the memorial. And since I have so much I can share that has never been on exhibit before, it would seem . . . well . . . un-American to keep all these wonderful things away from the public eye. We can do inaugural items one month, then the next, something like national bank currency that features the dear president’s picture. We could even do a display of modern items that honor him.”
“Except I doubt there are any.”
I should have known better. A weird sort of half-smile on her face, Marjorie led me through the dining room, where there was a vinyl tablecloth decorated with American flags on the table, and into a back room that she used as a den. She paused just inside the doorway and glanced at the items displayed all around the room.
“Garfield pen and pencil sets, Garfield salt and pepper shakers, Garfield teacups,” she said, and believe me, she was not talking about that fat and sassy orange cat. The entire room was crammed with things like commemorative plates, and ashtrays, and bookmarks and napkin rings and keychains, all with the image of the president on them. There was even a President Garfield mousepad on the desk next to a computer. There was a credit card on it, covering the top of the president’s head and his face, but I’d know that beard anywhere.
“Hey, look at this!” A photo hanging nearby caught my eye. It showed the president standing at the head of a table where eight men were seated. They looked awfully familiar. “Who are these guys?”
“Those guys”—Marjorie spit out the word as if it tasted bad—“are the president’s cabinet.” She pointed to the men I’d seen around the table in the rotunda. “Here’s Chester Arthur, who was Mr. Garfield’s vice president and became president after his death. And this is James Blaine and William Windom, and Robert Todd Lincoln. Yes,” she added quickly, though I wasn’t going to say a thing. “That other president’s son. Then there’s Wayne MacVeagh, Thomas James, William Hunt, and Samuel Kirkwood. Unsung heroes. Every single one of them. Then again, our dearest president wouldn’t have chosen them for his cabinet if he didn’t think of them as honorable, hardworking men.”
“Where’s Jeremiah Stone?”
“Well, it looks like I may have underestimated you after all, Ms. Martin. You’ve done your homework!” Marjorie practically smiled at me. It was kind of disturbing. “Mr. Stone was the president’s personal aide and not a member of the cabinet so he, of course, isn’t in this photograph. I may have one of him around here somewhere.”
“That’s OK,” I told her because I didn’t have the time or the patience to wait while she went off and looked for it. “I have a pretty good idea what he looked like.”
She didn’t ask how, which was OK, because I wouldn’t have told her, anyway. “Mr. Stone, now there was a dedicated young man!” Her voice warmed to the subject. “Even after the awful incident at the Baltimore and Potomac Railway Station, Mr. Stone was always at the president’s side. You see, though the president was shot on July second, he didn’t die until September. He suffered the entire time, poor man, enduring the pain of the bullet and the ineptitude of the doctors who were supposed to be healing him, but really only made things worse. And the entire time, Mr. Stone took care of the day-to-day details the president needed to know about, made sure he was kept apprised of political news, handled correspondence. You know, the things that needed to be done to keep the ship of state afloat. I doubt there are many men these days who are as devoted or as trustworthy or—”
Marjorie’s doorbell rang. It was clear she wasn’t expecting anyone else, and she smoothed a hand over her T-shirt then tottered back into the living room and toward the front door. Rather than be left in the den with James A. Garfield staring at me from bowls and pencil toppers and the covers of old, framed magazines, I followed along, and got to the living room just in time to see her peek through the peephole in the door and step back, suddenly looking as gooey as a tweenager at a Jonas Brothers concert. There was a basket on a table near the front door filled with those goofy filmy head scarves of hers, and she whisked off the one she was wearing (apparently it was an everyday head scarf and not suitable for company, which told me exactly where I stood) and grabbed one with giant yellow mums on it. She tied it under her chin, checked her reflection in a mirror that hung nearby, and pasted a smile to her face before she opened the door.
“Why, Ray! What a lovely surprise.”
The Ray in question was Ray Gwitkowski, another of the Garden View volunteers. He was a tall, burly sixty- some-year-old guy who was a high school math teacher before he retired. Ray had been a cemetery volunteer for years, and ever since the winter before when his wife died, he’d been spending more and more time at Garden View. Like Doris, he was one of the good guys; he was friendly to staff and visitors and he did whatever we asked. That night, he was wearing khakis, a blue button-down dress shirt, and a worried expression that cleared up the moment he caught sight of me.
“Pepper! Hey, kid, what are you doing here?” He zoomed right past Marjorie like she wasn’t there and headed my way. “You’re the last person I expected to see here.”
“This is the last place I expected to be,” I admitted. “But—”
“Ms. Martin is going to be my assistant on the Garfield commemoration project.” Marjorie wasn’t the type who settled for being ignored for too long, or at all, for that matter. She teetered over to stand at my side and I guess it was the first time Ray noticed her shoes. He shot me a look that said he thought she was as loony as I did. Yeah, I liked Ray a lot. “I’m showing her the items I think would be appropriate to put on display. But then, Ray . . .” Marjorie put a hand on his arm. “You know how many interesting things I have to offer!”
Oh yeah, that was as creepy as it sounds. So was the look Marjorie gave Ray.
I’m pretty sure Ray thought so, too. That would explain why he slowly drew his arm out of Marjorie’s reach. “I know all about your Garfield collection,” he said. “There’s no need for you to show it to me again.” He glanced around as he said this, and stopped when he got to the invitation to the Garfield inauguration.
Clearly, he was surprised, and just as clearly, Marjorie couldn’t have been more pleased. Especially when Ray blurted out, “You bought it? That invitation you talked about seeing in the on-line auction? I thought you said it was too expensive to even bid on.”
“Sometimes the cost of an item is of no account.” She simpered and stepped to the side, the better to put herself in too close proximity to Ray. “Sometimes a woman just has to take a chance. Go for it. You know what I mean, Ray?”
My guess is that he did. That would explain why Ray looked a little green and ran a finger around his collar.
Marjorie wound her arm through his. “Ms. Martin will be back another time to pick up the memorabilia I want to display.” She shot me a look as sharp as a laser. “You were just leaving, weren’t you?”
I had no intention of arguing, and maybe Ray realized it. Seeing that I might walk out and leave him there— alone—with Marjorie, a look very much like panic filled his eyes, and he got right down to business.
“No, no. I refuse to interrupt whatever you two girls are up to,” he said, drawing away from Marjorie. “I’ll just be a minute and then you two can get back to work. Marjorie . . .” He would have been taller than her if she hadn’t been wearing those goofy shoes, and he pulled back his shoulders. “Marjorie, we need to talk. In private.”
She grinned—it was not a good look for her. “Of course,” she purred, and she led Ray toward the den.
Left to my own devices, I sat down on the red, white, and blue plaid couch, but staring at all those books with James A. Garfield’s face staring back at me made me nervous, so I got up and poked around. I checked out a framed memorial card issued when the president died, and a glass case chock-full of campaign ribbons and buttons. There was an old photograph hanging above it of my newest ghostly contact in his Civil War uniform, and curious to see what he looked like when he was younger, I leaned closer to it. OK, I admit it, I wasn’t paying attention. If I was, I would have noticed the round-bellied oil lamp at my elbow, the one with the president’s face painted on it. Or at least I would have noticed it before it was too late.
The way it was, I bumped the lamp with my arm, and as if it were happening in slow motion, I turned just in time to watch it skid to the edge of the table, tip, and teeter.
Believe me, I knew what was going to happen next, and it wasn’t going to be pretty.
My heart bumped, my adrenaline pumped, and I reacted as fast as I could. I stretched, grabbed, and saved the lamp from ending up in a million pieces on the floor.
Trouble is, when I did, I also knocked into a tall skinny vase (yes, Garfield’s face was painted on that, too). It was filled with a bunch of those really long, old-fashioned metal hat pins, and the vase tipped, but lucky for me, it didn’t fall and break. The hat pins fell out, though. Every single one of them bounced against the table on the way down. Except for the rumble of Ray’s voice and the murmur of Marjorie’s, it was deadly quiet in the house. The hat pins
I cringed and froze, and that’s how Marjorie found me when she came . . . well, it wasn’t exactly running,
