“I guess that’s the plan.”
“There are some ground rules.” Marjorie straightened her shoulders and gave me a look that reminded me of a dead tuna. Not that I’d actually ever seen a dead tuna up close and personal, but I have a pretty good imagination. “I’ve watched as you give some of your tours. You play fast and loose with facts.”
“Which is why you always feel obliged to shove me out of the way, step into the spotlight, and take over.”
Her sigh was all about being pushed to the limit. “One does what one has to do.”
“One needs to remember,” I said, the emphasis on that first word, “that most of the people who come through Garden View on tours aren’t all that worried about drop-dead accuracy. They’re just looking to see the place. You know, to absorb a little of the atmosphere and hear some interesting stories, and maybe to see some stuff they consider art.”
“Stuff?” When Marjorie’s top lip finally unfurled, there was a smudge of red lipstick under her nose. “You obviously don’t take your work seriously.”
“As seriously as I have to.”
“You try to entertain people with cute stories. Rather, you should be working to educate them.”
“Oh, that would keep them coming back.” We were—what?—three minutes into this conversation, and already I was getting pretty tired of being lectured. Not to mention bored. Big points for me, though, I was doing a better-than-usual job of holding on to my temper. That is, until Marjorie started up again.
“If you’re going to be working for me—”
“Hold on there!” I’d been reasonable, and more than a little accommodating. But never let it be said that Pepper Martin is anybody’s doormat. It’s not for nothing that my parents stopped calling me by my given name, Penelope, and started in on Pepper. It was easier to yell, for one thing, and it reflected the temper that came with my red hair. At that very moment, the spurt of anger that shot through me felt as fiery as my gorgeous tresses.
I stuck out a hand in front of Marjorie’s face to demonstrate that she had to stop, and now. She swallowed whatever it was she was going to say, and sure that I had the floor, I propped my fists on my hips. “We need to get something straight, all right. Right from the start. The first thing is that I don’t work
“Did I? Make Doris cry?” There was a chance I might have forgiven her if Marjorie had looked surprised rather than smug. She sloughed off the whole thing with a lift of one shoulder. When she did, another wave of gardenia washed over me. I sneezed just as she said, “That just goes to show you what a flighty, silly woman that Doris is.” There was a stack of weighty-looking books on a nearby chair, and before Marjorie lifted one, she scraped her hands against her khakis. She hugged the book to her heart.
“History is not an inaccurate science,” she told me, her voice warming with her passion for the subject. “History is facts and it is dates and it is what happened, not what almost happened or what could have happened. You’d think anyone who took the time to volunteer at a cemetery as important as this one would know that. Yet Doris breezed in here this morning, talking about our dear president as if she knew everything there was to know about him. She got his wife’s name wrong, for one thing. Called her Letitia instead of Lucretia and said Lucretia and the president were married in 1859 instead of 1858. Imagine.” She snorted. Never a pretty thing for a woman to do, but Marjorie took it to new unattractive heights.
“If Doris can’t stand to be corrected when she’s giving the wrong information, then maybe those of you who work here . . .” She paused here, the better to put the blame on me. “No doubt you can find something else useful for her to do, like stuffing envelopes or emptying trash cans. She needs to be kept away from visitors. We owe that much to the memory of our wonderful, dear James Abram Garfield.” Her voice clogged. Her eyes got all misty. “It’s my duty to do everything I can to let the world know what a capable leader he was, what an asset to this country. It’s the least I can do,” she said and she swiveled a stony look in my direction, daring me to contradict her. “After all, I am one of his descendants.”
Oh yeah, by this time I was plenty steamed. It wasn’t even so much her looniness that was driving me up the wall as it was the whole superior attitude thing. Remember what I said about kicking Marjorie in the shins? This was the moment I would have done it if I wasn’t worried that kicking in peep-toe sandals would ruin a perfectly good pedicure. Without the option of physical violence, I decided to get to her where it really hurt.
“I was talking to one of the other volunteers the other day,” I said, as innocent as can be, and careful not to mention any names lest the unsuspecting volunteer incur Marjorie’s wrath. “Your name came up.”
This pleased her so much, she actually simpered. “Well, of course. The other volunteers look up to me. When I can’t be here to make sure things are handled correctly, I can only hope they do their best. Someday they may know enough to take over as volunteers here at the memorial. If they pay attention and learn from me.”
As if I agreed, I nodded. “This volunteer was talking about Garfield’s family. You know, Letitia and the kids.”
“Lucretia.” Marjorie’s lips puckered.
I laughed, but then again, I could afford to. I was about to get even with Marjorie for what she’d done to Doris, and I was feeling righteous. “Anyway, this volunteer told me they had a bunch of kids.”
“Yes. Seven. Eliza was born in 1860, and the poor darling died when she was just three years old. Then there was Harry. He was born in 1863. Harry Augustus, that was his full name. Then James. He was born on October 17, 1865, and then—”
“Whatever!” Maybe Marjorie was right when she said I liked to ignore facts. Hers were boring me to tears. “The volunteer also told me that there are plenty of descendants of those children. I mean bona fide, legitimate descendants. You know, ones who can prove they are directly connected to the president.” Wide-eyed, I traded her look for look. “You’re not one of them.”
She twitched as if she’d been slapped, but Marjorie never backed down. In fact, the smile she beamed at me teetered on the edge of rapturous. “That volunteer apparently hasn’t been paying attention, though I can’t understand how. I’ve told all of them the story. Dozens of times. I’ve told them that, in the 1860s, James Garfield had a relationship with a young woman named Lucia, Lucia Calhoun.”
I thought back to everything she’d said earlier, and wondered if it was as much of a surprise to Marjorie as it was to me to realize I’d actually been paying attention. “But you said he and this Letitia chick—”
“Lucretia.”
“You said they got married in 1858. Wow. You mean the old guy had an affair.” I leaned forward far enough to peer into the rotunda and gave the statue there the thumbs-up. “Who would have thought an old fossil like that would have had the life in him!”
Marjorie clutched her hands at her waist. “He wasn’t old. Not then. As a matter of fact, he was never old. He died before his fiftieth birthday. President Garfield was born in 1831. He was in his thirties when he met Lucia. She was a reporter for the
I made a face. “Thirty-year-old guys and teenagers should not be getting it on.”
Marjorie ignored these words of wisdom. “He eventually stopped seeing Lucia,” she pointed out. “But not until after his wife threatened to divorce him. That, of course, would have ruined his reputation and destroyed his political career. In the great scheme of things, I suppose it was all for the better. Otherwise, the country would have been denied one of its truly great presidents.” Her chin came up another fraction of an inch. “My mother, Lucy—named after Lucia herself, of course—is the granddaughter of Rufus Ward Henry, the son of Lucia Calhoun and the president. He, of course, was raised by relatives who took him in and made him one of their family. There really weren’t other options available to women at the time. Not to women who had children out of wedlock.”
Everything Marjorie said fed right into my revenge-for-Doris strategy. Did I gloat? Just a little. “Yeah. I think that volunteer said something about how you think that’s true. Thing is,” I pointed out, “that volunteer said there weren’t any children from that affair. And that you don’t have one shred of proof that says there were.”
All Marjorie did was grin like she knew some big secret. It wasn’t the reaction I was hoping for, and it didn’t give me a whole lot of satisfaction on Doris’s behalf. “Is that what that person said? Well, we’ll see about that!” Humming under her breath, she did a little hop-step toward the desk and sat right down. She set the book she was holding on the desk in front of her. There was a black-and-white photo of a bearded man on the cover of the book,
