Tomb With a View

“Of course, Mr. President.”

A door over on my right opened, and as efficient as ever, Jeremiah Stone marched into the room, the ever- present portfolio in his hands. “I am terribly sorry, Mr. President,” he said, as oblivious of me now as he’d always been. “I was just discussing a certain matter with Mr. Windom, your secretary of the Treasury.”

“All is . . .” Another spasm of pain crossed his face, and the president closed his eyes against it, then opened them again. He wasn’t about to let that stop him. Though it obviously hurt, he sat up, and Stone shifted the pillows behind him. “All is well, isn’t it? There are no . . . no . . .”

“No problems of national import. No, sir, certainly not.” Stone adjusted the glasses pinched to the bridge of his nose. “It was nothing more than a trivial thing we discussed and I regret leaving your side so that I might attend to it. What can I get for you, sir?”

“Paper.” The president’s voice was so small and shallow, Stone had to lean closer to hear. “Paper and ink. I would . . . I would like to write a letter.”

“Certainly.” There was a table next to the bed, and Stone set his portfolio down on it. He reached into his breast pocket, pulled out one of those old-fashioned fountain pens, and set that down, too, before he backed toward the door. “I have no blank paper with me, sir, but I will get some for you. I will be back in just a moment. And when I do return, sir . . .” Stone’s gaze darted to the portfolio. “There are papers that must be signed, sir. I know it is inappropriate of me to insist so strongly when you are so discommoded, but really, sir, we must get these out of the way before—”

Realizing what he’d almost said, Stone blanched.

The president reassured him with a wheezing chuckle. “I do not hold it against you for nearly saying the words no one else dare speak, Stone. You are an honorable and efficient aide to me, and I cannot fault you for verbalizing the truth. You wish me to sign these papers before I pass into a better place. That is true, is it not?”

Stone nodded.

“We will take care of it when you return,” the president assured him. “For now, if you might bring me that writing paper . . .”

Stone disappeared, but honestly, I don’t think the president even noticed. For a minute, he was so still and quiet, I thought he might have died. But then he sighed, and like a sleepwalker, he groped toward the bedside table, reached into the portfolio, and drew out a piece of paper. Slowly and carefully, he began to write.

My dearest Lucia . . .

I watched him write out each word, pausing now and then to fight for a breath or reposition himself in bed.

“. . . as are my other sons,” he mumbled as he wrote, and his strength gave out. The pen dropped out of his hand and onto the blankets. The letter fluttered under the bed.

“I remember desiring to communicate with Lucia on that, the last day I spent among the living.” When the president’s ghost spoke, I realized we weren’t at the sea-shore anymore. We were back in the memorial. “I remember that Stone went to get pen and paper. But the letter . . . I have no memory of writing it. And yet there it is, framed and in your hand. Are you telling me it was never delivered? Does that mean it never made its way to Lucia? That I never had a chance to say good-bye to my darling?”

“Please!” I turned the word into two emphatic syllables. “All this time, you’ve held the key to the mystery and all you can think of is your love puppy?”

He had the good sense to look embarrassed—at least for a moment. The next, he was back to his old, blustery self. “It is inappropriate to share such a sensitive piece of information with—”

“Give me a break!” I was pissed, and just to prove it, I stomped one foot on the marble floor. “News flash, nobody cares! Not anymore, anyway. You had a kid with your mistress. Big deal! These days in the world of politics, that’s small potatoes.”

His chin went rigid. “It should not be. Such a lapse of moral judgment should never be taken lightly. It would surely have destroyed my career if the public knew of my relationship with Lucia. And should they have learned there was a child born from our liaison, that would have resulted in the ruination not only of me, but of my family as well. That is why the boy was raised by a distant relative of Lucia’s, why I was unable to acknowledge him as my own. Had word gone out that he was my son, I would have never been elected to office. I would never have been able to hold up my head in public again.”

“Yeah, well, that was back in the old days when politicians had consciences. You should have told me about the letter. You should have told me you and Lucia had a son.”

“It cannot be of great importance. Not to your investigation.”

“It is if your son, Rufus, went on to have a family of his own.”

The president glanced away. “He did.”

“And if his children had children and their children—”

“Yes. Yes!” I was glad he interrupted me. I wasn’t sure about all this genealogy stuff and didn’t know how many children’s children’s children I needed to list.

Rather than even worry about it, I gave him an icy stare. “Yes or no. That’s all I want from you. Not an explanation and not a speech. Was Marjorie Klinker really one of your descendants?”

“Rufus was married at an early age. His wife died after giving birth to their first child. He then remarried and fathered a number of children with his second wife. Through that side of the family, there is a convoluted bloodline that—”

“Ah!” I held up a hand to stop him. “Not what I asked. Was Marjorie related to you?”

The president’s shoulders never wavered. “Yes.” “Well, damn! Wouldn’t that just make her day? Or at least it would if she was alive to hear the news.”

Sarcasm—no matter how well placed—apparently doesn’t work on ghosts. Or maybe it’s just presidents who are immune. Thinking over the possibilities, he rumbled, “You think that unfortunate woman’s murder had something to do with . . .” He dismissed the very idea with a lift of his broad shoulders. “No. That is hardly possible.”

“It is possible if somebody knew about this letter. And if that somebody wanted Marjorie to part with it. Her nephew, Nick, talked to an antiques dealer about selling a piece of your personal property. Well, it can’t get much more personal than this. What if he wanted to sell it and she didn’t? She wanted to reveal the news to all the world at the opening of the commemoration. She said she had something to display, something wonderful and valuable. Don’t you see? If Nick wanted her to sell the letter and she refused because it was too precious to her . . .”

“Yes, yes.” The president nodded. “I understand. Of course I do. They may have quarreled. They may have fought. He might have killed her to get his hands on the letter.” He glanced at the frame in my hands. “But he did not get it, it seems. Did he?”

The little piece of presidential one-upsmanship did not sit well with me. Then again, I guess I could forgive Mr. Garfield. He didn’t know the whole story.

“Marjorie wanted to pull out this little bombshell at the commemoration,” I explained. “And until then, my guess is that she had it at home, where she thought it was nice and safe. But that night I visited her, she was plenty upset by the time Ray dumped her and walked out. So when she gathered the stuff she wanted me to bring over here, she somehow grabbed the letter, too. That explains why I saw her running through the house like a crazy person when I drove away.”

Another thought hit and stuck, and I gave myself a mental slap. “It explains that voice mail message she left at my office, too. She said she had to see me the next morning. She said it was important. Of course it was! Marjorie couldn’t find the letter anywhere else so she knew I had it. She had to get it back. It was the most important piece of Garfield junk . . . er . . . memorabilia she owned.”

The president hung his head, and if I didn’t remember he was a politician (which automatically made him a liar in my book), I might have been more inclined to forgive him when he said, “I am terribly sorry. If I had remembered the letter . . . if I thought it had any relevance . . . You believe it does.”

It wasn’t a question. I nodded, anyway. “If somebody wanted to sell this letter and Marjorie didn’t—”

“Then that same person—”

“Killed her. And then when he couldn’t find the letter among her things, he ransacked her house and her