Tomb With a View

of the head.

At least it wasn’t on the lips. I took comfort in the thought.

“I can tell you that Studebaker, just looking inside the Klinker place from the front porch, he was practically foaming at the mouth. That’s how excited he was to get in there and start rooting through things. When we were leaving, they went into the house, and I heard Nick say something about how he wanted to sell it. All of it.”

I thought about the neat piles of Garfield kitsch in Marjorie’s house. It made sense that Nick would have been through it. Especially if he wanted to sell it all.

Well, maybe all wasn’t exactly the right word. There was still the matter of the floor tile Marjorie had stolen off the wall at Lawnfield. And the box full of Marjorie’s stuff in the trunk of my car.

Those were problems for another day. So was Ted Studebaker. For now, I had more important things to think about, so I thanked Gloria for her help, got in my car, and did that thinking.

Remember, at our first meeting, Gloria was the one who told me she wanted Marjorie Klinker dead.

She was also the one who swore up and down that she didn’t really know what the statue of President Garfield at the cemetery looked like, because she’d never been to Garden View.

At the next red light, I reached in my pocket and pulled out what I’d swiped from Gloria’s coffee table.

It was a brochure from the Garfield Memorial. Yep, the same brochure we hand out to visitors.

13

Every time I picked up the newspaper, I expected to see some screaming headline about how the cops (read that, Quinn) had made major strides in solving Marjorie’s murder. Every time I turned on my TV, I held my breath, hoping against hope that I might not see You-Know-Who’s gorgeous face looking back at me. I knew him well, see, and I knew that when the big moment came, when the lights were on and the cameras were rolling, he’d be his usual chilly as a frozen cucumber self in front of the crowd. Oh yeah, he’d be all about business. His jaw would be tight. His shoulders would be rock steady inside a suit no cop should be able to afford. His voice would be impassive as he told the world he had a suspect in custody.

His eyes, though . . . his eyes would spark with a message meant just for me: Take that, Pepper. I solved it before you did!

The fact that he didn’t even know I was investigating said something about how paranoid I was about the whole thing. And how determined.

Was it any wonder I was itching to get back to my investigation?

Too bad working at Garden View tends to get in the way of my real life. Perfect example: the next day. After missing work on Wednesday in the name of paying a visit to Nick’s home, then darting off to Marjorie’s, I couldn’t very well call off again. So there I was, all day Thursday, stuck in the memorial. And all day, there were people in and out.

None of them was Jack. This was unfortunate, because it meant I didn’t have a chance to satisfy my curiosity about either what he was up to or if he was really as good a kisser as I remembered. And no, the sign outside the stairway that led up to the ballroom wasn’t moved again. I knew that for certain because I dragged myself up and down those darned winding steps five times that day, just to check.

So that part of my investigation was at a dead end.

There was no sign of the president, either, so even though I doubted he’d been paying enough attention to remember one tourist, I couldn’t question him about Gloria Henninger’s visit to the memorial. I wondered if she was part of the comings and goings he complained about. I wondered why Gloria lied about never being in the cemetery. I wondered what business she could have had there, and of course, considering how much she liked “that Klinker woman,” I wondered if she’d murdered Marjorie.

I had no answers and no way to find them considering I was stuck inside catering to tourists like . . . well, like I was the cemetery’s official tour guide.

And again, my investigation was up against a brick wall.

With nothing left to do, I actually worked like a dog that day. I showed visitors around, and talked about presidential history and mosaics and marble and all that other stuff, and even though I mostly didn’t know what I was talking about and made up half of what I told them, they all seemed pretty pleased and left there thinking they knew more than they did when they walked in. Even at four o’clock when it was time to lock up, I still wasn’t done. At Ella’s request, I headed to the administration building to proofread the latest edition of her Garden View newsletter. After bailing out on her the day before, I figured it was the least I could do. It was six o’clock by the time I left the cemetery, and even then, I didn’t head home. I know, I know . . . a private detective’s work is never done. I had no choice. I went right back to Marjorie Klinker’s.

I still had all her junk in the trunk of my car, remember, and a boatload of questions to ask Nick.

I parked in what was becoming my usual spot and hurried up the front porch stairs. At that time of the year, it was still light in the evening, and I guess it was a good thing it was. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have screeched to a stop when I noticed the gouges all along the front door jamb. I bent closer for a better look. Sure enough, the lock had been forced.

My first reaction was surprise. But I am ever practical. Especially when it comes to danger. My second thought was that I needed reinforcements. Obviously, when anything happened in the neighborhood, Gloria and Sunshine were the first to know, and I had already made a move toward their house when I saw that there was no car in Gloria’s driveway, no lights on in the house, and no signs of movement from inside. Didn’t it figure, the one time I needed the neighborhood busybody, she was out for the day.

Left to my own devices, I put a finger to the door and pushed. It had been closed, but not all the way, and it swung open. I’d seen my share of cheesy horror movies in my day; I knew better than to go inside alone. But honestly, I couldn’t help myself. I took one look and caught my breath. I just had to step inside for a better look.

Close up, what I saw was even more astounding. The neat piles of Garfield pictures had been swept off the couch and were scattered all over the floor. The books were unstacked from the chairs and tossed all around. The pile of knickknacks near the fireplace looked like it had been hit full force by a tornado. Stuff was everywhere, knocked over, messed up, gone through.

Gone through. Yeah, that’s what I said. Like somebody was looking for something.

I couldn’t imagine what, so I guess it was a good thing I didn’t have a chance to think about it. Then again, when I heard a noise from the den, I wasn’t sure that was a good thing, either. Too late, I realized that just like what happens in all those B horror flicks, I wasn’t alone in the house.

Something told me it wasn’t Nick. From what I’d heard about his sudden change of heart, I knew he wouldn’t have been skulking around in parts unknown. He would have been there in the living room, weeping over the mess and cataloging like a fiend even though he should have been home concentrating on those pink and red M&Ms.

The realization settled in my stomach like ice, and I held my breath and inched back toward the front door. I should have moved faster. That way, I would have been within getting-out distance when a man walked out of Marjorie’s den.

I don’t know who I was expecting, but it sure wasn’t friendly-as-a-teddy-bear Ray Gwitkowski. I shot forward, surprised, sure, but relieved, too. “What on earth are you doing here?” I asked him. “And what happened to this place?”

“Don’t ask me.” As if I’d just told him to stick ’em up, Ray held up both hands, distancing himself from the mess. “It was like this when I walked in. Honest. And hey, kid . . .” He bent forward as if he needed a closer look to be sure it was me. “You’re the last person I expected to make a return appearance at Marjorie’s. What are you doing here?”

Don’t think I didn’t notice that he’d asked the same question I’d asked him.

Or that he’d never answered mine.

“It sure didn’t look like this the last time we were here, did it?” Ray propped his fists on his hips and looked around. “You know, the night we both were here to see Marjorie.”

“And it didn’t look like this yesterday, either,” I told him. “Yesterday it was all organized and neat. And today . . .” I looked back toward the smashed lock on the front door. “Did you do that? Did you break in?”

“Absolutely not. No way. I just stopped by and I wasn’t even planning to come in. But then I saw that the