locker here at the cemetery, looking for it.”
The president’s brow creased. “It seems to me, that means he might still be looking for this letter of mine. And that if he knew you were in possession of it—”
“He’d be real eager to get his hands on it.” I slid the president a look. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” I asked.
A smile sparked in his blue eyes. “Only if you’re thinking we might still use this letter as bait to catch a killer.”
20
Oh yeah, that’s exactly what I was thinking, and with the plan in mind, I called in the big guns. Figuratively and literally.
I should have known better. My previous cases had taught me that nothing mucks up an investigation like involving the professionals.
“I still don’t think this is a good idea.” Scott was so fidgety, I had a feeling he would have paced the office of the memorial if Quinn hadn’t positioned himself just to the right of the desk. The way Quinn was standing there—his feet apart and his arms crossed over his chest—it was clear he wasn’t about to move and just as clear that Scott wouldn’t get past him. Not without a physical confrontation, anyway.
“What if he doesn’t show?” Scott asked. “What if he does, and we can’t get to you in time? If you’re putting yourself in danger, Pepper—”
“Pepper likes to put herself in danger.” It was the first thing Quinn said since he’d shown up in answer to my phone call. “It’s one of the things she does best.”
I didn’t bother to respond to this comment. It was juvenile, for one thing, and for another, it wasn’t true. I did a whole lot of things better than I put myself in danger, and Quinn should have remembered that.
“It’s too late,” I said, responding to Scott because I mean, really, why even try to reason with Quinn? “Ella pulled some strings and got the information out to the media, and the story about it was on the news this evening. They didn’t say what it was, but they talked about the fabulous thing we’d found and how it’s related to President Garfield and how we’re all set to put it on display here at the cemetery. We made a big deal about how, after the commemoration, the item is going to be donated to the National Archives. He’s bound to show up looking for the letter. It’s his only chance to get his hands on it and sell it before it’s out of his reach forever.”
Yes, it was brilliant, but I have to admit, the plan wasn’t mine alone. Civil War soldier and strategist that he was, the president had actually helped me come up with it. The whole thing made sense to us, and waiting for confirmation from the two guys who would enforce it, I looked back and forth, first to Scott, then to Quinn. When neither one of them said a thing, I gave up trying to be reasonable, flicked off the lights in the office, and headed into the rotunda.
“Hey, what can possibly go wrong?” I asked neither one in particular. “I’ve got you two superheroes here watching out for me.”
Was I trying to convince them, or myself?
Not them. I knew that. Scott was nothing if not good at his job, and he took his responsibilities seriously. Quinn . . . well, he was a royal pain and I was still plenty bitter about the way things had ended between us. But Quinn was a professional, too. In his deepest, darkest fantasies (and believe me, I knew a thing or two about Quinn’s fantasies), I had the feeling he’d like to see me fall flat on my face. But he wouldn’t let anything happen to me. Not from a safety standpoint, anyway.
Now all I had to do was convince myself.
Listening to my heart beat out a rumba rhythm in my chest, I stepped into the empty rotunda. It was after hours, and the crowds of tourists were long gone. The chandelier above the president’s statue was lit, and it threw a circle of light onto the marble dais. Beyond its glow, the far ends of the rotunda sloped into shadow.
Believe me, I took a good, long look into those shadows before I went to station myself at the table Ella and I had set up to the right of the lighted dais.
The news story we leaked talked about how anxious we were to get our “fabulous” find on display. I’d even appeared on camera to give a quote that went something like, “I can’t wait to get started on the commemoration. I’m going to be putting in some extra hours, day and night, to get the display ready.”
Anyone who knew me would have seen right through this, of course. Me, extra hours? Day and night? It was ludicrous.
I was counting on Nick Klinker not knowing me that well.
Surprised? Come on! Nick was the logical suspect from the beginning. I’d bet anything Marjorie told him about the letter the moment she found it. After all, the letter proved what Marjorie had been trying to prove all her life—that she was related to the president. Of course, that meant Nick was, too. I could imagine the way her warped mind worked, and in Marjorie’s mind, there was nothing more exciting than that news, and nothing that could possibly have made Nick prouder.
I wondered if he shared her excitement, and I realized it didn’t matter. Marjorie would have decided the moment she saw it that the letter was the most precious thing in the world. And Nick?
A small noise from the direction of the entryway caught my attention. It might have been Scott or Quinn in the office, but remember what I said about them being professionals. Professionals on a stakeout know better than to make any noise.
My hands stilled over the table where Ella and I had piled much of the Garfield memorabilia the cemetery owned. After all, we needed to make it look like I was knee-deep in commemoration preparations and we’d pulled out all the stops. There were stacks of old magazines and newspapers. There were boxes of photographs of the president and his family. There were framed souvenirs, including the letter we were using as bait to draw Nick to the memorial.
My stomach soured when I realized that, sooner or later, I would actually have to sort through it all. Marjorie or no Marjorie, the commemoration would go on, and without Marjorie, guess who was left holding the bag.
That is, if I lived long enough to have to worry about organizing the commemoration.
The unmistakable sound of stealthy footsteps made my heart bump, and I drew in a deep breath and held it. Scott and Quinn had my back, I reminded myself. Taking care of the rest of the plan was my responsibility.
I told myself to breathe and forced my hands to move, dragging over a stack of magazines and flipping through them like I actually cared at the same time I hoped Nick didn’t see through our trap. Could he actually be so dense to think I would be in here alone without locking the door?
If I ignored the next shuffle of footsteps, it would have looked too fishy, so I spun around.
“Is somebody here?” I called into the semidark rotunda, and when no one answered, I mumbled, “You’re imagining things, Pepper,” to myself, told myself it actually might be true, and got back to what I hoped looked enough like work to fool Nick Klinker.
I guess it worked, because I heard a voice behind me. It was husky and muffled, like he was trying to disguise it, but I’m not a detective for nothing. There was no mistaking that the voice belonged to Nick.
“Don’t turn around,” he said. “I’ve got a gun and I’ll use it if I have to. Where is it?”
“Your gun? I assume you know where it is.”
“Not my gun!” He forgot himself and used his regular voice, and when he realized it, he rumbled and tried to sound all strange and mysterious again. “You know what I’m talking about. The letter. Where is it?”
The framed letter from the president to Lucia was on the table, and I let my right hand drift over to it, the better to tantalize Nick into telling the truth. I rested my fingers on the frame.
“Could it possibly be worth all that much?” I asked him. “It’s just an old letter.”
“It has historical significance.”
“Maybe for loonies like Marjorie, but let’s face it, nobody else is really going to care. Not enough to make all this worth your while, anyway.”
“I have a buyer.”
I paused like I had to actually think about this. “You mean Ted Studebaker. How much is he going to give you?”
“It’s none of your business.” I still had my back to Nick, and I heard him take another step closer and waited to feel the cold barrel of his gun press into my back. When I didn’t, I should have been relieved, but waiting for the
