Tomb With a View

“So, where were we?” Marjorie was either very good at pretending or a complete idiot. Her hands clutched at her waist and her chin high and just about steady, she acted like nothing had happened. “Oh, of course. We were getting together some things for the exhibit. Here.” She tilt-o-whirled around the room, grabbing books and magazines and a couple framed pictures off the wall. She glanced around, caught sight of an open carton next to the front door, and stowed everything in it. “There are some other items in this box that I’ll want to exhibit, too,” she said. When she dumped the whole thing into my arms, I couldn’t help but notice that she might act like Ray walking out on her was no big deal, but her bottom lip quivered. “You can bring it all to the cemetery tomorrow and we’ll sort it out. And remember, Ms. Martin, even though I’ve made sure to entrust you only with things that memorialize the president and never actually belonged to him, even these small things must be well cared for. You can do that, can’t you?”

And before she even gave me a chance to answer, I found myself with box in hand, standing out on the front porch.

Too bad she closed the door before she had a chance to see me sneer.

But not so bad that I was finally free.

Cheered by the thought, I headed for my car at the same time I wondered what was up with Ray and Marjorie.

I might have had a chance to come up with some sort of theory, but just as I got to my car, a hand clamped down on my shoulder.

5

Stalker!

Like anyone could blame me for thinking it?

My brain and muscles froze. My heart raced. My pulse pounded. But never let it be said that Pepper Martin is a wimp.

My instincts for self-preservation kicked in, but since I was carrying that box filled with Marjorie’s junk, I couldn’t start throwing punches. With no options and no other way to defend myself, I twirled around and shoved the box of Marjorie’s memorabilia right into the face of the person standing behind me.

I almost knocked down a little old lady wearing a pink chenille bathrobe and blue fuzzy slippers.

She scrambled to stay on her feet, too startled to say anything. The ugly little pug-faced dog she was carrying wasn’t as shy. It snarled. I backed away.

“Oh my gosh! I’m so sorry.” I set the box on the trunk of my Mustang, and since the dog was showing its crooked teeth, I made sure to keep my distance. It was then that I saw that the dog was wearing a pink chenille robe, too. “I thought you were someone else, and you snuck up behind me, and there’s been this stalker after me all summer, see, and I didn’t know you were there, and you scared me. I hope I didn’t hurt you.”

The woman had stick arms and loose skin under her chin that shimmied when she shot a look toward Marjorie’s house. She hoisted the dog up under one arm, pulled a pack of Camels out of the pocket of her robe, and lit up. While she took a drag, then let a long stream of smoke escape from between her lips, she looked me up and down.

“You from the city?” she asked.

“The city?” Yes, I know it’s annoying to answer a question with the same question, but I was trying to get things organized in my head. It wasn’t easy. The dog’s top lip was curled, and it was giving me a beady-eyed once-over. “Do you need to talk to somebody who works for the city?”

I guess it was a sore subject because both the woman and the dog growled. “Need to get that damned crazy woman out of the neighborhood. Thought maybe the city finally sent somebody to take care of it. I’ve been calling, you know. I have every right. I’m a citizen same as she is. Just in case they need to be reminded, I’ve told them over and over: Gloria Henninger is a taxpayer. She deserves to have her say. Been calling them every single day for the last six months. You know, ever since . . .” Gloria tipped her head in the direction of Marjorie’s driveway and the backyard beyond. The dog harrumphed.

When I arrived, I’d parked out on the street and headed straight up the front steps, so I hadn’t paid any attention to Marjorie’s backyard. Now, I leaned to my left for a look. What I saw took my breath away. “Is that—”

“A statue of President James A. Garfield. You got that right, sister. I’ve never been to that memorial for him. Never even been to that cemetery where Marjorie spends all her time, but I hear it’s a replica of the statue there.”

I checked again. It was. Down to every last detail.

The statue stood on a cement pad off to the side of Marjorie’s garage. It was surrounded by two-foot-tall bushes and pots of flowers. From the front yard, there was no way to tell it was there, but I imagined that whenever Marjorie’s neighbors—on this street or the one that backed up to it—walked out their back doors, it was the first thing they saw. Yeah, it was that hard to miss. Especially this time of the night when there was a spotlight shining right on it.

“It’s—”