Tomb With a View

Yes, Ella is my boss, but she’s also my friend. There is only so long I can try to pull the proverbial wool over her eyes, especially when, since my dad’s in prison and my mom lives down in Florida, she likes to think of herself as the calming, mature influence in my life. Ella has convinced herself—with no actual reinforcement from me, it is important to note—that I will someday follow in her footsteps and be the community relations manager of a fancy-schmancy cemetery like Garden View. This puts her in the precarious position of thinking of herself as my mentor. Every once in a while, she thinks she needs to prove it. Every once in an even greater while, I feel as if I have to live up to her expectations.

I wondered if my expression looked as pained as it felt when I admitted, “I was listening. Just not very well.”

There’s one thing about Ella: she never loses heart. She proved it when she explained things slow and easy: “The commemoration starts this November. That’s because November nineteenth is President James A. Garfield’s one hundred and seventy-ninth birthday. He’s entombed here at Garden View. Of course, you know that. His monument is usually only open in the spring and summer months, but—”

“We’re making an exception for that one day,” I interrupted, and Ella didn’t mind. It did her little cemetery-community-relations-manager soul good to know that, once in a while, I did actually listen.

She nodded. “That day will kick off the commemoration, and it will continue until next year when we celebrate his one hundred and eightieth birthday and the one hundred and thirtieth anniversary of his assassination. Oh, dear.” Ella put a hand to her cheek. “I don’t suppose I should say celebrate. Not when it comes to the president’s death.”

When Ella’s in full cemetery-I’m-lovin’-it mode, there’s no stopping her. Still, I was duty-bound to at least try. “I have no problem working on this whole commemoration thing with you,” I told her, as perfectly honest as I didn’t always have the luxury of being. “But Marjorie . . .”

I save my monumental sighs for situations that warrant them. Those usually involve guys. Or the cases I investigate for the dead. Important stuff. Things that affect my ego, my libido, or situations that involve me putting my life on the line. I wasn’t sure where this one fell, but I did know that avoiding Marjorie was crucial, at least to my sanity. It was, therefore, an appropriate moment for a monumental sigh. “How about if I just do all the commemoration stuff by myself?”

“Isn’t that just like you? What a trooper you are!” Ella said this like it was a good thing. “But you know I’m not going to let you do that. For one thing, it’s too big a job for any one person. For another, tours will be starting up again in full swing soon, and we’ve got to keep your schedule open. I can’t have you completely distracted by the commemoration. And besides . . .”

I knew what she was thinking, and I bet I was the only one in Garden View who had the nerve to say it out loud. “Besides, if Marjorie isn’t in charge of the whole thing, she’ll make all our lives a living hell.”

“Well, really, Pepper . . .” It wasn’t much of an argument, but since she’s an honest person, it was the only one Ella could come up with. She didn’t need to say another word; Ella sighed, too.

Like anyone could blame us? After all, we were talking about Marjorie.

Let me bring things up to speed here. I’ll bet I’ve never mentioned Marjorie Klinker, right? Well, no big surprise there. That’s because in the great scheme of volunteers who have ever volunteered for anything worth volunteering for (and a whole bunch of things that aren’t), Marjorie is the most annoying, the most irritating, and the most astonishingly aggravating of them all.

Helping—isn’t that what volunteers are supposed to do? Well, Marjorie’s definition of helping doesn’t exactly match anyone else’s. She’s been a volunteer at Garden View Cemetery since forever, which makes her a fixture in the place, and not a good one. She thinks of herself as irreplaceable, indispensable, and vital to the cemetery’s operation.

Is it any wonder I avoid Marjorie like the plague? That I try not to think of her, much less talk about her? Marjorie is—

“She’s really an asset to Garden View Cemetery,” Ella said, finishing my thought, but not the way I would have. “There’s no way our paid staff can do everything we need to do around here. We depend on our volunteers. We need to show how much we appreciate them. They give us their time and their talents, and all that is really important. And of all the volunteers we have, Marjorie is the—”

“Biggest pain in the butt?” I made sure I said this sweetly. I wouldn’t want to hurt Ella’s feelings. Not for the world. But I couldn’t let her go on thinking these crazy thoughts, either. It was my duty as Garden View’s one and only full-time tour guide to set things straight. “She’s obsessed,” I said.

“She’s dedicated,” Ella insisted.

“She’s a know-it-all.”