“Now . . . you were saying . . . about some of the other things Marjorie may have owned . . .”
But I had already found out all I needed to know.
I thanked Studebaker for his help, promised him that my darling Nick would be in touch with him soon, and headed outside.
The ghost was waiting for me on the sidewalk.
“So you got the lowdown, right, sister?”
There was a couple passing by, so I couldn’t answer. I just nodded.
“You wanna share?”
I didn’t especially, but I owed him that much. “Nick Klinker’s got something personal that once belonged to President Garfield,” I told him. “That’s what he’s been so excited about. It’s not just an inaugural invitation, or a newspaper or anything like that. It’s got to be something the president actually owned.”
“And . . . ?” The ghost waited for more.
“And I think that means it’s plenty valuable.”
“Now we’re talking!” He rubbed his hands together. “You think this Nick is gonna sell it?”
I thought back to the mess that was Marjorie’s, and now that I thought about it, I thought back to the night I had visited her at home, too. Just as I was driving away, I saw her tearing through the house as if she’d lost something. “I think Nick would be happy to sell it if he could find it,” I said. “And I think—no, I know—that two people know it exists. One of them is Nick, and the other is Studebaker. The only thing I need to figure out now is if either one of them might have wanted it so bad, they were willing to kill for it.”
I was sure I was right, and so caught up in what it all meant, I walked away. It wasn’t until I heard the ghost behind me that I turned back around.
He was standing outside the antiques shop and he raised one hand. “Abyssinia,” he said.
It was a corny joke, but this time, I couldn’t help but laugh.
15
Thanks to the talkative ghost, I knew more when I left Chagrin Falls than when I got there. As I drove back home, I made a mental list that went something like this:
1. Both Nick and Ted Studebaker were aware of an item in Marjorie’s collection that had once belonged to President Garfield.
2. Whatever that item was, Nick wanted to sell it, and whatever it was, I suspected that it had gone missing. Which brought me to:
3. The logical conclusion, which was that his search for the missing item accounted for why Nick was spending hours over at Marjorie’s and why the place had been turned upside down.
But wait (as they say in those awful commercials), there really was more. My incredible deductive powers didn’t stop there. I also knew that:
1. Just because she was dead didn’t make me think Marjorie was any less crazy, but I had a feeling that whatever that missing item was, it had something to do with the family connection to Garfield that she claimed to have. Because:
2. That would explain why she was so smug about the surprise she was going to reveal at the opening of the commemoration event.
3. It also explained why Nick thought that mystery item would bring in some big bucks. It stood to reason that anything actually owned by a president had to be worth a bundle, especially if it revealed some family secret.
What all this told me, of course, was this:
Both Nick and Ted Studebaker had motives for offing Marjorie. That is, they each wanted to get their hands on this mystery item.
But that didn’t mean they were my only suspects.
Even though he didn’t fit into any of my numbered lists, I hadn’t eliminated Jack when it came to what-was- he-up-to.
Let’s face it, he was acting plenty fishy. Sure, he was a great kisser, but there was no way I’d forgotten that turned-around sign.
As luck would have it, just as I arrived at my apartment and was thinking all this, my phone rang. It was Jack, all right, and when he invited me to meet him for dinner that evening at XO, an oh-so-posh steak house in the trendy Warehouse District, I didn’t have to pretend to be thrilled.
Yes, I was more than willing to go, and yes (again), I fully intended to enjoy myself. But contrary to popular gossip, I am nowhere near as shallow as all that. I was glad to be seeing Jack again not because I was hot for him (well, I was, but that’s neither here nor there). I wanted to see him again because I had every intention of grilling him. And no intention whatsoever of ending up in bed with him. Really. For one thing, I’m not that easy. Ask Quinn. We knew each other for months before that fateful night we finally took the plunge that ended up putting us in over our heads. For another thing . . . well, I have a hard-and-fast rule: no sex with a guy who definitely has something up his sleeve, and just might be a murderer, too.
I told myself not to forget it.
It wasn’t easy considering Jack was gorgeous in a gray suit, a white shirt, and a gray tie streaked with blue that wasn’t quite as intense as the color of his eyes. He was generous, too; he ordered the most expensive bottle of wine on the menu and insisted I get the twelve-ounce center-cut filet although I told him there was no way I could even eat all of the eight-ounce. He said I’d appreciate having the leftovers for dinner the next day. Fishy or not, I think he must have known something about the salary of a cemetery tour guide.
Oh yeah, Jack was every bit as delicious as our meal, and as charming as hell, too.
But I am strong, remember, not to mention determined. We exchanged small talk over dinner, but when our waitress brought coffee and a vanilla bean creme brulee for us to share, I knew it was time. I had cut Jack enough slack.
“So how are things at school?” I asked him.
He was as smooth as the creme brulee. “We don’t start until next week. Which is why I decided to stay in Cleveland another couple days. There’s so much to see here. Man, I can’t believe the whole summer has flown by. Vacation always goes too fast.”
“And you must be knee-deep in getting ready for the new school year, what with lesson plans and all. I get so mixed up sometimes!” I made sure I rolled my eyes when I said this, the way I’d seen the truly dim girls do. “I remember you said you were from Hammond, Indiana, but where did you say you teach? Laramie High School?”
“Lafayette High School.”
I smiled like I was too dumb to keep track.
“History.”
I hate a liar who can keep his story straight.
I spooned up some creme brulee. “A history teacher probably knows a lot about . . . well, history! I mean, presidential history.”
“Exactly.” Jack took two bites of dessert to my one, and I saw that if I didn’t get a move on, he was going to get more than his share. The creme brulee was that good. “That’s how I developed my interest in President Garfield.”
“So a history teacher would know about his life.”
“Sure.” He took another bite of dessert, but his eyes were on me. I do not have an overactive imagination, but I swear, there was a flash of irritation in those incredibly blue eyes of his. I knew what it meant. No matter how innocent my questions, by asking them I was challenging him.
And Jack didn’t like to be challenged.
He kept his eyes on mine. A not-so-subtle signal that no matter how innocent or clever I was, he wasn’t going to cave. He sat forward and propped his elbows on the table. “Would you like to know what year he was born? It was 1831. Or when he accepted a teaching position at the Western Reserve Eclectic Institute? That was 1856. Just a year later, he was named president of the school. It’s called Hiram College now, you know.”
