Tomb With a View

“I can understand why you feel that way,” Ella said at the same time she smoothly turned Doris toward her office, and away from the door that led to the parking lot. “Let’s have a cup of tea and talk about it.”

“I don’t know.” Doris wrung the hanky. “I’ve made up my mind. That Marjorie Klinker is the nastiest person in the universe. I’m not going to take her guff anymore.”

“Of course you’re not.” Ella piloted Doris back toward her office, where I knew there was a hot pot and an assortment of herbal teas. “But you can’t leave while you’re upset,” she said, her voice as soothing as the steam off one of those cups of tea. “So we’ll just sit down and talk. And Pepper . . .” She gave me one final glance over her shoulder. “Pepper’s going over to the memorial right now. She’ll take care of everything. Right, Pepper?”

Like I could do anything but agree?

One more sigh and I headed out to where my Mustang was parked so I could drive over to the memorial on the other side of the three-hundred-plus-acre cemetery. If only my mood was as purposeful as my steps. Not only did I now have this commemoration thing to not look forward to, I had to face the woman who had made sweet Doris Oswald cry.

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.