Tomb With a View

who was always up front with you, and you’re the one—”

“Who’s had three weeks to think about everything we said to each other last time we were together.” He stood, too, and came around to the other side of the desk. A stronger woman might have backed away, or at least taken a swing at him in an effort to wipe that sexy smile off his face. But I am not a strong woman, not when it comes to Quinn, and I didn’t move a muscle, not even when he settled his hands on my shoulders.

“I am about to prove just how very reasonable I am,” he said, his voice honey. “I’ve done a lot of thinking in the past three weeks, Pepper.”

I swallowed hard. I knew what he was talking about, because I’d done a lot of thinking in that time, too, and somewhere between the anger and the misery, I’d decided the only way I would ever take Quinn back was if he came crawling. He wasn’t on his knees, not yet anyway, but I could afford to curb my temper and bide my time. I felt an apology of epic proportions coming on. Oh, how I was going to enjoy hearing it!

He leaned a little nearer, and I knew that if I gave in the slightest bit and moved a fraction of an inch closer, he would have kissed me. As much as I wanted it, it was too soon to surrender. I kept my place, just like I kept my mouth shut.

He skimmed both thumbs over my collarbone and said, “I’ve decided to forgive you.”

Even I didn’t know I could move that fast. I had his hands batted away and the desk between us before Quinn knew what had happened. And believe me, I wasn’t at a loss for words, even though I was just about choking on my anger. “You? Forgive me?”

Maybe he looked a little uncertain because he’d never seen steam coming out of a woman’s ears before. “Yeah, I’ve thought about it, and I realize when you told me all those crazy things you told me—”

“About talking to dead people.”

“Well, yeah.” He scraped a hand through his inky hair.

“Me walking out on you, it was a knee-jerk reaction, and it’s not like anyone could blame me. I had every right to ask what was going on with you, and when you made up that nonsense about ghosts—”

“Get out.” The bouquet of flowers was the perfect prop, but I motioned toward the door with it a little too forcefully. A shower of rose petals rained down on my desk. “Get out of my office, and get out of my life, and if you ever think of forgiving me again, get that out of your head, too. I don’t need your forgiveness, Quinn, and I don’t need you.”

“I thought you’d be happy.”

“Oh, I’m going to be happy, all right. As soon as you’re out of here and you close the door behind you.”

He did, and guess what? I didn’t feel any happier. Just to prove it, after he was gone, I winged the bouquet of flowers at my closed office door. The ribbon around the stems of the flowers came loose and unrolled, and I saw that there were gold foil letters glued to the ribbon.

Dearest Grandmother, it said in loopy letters.

“Oh, you forgive me all right,” I mumbled to myself, giving the bouquet a kick across my office just for good measure. “And you proved it by bringing me a bunch of flowers you swiped off a grave!”

4

Never let it be said I don’t have a social life.

There were plenty of things I could have been doing the next evening. Honest. For instance, I usually call my dad in prison out in Colorado on Thursdays, and when I’m done talking to him, I call my mom to fill her in. That particular Thursday, I also could have gone to a car show with none other than Absalom Sykes, one of the guys I’d worked with on the cemetery restoration project. Sure, Absalom is a car thief, and yes, I suspected he was going to the show mostly to case the joint, but that was beside the point. Even though he’s big, and gruff, and scary looking (and he practices voodoo, too), I like Absalom. We would have had a good time.

Unfortunately, by the time Absalom called to invite me along, I’d already given in and given up to Ella’s pleading about how much she needed my help with the whole goofy commemoration, and what a team player I was, and how much she admired my willingness to pitch in, and blah, blah, blah. As much as I didn’t want to—and believe me when I say that was a whole lot—I agreed to go to Marjorie’s that evening.

None of which means I was particularly happy about it.

Marjorie lived in a nondescript house in a nondescript neighborhood, and I stood on her front porch, rang the bell, and braced myself. Not even that was enough to prepare me. When she answered the door in her cheap jeans and her white T-shirt with a picture of President Garfield on the front of it, I couldn’t contain myself. Everything I felt for Marjorie bubbled out of me, and the words just came pouring out of my mouth. “I’m here exactly why?” I asked. Marjorie was not put off. For one thing, she was wearing a pair of shoes with the highest heels I have ever seen except for the girls on stage at The Thundering Stallion (trust me, I was there in connection with an investigation even though the owner tried to get me to audition). This was a pair of sandals untastefully done in black and white patent leather with an ankle strap, a two-inch alligator green platform, and heels in a color to match. Just to make sure I noticed she was taller than me, Marjorie raised her head and pulled back her shoulders. She was on her home turf, and if I thought she was condescending, annoying, and just plain nasty back at the cemetery, she was twice as condescending, annoying, and just plain nasty in her home sweet home.

“I’m happy to see you’ve come to your senses in regard to the commemoration.” Happy, huh? She didn’t look happy. She didn’t sound it, either, when she added, “I have to admit, it probably would have been simpler and far less irritating for me to just handle the entire thing on my own. But since you’re here, I suppose we should try to make the best of it.” When she sighed, the president on the front of her shirt jiggled. She ushered me inside with a sweep of one arm and finally got around to answering my question. “You’re here to see my collection, of course.”

And see her collection I did.

The second I was in her living room, I found myself inundated, surrounded by, and totally swamped with James A. Garfield. There was a portrait of him hanging above the phony, electric-log fireplace. There were glass figurines of him on the mantel. There were books piled on the pine coffee table that featured his stern, unsmiling face on their covers, and there were all sorts of Garfield-y things framed and hung on the walls, such as an invitation to his inauguration, and an eleven-by-twenty photograph of Lawnfield, his house. Like I’d seen Absalom do with one of his juju dolls, Marjorie touched a finger reverently to a framed item that caught my eye. “Ah, you noticed this, did you? Maybe you’re not a lost cause after all.”

I think that was supposed to be a compliment. I leaned closer for a better look. The item in question looked like an old, battered floor tile. There was a little brass plaque mounted underneath it that said it was—

“A piece of the floor from the railway station where James A. Garfield was shot by Charles Guiteau?” I read the words on the plaque, only there was no question mark except in my voice. “You have a piece of the floor of the railway station?”

Marjorie puffed with pride, so much, in fact, that she wobbled on her high shoes. “It’s not just any piece of the tile. The presidential collector who sold it to me assured me that this tile was taken from the actual waiting room of the Baltimore and Potomac Railway Station where the president was shot. If you look really closely . . .” She did. I didn’t. “It could be my imagination, of course, though I doubt it. After all, those who are related often feel an uncanny attachment to each other. I think . . . no, I’m sure there’s the tiniest bit of his blood on that tile.”

I backed away like . . . well, like somebody told me I was looking at something that had blood on it. “Let me guess,” I said, and I wasn’t really guessing. Unfortunately, I’d known Marjorie long enough to know the answer. “That’s one of the things you’d like to put on display for the commemoration.”

“Oh, that, and a number of other wonderful things. One especially. It’s going to cause quite a sensation!” She said this in the singsongy way people do when they think they know some big secret, but since I really didn’t care, I didn’t take the bait, and Marjorie gave up with a sigh. She wobbled her way around the room, stopping now and then to admire some piece of Garfield memorabilia. “I’ve decided that we’ll do a sort of revolving exhibit. There will be one main display inside the rotunda, and that will remain the same throughout the commemoration. After all, it will have some very important things in it!” There was that tone of voice again. Her eyes shone. When I didn’t bite, she kept right on.

“We’ll also have a display downstairs outside the crypt. That’s the one we’ll change each month. Of course, just the idea that there will be new and interesting things to look at each month will keep people flocking back to