Tomb With a View

the president, his right arm bent and his hand resting against the vest pocket where I’d just recently seen him take out his nonticking watch. “Where to first? What do you think is the most important aspect of the memorial, Pepper? You probably know the building better than anyone, you must have your favorite spots. Certainly, the fact that Garfield isn’t buried here, that his casket is on display . . . that’s unique in and of itself.” His eyes glinting, Jack waited for me to comment, and when I didn’t, he sailed right on.

“Refresh my memory. When was the memorial built?”

So far that day, I’d done a pretty good job of avoiding questions. Now I was trapped. I blinked up into Jack’s brilliant blue eyes. I smiled my most competent and cemetery-visitor friendly smile. I stalled, wondering as I did how easy it was to pull the wool over a history teacher’s eyes.

“The building was begun in 1885, and dedicated on Memorial Day in 1890. The architect was a fellow named George Keller.”

At the sound of the deep, booming voice, I turned just in time to see the president materialize at Jack’s side. He stood with his shoulders back and his chin up and his right arm cocked, just like the statue inside the rotunda. I repeated what he’d just said, except I left out the fellow part. There was no use sounding as fuddy-duddy as he did.

“And he wasn’t even quite fifty years old when he died.” Jack shook his head sadly. “Fifty. It’s sounding younger all the time, isn’t it?”

I couldn’t say I agreed so I was glad he didn’t wait for an answer. “President Garfield was in the House of Representatives, I know that,” he said. “But for how many terms?”

“Nine,” the president rumbled. “I was elected in 1862 while still on active duty with the Army. I attended my first congressional session in 1863.”

“Nine.” I parroted the information to Jack. “I . . . that is, he was elected in 1862 but he was in the Army then, so he didn’t go to Washington until the following year.”

I wasn’t imagining it; Jack was impressed with my knowledge. His eyes lit up. “And he was elected president in 1880.” He was on a roll now, but then, I couldn’t blame him. Thanks to the quick answers the president had provided, Jack mistakenly thought I was a kindred spirit in the Garfield geek squad. “He was shot in July of that year and died in September. Such a loss to our country. Such a waste.”

“Humph.” The president agreed without actually coming right out and agreeing. “I advocated civil service reform, you know.”

“Civil service reform,” I told Jack.

“I directed a special subcommittee to modernize the census-taking process.”

“Census.”

“When I was a congressman, I even went around and visited various government agencies so I could see firsthand how they were spending the people’s money. Once I assumed the presidency, I ordered an investigation into widespread corruption in the Post Office.”

“Post Office,” I said.

The president frowned. “It is truly a shame there wasn’t time to accomplish more. And a calamity that I didn’t have time to teach my successors to pay more attention to the past in their search for solutions to the problems of the present. Alas, the lesson of history is rarely learned by the actors themselves.”

I couldn’t follow most of that, so I just glommed on to the last part. “The lesson of history—” I began.

“Is rarely learned by the actors themselves!” Jack grinned. “You can even quote the president. Pepper . . .” He took my arm, and together, we headed into the crypt. “Something tells me this is a match made in heaven.”

Was it?

I couldn’t say. I only knew that for the first time since Quinn walked out on me, I felt pretty, and smart, and more than competent in my job. Of course, the president helped me out every step of the way. But Jack didn’t know that. And Jack didn’t care. Jack was funny and he was friendly, and yes, OK, he was also incredibly hot. But there was more to my attraction to him than that. Take, for instance, the way he talked about history and actually made it seem not nearly as boring as I always thought it was. We explored the memorial top to bottom, and an hour- and-a-half flew by.

I’d already gone into the rotunda and told the gawkers there that the memorial was closing for Marjorie’s funeral. Now, standing outside the office together, Jack and I watched those visitors file out the front door. He leaned close. “You’ll be here again tomorrow?” he asked.

I hoped it meant he was planning to come back, but I knew the rules of the game. If I wanted to keep him interested, I had to play it cool. “I’m on permanent assignment here in the memorial,” I told him. “At least until Ella can find a docent to take my place.”

“Take your place? Impossible,” he said, and humming, he walked out of the memorial.

When the door closed behind him, I realized I was humming, too. The president was hovering outside the office and I smiled at him. “You want to come along?”

“To that woman’s funeral?” I didn’t know ghosts could look green, but he did. “I have business of state to take care of,” he blustered. “Important matters. Things essential to the workings of the government. I—”

I cut him off with a laugh. “I was talking about a walk around the memorial.” I swirled a finger in the air. “I’ve got to make sure there’s no stragglers left behind.”

“Oh.” He blew out a breath of relief. “Well, really, I’d best get back to my cabinet. We are discussing those Post Office reforms, you know, and . . .” Even as I watched, he stepped into the rotunda and poofed away into nothing.

I took one last look around, and everything was ship-shape.

Well, just about everything.

Upstairs, just outside the roped-off doorway that led into the old ballroom, that CLOSED TO THE PUBLIC sign was upside down again.

9

Believe me, when it comes to the men-and-romance department, I have more than enough experience, some of it good, some of it is disastrous. I knew better than to have my head turned by Jack’s smile, or Jack’s charm, or Jack’s gorgeous body.

That didn’t mean I wasn’t grinning—just a little—when I locked up the memorial and headed to the other side of the cemetery for Marjorie’s funeral.

Or that I didn’t have to remind myself that standing at the edge of an open grave and grinning probably wasn’t the most politically correct thing to do.

I wiped the little glowy aftermath of my encounter with Jack from my expression and did my best to concentrate on what the minister was saying about Marjorie. No easy thing considering it was all about how dedicated she was, how wonderful she was, how knowledgeable she was about all things James A. Garfield, and blah, blah, blah.

To my way of thinking, it would have been way more interesting if the plump, bald minister could have given me some insight into who tossed her over that balcony.

With that in mind, I took a careful look around the crowd of mourners. It was no surprise that most of them were familiar, Garden View employees and volunteers. I mean, really, did I expect Marjorie to have friends?

I gave the people I knew a quick once-over. Ella and Jim Hardy (our big boss) both looked appropriately solemn. So did Ray Gwitkowski. He was just behind Ella, next to Doris Oswald, and both Ray and Doris had their eyes cast down, looking at the simple, but tasteful, program we’d all been given that listed the bare essentials of Marjorie’s life: birth date, death date, and the plot number where her copper-colored casket would soon be lowered into the ground. It also included a note of gratitude from her nephew, Nick Klinker, who said, as Marjorie’s only relative, he was grateful for all the kindnesses shown to him in his hour of need.

Or maybe the program wasn’t what Ray and Doris were looking at.

I’m tall, remember, so I sometimes get an interesting perspective on things. I craned my neck for a better look, and from where I stood, I could see what a lot of the other mourners couldn’t: Ray and Doris didn’t have their eyes averted out of grief, or even respect. They weren’t reading the program. Both of them had their gazes focused on where their fingers were entwined.