Tomb With a View

“You must leave the premises this very moment,” the president thundered. “You must stay far from Miss Martin now and forever. Do you hear me, sir? She does not desire your inappropriate attentions, and she will tolerate them no further. I will tolerate them no further!” The words boomed around us like jet engines, and believe me, Ball Cap Guy got the message.

By this time, he was blubbering. He backed up another step, then another, before he took off running. But it was dark, and he was so busy staring over his shoulder at the president’s ghost, he didn’t watch where he was going. He hit the top step and tripped, and when he rolled down the wide stairway, I heard a wild cry. Even before he crumpled at the bottom, I saw the dark stain of blood on his T-shirt where he’d fallen on his knife.

I scrambled for my phone, and it might have been easier to get my hands on it if I didn’t realize that over on my right, the president was winking in and out, his face pulled tight with agony, his arms thrown out at his sides.

I forgot about the phone and looked around for my keys, and when I couldn’t put my hands on either, I spilled my purse on the stone veranda and rooted through it.

“Not . . . to . . . worry . . . about . . . me.”

I looked up to find the president with his head thrown back and his eyes bulging. “The living . . .” The words were ripped from him. “More important . . . more important than the dead.”

He was right. I looked down the steps and saw that, even though the bloodstain on Ball Cap Guy’s shirt was bigger than ever, his chest heaved. I finally managed to find my phone and dialed 911, and yes, I did have to explain that it was the same presidential monument they’d already been to twice that night, and yes, there really was another person there who needed help and needed it bad.

By the time I hung up, I saw that Ball Cap Guy wasn’t the only one who needed help. I dragged myself to my feet and hurried to the president’s side.

“I’ll get the door open,” I told him, desperately looking through the dark for my keys. “We’ll get you inside and—”

“Too late.” Though his face was haggard, the president’s eyes were calm. “There’s no time, and it hardly matters. Mr. Stone . . .” He grunted in pain. “Mr. Stone was not my unfinished business, your stalker was. I had to . . .” He winked away, and I searched the darkness, praying he’d come back. He did, like the flash of a camera. “I had to face your stalker because I never did deal with mine.” The president’s expression was calm, angelic. “I do believe I must say good-bye to you now, Miss Martin.”

And he disappeared forever.

Nick had an assault charge slapped on his record, and ended up getting a couple years probation. Ted Studebaker went to jail for a whole bunch of years. Ball Cap Guy died in surgery, and I never realized just how tense I was knowing he was around until he wasn’t.

My stress levels settled down, and so did my life.

At least my emotional life.

There was still the commemoration to take care of, and Ella and I worked like fiends getting it ready. By opening night, every nook and cranny in the memorial gleamed, and a crowd of interested and enthusiastic visitors couldn’t say enough good things about all we’d done. The folks from the National Archives had already come and left with what was being called the Mystery Treaty, the better to make sure it was put on display and preserved with the proper temperature and humidity and all that jazz.

I was glad to have the letter and the treaty gone, but sorry the president wasn’t there to watch the way the admiring crowds oohed and aahed over the memorabilia of his life. I did my part, talking up his service in the Civil War and all he’d accomplished as a congressman and as president. Even though he was on death’s doorstep, he never gave in and signed that treaty, and that made him something of a new national hero.

He was my personal hero, too.

Rather than get all mushy thinking about it, I headed for the far side of the ballroom that had been opened for one night only in honor of the occasion, where tuxedoed waiters were helping our patrons to fancy-schmancy appetizers and glasses of champagne.

Unfortunately, I guess I hadn’t learned to look before I moved. I almost smashed my nose right into an expensive Italian silk tie and the chest of the detective wearing it.

“I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to check out your display,” Quinn said, and I don’t think he was talking about anything presidential since he was giving me and my new off-the-shoulder dress the once-over. I’d bought it to celebrate living through the summer, and I guess I’d made the right choice. When he skimmed a look from my satin pumps to the slim-skirted, blackberry-colored dress, Quinn’s eyes lit up. “I thought we could talk. Over drinks. That is, if you’re not busy later.”