2
I climbed the steps to the imposing turquoise-colored front doors of the one-hundred- and-eighty-foot-tall sandstone memorial building with trepidation in my heart. Believe me, it wasn’t just because I knew Marjorie was lurking inside, waiting to pounce on me and rip me to pieces like she had poor Doris. Sure, Marjorie was a royal pain, and crazy to boot, but heck, in my time as a private investigator I’d handled hit men, nasty ghosts, and all sorts of bad guys. Crazy and annoying was a piece of cake. I didn’t want to deal with it, but if I had to, I could.
No, the reason a cold shiver raced up my spine and goose bumps popped up along my arms was the same reason I’d been avoiding the memorial in the weeks since I’d finished the cemetery restoration project.
Here’s the scoop: While I was involved with that project, I had reason to be in the memorial, and one of the people I was working with took my picture. Little did he know (being more than a little crazy himself) that when that photo was developed, it would show exactly what he saw through his viewfinder—me next to the statue of James A. Garfield—as well as something he didn’t—the ghostly shape of the president standing on the other side of me.
I suppose I should have been impressed. I mean, what with this new ghost having been president and all. But honestly, I wanted nothing to do with the old guy.
Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I’m not used to ghosts by now, and I’m sure not afraid of them. After all, they’ve been bugging me ever since the day I hit my head on one of the mausoleums at the cemetery. And I’ve been a good sport about it, if I do say so myself. I solve their murders. I help clear their names and their reputations. Sure, I’ve considered bailing on this goofy Gift of mine plenty of times, but in the end, I’ve never shirked my responsibilities toward those pesky spooks. They want closure, I give them closure, even if it means risking my own life.
What do I get in return?
I get walked out on by the man I loved.
It’s wrong, not to mention unfair, and after three weeks of soul searching, I had decided what I was going to do about it—I was officially out of the private investigation business for the dead.
Commander in chief or not.
My mind made up, even if my hands were trembling just a little, I inched open the door that led into the entryway of the memorial. Even I wasn’t sure who I was more reluctant to see, Marjorie or the president. “Anybody here?” I called.
Nobody answered.
Relieved, I stepped forward, and the door clicked closed behind me. Aside from the fact that I knew a ghost hung out there, I had to admit that the memorial was really a pretty impressive building. It was built way back when and featured a round tower on top of a hulking, square building. Outside, there were carvings along the walls that depicted the life of James A. Garfield. Inside . . .
I looked around at all the marble and the mosaics, at the tiny office and gift shop to my right and the steep, spiral staircase to my left that led downstairs to the crypt and upstairs to a balcony, where visitors could look down on the rotunda where the president’s statue was displayed. There was an observation deck up there, too, and even a ballroom, though it was closed to the public and hadn’t been used since like forever. Ahead of me and up two shallow steps was the rotunda where that picture of me had been taken, the one with the ghost in it.
Fortunately, there was no sign of the presidential poltergeist—or anyone else. Relieved, I ducked into the office, saw that no one was in there, either, and thanked my lucky stars. If Marjorie was nowhere to be found, I could head back to the administration building with a clear conscience.
My hopes were dashed the moment I heard footsteps pounding on the marble staircase. I turned just in time to see Marjorie come huffing and puffing down the steps.
It is important to point out that even on the best of days, Marjorie was not an attractive woman. She was a retired librarian, after all, and while I don’t think that automatically meant she had to be frumpy, she’d apparently led a life so lost in stacks of books, she’d forgotten that, once in a while, she needed to make human contact, and that when she did, it never hurt to put her best foot forward.
Marjorie was nearly as tall as I am, and as thin as a rail, but not in model-gorgeous mode, more in a yikes- is-that-woman-bony sort of way. She teased her poorly dyed maroon-colored hair into a sixties beehive and always— summer or winter, indoors or out—topped off the do with a filmy head scarf tied into a boa constrictor knot under her chin.
The rest of her wardrobe was volunteer standard issue—khaki pants and a Garden View polo shirt that was slightly yellowed under the armpits. In fact, the only thing that stood out about Marjorie at all—and I do not mean in a good way—were her pointed, rhinestone-encrusted glasses, the red lipstick she applied with more enthusiasm than skill, and the perfume she must have put on with a ladle. It was sweet and cloying, like gardenias, and like gardenias, it always made my nose itch.
Marjorie’s skin was usually pale, like she didn’t get out in the daylight enough. That morning, though, there were two bright spots of color in her cheeks that matched the red geraniums on her head scarf.
She saw me standing in the office, came to an abrupt halt at the bottom of the steps, and fought to catch her breath. Behind the pointy glasses, she blinked like a startled owl, and she tapped nervous fingers against one hip. “I thought I heard someone. I thought . . .” Marjorie was no spring chicken. If I had liked her more (or even a little), I would have pulled out a chair and told her to sit down and take it easy. The way it was, I counted on her figuring that out for herself.
Instead, she pulled back her shoulders and raised her chin before she walked into the office. I always had the sneaking suspicion that Marjorie didn’t like it that I was taller than her.
“I wouldn’t have bothered to hurry if I knew it was just you,” she said, then smiled the way people do when they say something rude and expect you not to be offended. “What I mean, of course, is that I thought you were a visitor. Obviously, the people in charge here . . .” She said this in a way that made it clear I was not one of those people. “They rightly expect me to show a great deal more enthusiasm with our visitors than with employees. Employees, of course, can wait.”
“Not employees with lots to do.” Since Marjorie lifted her head, I did the same. I’d have her beat by a couple inches, even if I wasn’t wearing sky-high shoes. “Ella says we have to work on this commemoration thing together.”
“Yes.” It was hard to believe anyone could make one syllable sound so sour. Marjorie’s breaths were finally steadying, and all that color drained from her face and left her looking more bloodless than ever. Still, she drummed her fingers against her hip, or I should say more accurately, against the pocket of her khakis.
“I tried to talk some sense into her.” Her comment pulled me out of my thoughts.
“Me, too.”
“I pointed out what she obviously hadn’t thought of, that we can’t afford to let things get out of hand. I have experience with this sort of thing. I know. With a project this big, it can be easy to lose control, and then before you know it, things fall through the cracks. The commemoration is too important to let that happen. I told Ms. Silverman it would be best if all the planning was handled by just one person.”
I wasn’t sure if I liked it that Marjorie and I were on the same page. Still, I managed a smile that was far friendlier, and far less acid, than hers. “Imagine that! That’s exactly what I told Ella, too.”
Marjorie’s smile was as stiff as her hair. “Though my argument was solid, Ms. Silverman didn’t listen. I finally gave in, and I told her I wouldn’t mind an assistant if it was someone who would take the project seriously, someone who has the proper respect for the president and the proper knowledge of history. Someone who’s able to take direction and do what needs to be done without questioning or second-guessing me. I hate to have to be so blunt, Ms. Martin, but I think we’ll get off on the wrong foot if we don’t lay our cards out on the table. I told her I’d rather work with anyone but you.”
“Which is exactly what I told her. Anyone but Marjorie.” Because I knew in my heart Marjorie was the kind of woman who didn’t approve of twinkling, I twinkled like all get-out. “Looks like we’ve got something in common after all.”
She didn’t excuse herself when she sidled past me to get to the desk. “Well, if we have to work together —”
“Apparently, we do.” I rubbed a finger under my nose. Already, Marjorie’s gardenias were getting to me.
“And if we have to design a celebration that will be the highlight of the cemetery’s year—”
