Tomb With a View

simply have to solve Marjorie’s murder before he did.

Who Wanted Marjorie Dead?

I was writing on top of the first piece of paper almost before I sat back down. I underlined the words and tapped the pen against my chin. It didn’t take me long to fill in the blank below my heading right between the lines that asked visitors for address and e-mail.

Everyone who ever met her, I wrote in big, bold letters.

Obviously, this train of thought would take me nowhere, and I forced myself to focus and started again.

Gloria Henninger, I wrote, because after all, that’s exactly what Gloria had told me, that she’d like to kill Marjorie herself. I didn’t add Ray’s name since I didn’t know what he and Marjorie were fighting about that night I’d visited her so I had no way of knowing if it was serious. I did write down Sunshine, and I know it sounds crazy but then, I was getting kind of punchy from being locked up in the memorial all morning. Besides, as far as I could see, if the dog had the opportunity, she would have been all for offing Marjorie.

This, of course, did not get me very far.

I plinked the pen against the desktop, thinking while I listened to the rap, rap, rap. That’s when I remembered that frantic message Marjorie had left on my office phone the night before.

“The one you erased,” I reminded myself. I consoled myself with the fact that anyone in their right mind would have erased a phone message from Marjorie. Especially when the anyone in question couldn’t have possibly known that Marjorie was going to go and get herself killed.

I grabbed another sheet of visitors’ book paper and wrote down as much of the message as I could remember. Marjorie said it was an emergency, I was sure of that. Marjorie said she needed to see me the instant I got to work. Marjorie said it was extremely important.

My only question now was if her extremely important issue had anything to do with her murder.

There was no better way to try to figure it out than to go to the scene of the crime.

With that in mind, I left the office, ducked under the crime scene tape draped across the stairway, and headed up the winding, narrow steps to the balcony. It didn’t take a crime scene investigator or any special “professional” (yes, even in my head, the word had a sarcastic ring to it) to see why the uniformed cops had called in Mr. Big Guns Harrison. There were stuttering black scuff marks all across the floor. They started over near the doorway that led onto the balcony and zigzagged all over the place. They stopped abruptly at the railing.

Like Marjorie had locked her legs and fought like crazy to keep from getting dumped over the side.

A shiver raced up my back and over my shoulders, and though it wasn’t especially chilly in the memorial, I hugged my arms around myself and took a few careful steps closer to the railing. From up here, the pool of Marjorie’s blood against the marble floor below looked bigger than I’d expected. It was dark and sticky looking, and it was starting to dry in streaks where the team from the coroner’s office had lifted Marjorie’s body to haul it away.

“We were forced by circumstances and this intolerable ruckus to postpone our meeting. I am particularly put out by this most incommodious turn of events.”

Yes, I was startled by the voice behind me, and yes, I did squeal. I also pressed a hand to my heart and whirled around.

“Don’t do that to me!” I ordered the president. “Especially not when I’m standing on a balcony where somebody just took a header.”

It took him a moment to process the unfamiliar word, but he got it, finally. He nodded and looked over the side, too. “It is truly a terrible way for any person to die,” he said. “All that blood, it reminds me of the Battle of Shiloh. That was in ’62, and I was a brigade commander under Major General Don Carlos Buell. We had just . . .”

He rattled on. I didn’t listen. That was 1862 he was talking about, but even if it had been 1962, I wouldn’t have been interested. Ancient history is not my thing, and I wasn’t going to remember any of it, anyway. Afraid he’d go on and on (and on) if I didn’t stop him, I just jumped right in.

“It would be nice if I could figure out what exactly happened to Marjorie. You know, to satisfy the whole balance of the Universe, right and wrong thing and all that.” I figured it was the kind of argument that would appeal to a politician, even a dead one. Which was why I focused on the justice angle and completely left out the whole Quinn/revenge factor because, really, it was none of his business. “It sure would help if you could fill me in on what went on here this morning.”

“Help? Who? Most certainly not that unfortunate woman. Nothing I tell you will bring her back.”

“Then could you just pop over . . . wherever . . . and talk to her? Ask her what happened and who dun it? That sure would make things easier.”

“Who did it,” he grumbled. “And no, I cannot accommodate you in this matter. It is not the way these things work.” When he turned and marched toward the stairway, I followed. “I’ve already told you I am unable to help. I was preoccupied this morning with matters of state. The single thing I noticed was that the woman was here early. Far earlier than you arrived.”

“Was she alone?”

“When I saw her, yes. Most assuredly.”

“Where did she—” We were almost at the stairway and I stopped for a moment. There were sections of the memorial where visitors weren’t allowed, and those sections were roped off and had signs nearby that said, CLOSED TO THE PUBLIC. The sign at the bottom of the stairway that led up to the old ballroom on the third floor was upside down. Automatically, I righted it and kept on with my questions. “Where did she hang out?” I asked the president.

I swear, his cheeks got red. No easy thing for a ghost. “I . . . I beg your pardon!” he sputtered. “I assure you, I certainly saw nothing hanging out, and if I had—”

OK, I had a laugh at the old guy’s expense. When I was done, I explained. “Hanging out. It means, like, the place she was when she was wherever she was when she was here.”

His eyebrows dipped. “Your grammar is deplorable.” He floated down the stairs.

I took the more conventional route and got back down to business. “So Marjorie . . . she was . . . ?”

“On the balcony, of course. You know that. But earlier, she was downstairs.”

“In the ladies’ room? Or in your crypt?”

I expected another lecture that included some nonsense about how indecent it was to even mention the ladies’ room. Instead, the president shook his head. “As I said earlier, I was preoccupied. I paid her no mind. I really cannot say where she went.”

He stopped floating at the main floor. I kept on going. If Marjorie had spent even a few minutes of the morning downstairs, I wanted to know why. I checked out the ladies’ room, and knew right away that she hadn’t been in there. The fixture above the sink had one of those curlicue, energy-saving lightbulbs in it. After it’s switched on, it takes forever for the bulb to brighten. Every employee and every volunteer knows to turn it on just once in the morning, then turn it off again right before the memorial is closed. It was still off.

When I stepped back into the hallway between the ladies’ room and the crypt, the president was waiting there for me.

It was more than a little creepy glancing from the President Garfield at my side to his flag-draped casket.

Rather than think about it, I went into the crypt. The crypt below the rotunda is shaped like an octagon. The president’s coffin along with that of his wife, Lucretia, are on display behind an iron fence at the center of the room. So are two urns. I knew from working at the cemetery that they contain the ashes of his daughter and son-in- law.

I did a circuit around the caskets and stopped right back where I’d started. “I don’t know what Marjorie could have been doing down here.”

“Paying her respects?”

I think it was a whatcha-call-it, a rhetorical question, but I was too deep in thought to care. “She’s got pictures of you everywhere. And books and all these weird sorts of trinkets. I don’t see why she’d have to come down here to pay her respects.” Like it might actually help me think, I went around again and my gaze traveled from the coffin of the president to that of his wife.

“You know . . .” I edged into what I knew could be a touchy subject. “I’ve been wondering . . . about that girl,