield, and like she’s the only one allowed to tell anyone about it. I know it’s no big deal . . .” Even though she said it, Doris didn’t look like she believed it. To Doris, this was a very big deal; a fresh cascade of tears began to fall. “These ladies are my friends and . . . Mar . . . jor . . . ie . . . she . . . she embarrassed me in front of them. She made me look like a fool.”
“Don’t be silly.” This comment came from Ella, of course. She’s the only one who would tell a weeping, wailing person not to be silly when silly was exactly what she was being. Me? I would have advised Doris to go back over to the memorial and kick Marjorie in the shins. Ella is a kinder, gentler person. “It’s OK.” Ella patted Doris’s back. “I’ll have a talk with Marjorie. I’ll tell her that next time—”
Moving pretty fast for a woman her age, Doris bounded off the couch. “Well, that’s just it, isn’t it?” She sniffed, touched the hanky to her eyes, and threw back her slim shoulders. “I’ve made up my mind. There isn’t going to be a next time. I’m . . .” Her voice wavered, but her determination never did. “I’m quitting as a Garden View volunteer. I’m never coming back here again!”
Ella’s jaw dropped and her eyes got wide. No big surprise there. For one thing, part of Ella’s job is making sure the volunteers are kept busy—and happy. For another, Ella just happens to be a nice person. She doesn’t like conflict. She doesn’t like to see other people unhappy. Every motherly instinct she possessed (and I can say with some authority that she has a lot of them) kicked in. She got to her feet, wrapped an arm around Doris’s shoulder, and gave her a hug.
Over Doris’s trembling shoulders, she shot me a look that said I shouldn’t worry, she’d get things under control. I had no doubt of it. No way Ella was going to let Doris quit. Not like this, anyway.
“I can understand why you feel that way,” Ella said at the same time she smoothly turned Doris toward her office, and away from the door that led to the parking lot. “Let’s have a cup of tea and talk about it.”
“I don’t know.” Doris wrung the hanky. “I’ve made up my mind. That Marjorie Klinker is the nastiest person in the universe. I’m not going to take her guff anymore.”
“Of course you’re not.” Ella piloted Doris back toward her office, where I knew there was a hot pot and an assortment of herbal teas. “But you can’t leave while you’re upset,” she said, her voice as soothing as the steam off one of those cups of tea. “So we’ll just sit down and talk. And Pepper . . .” She gave me one final glance over her shoulder. “Pepper’s going over to the memorial right now. She’ll take care of everything. Right, Pepper?”
Like I could do anything but agree?
One more sigh and I headed out to where my Mustang was parked so I could drive over to the memorial on the other side of the three-hundred-plus-acre cemetery. If only my mood was as purposeful as my steps. Not only did I now have this commemoration thing to not look forward to, I had to face the woman who had made sweet Doris Oswald cry.
