“No problems of national import. No, sir, certainly not.” Stone adjusted the glasses pinched to the bridge of his nose. “It was nothing more than a trivial thing we discussed and I regret leaving your side so that I might attend to it. What can I get for you, sir?”
“Paper.” The president’s voice was so small and shallow, Stone had to lean closer to hear. “Paper and ink. I would . . . I would like to write a letter.”
“Certainly.” There was a table next to the bed, and Stone set his portfolio down on it. He reached into his breast pocket, pulled out one of those old-fashioned fountain pens, and set that down, too, before he backed toward the door. “I have no blank paper with me, sir, but I will get some for you. I will be back in just a moment. And when I do return, sir . . .” Stone’s gaze darted to the portfolio. “There are papers that must be signed, sir. I know it is inappropriate of me to insist so strongly when you are so discommoded, but really, sir, we must get these out of the way before—”
Realizing what he’d almost said, Stone blanched.
The president reassured him with a wheezing chuckle. “I do not hold it against you for nearly saying the words no one else dare speak, Stone. You are an honorable and efficient aide to me, and I cannot fault you for verbalizing the truth. You wish me to sign these papers before I pass into a better place. That is true, is it not?”
Stone nodded.
“We will take care of it when you return,” the president assured him. “For now, if you might bring me that writing paper . . .”
Stone disappeared, but honestly, I don’t think the president even noticed. For a minute, he was so still and quiet, I thought he might have died. But then he sighed, and like a sleepwalker, he groped toward the bedside table, reached into the portfolio, and drew out a piece of paper. Slowly and carefully, he began to write.
My dearest Lucia . . .
I watched him write out each word, pausing now and then to fight for a breath or reposition himself in bed.
“. . . as are my other sons,” he mumbled as he wrote, and his strength gave out. The pen dropped out of his hand and onto the blankets. The letter fluttered under the bed.
“I remember desiring to communicate with Lucia on that, the last day I spent among the living.” When the president’s ghost spoke, I realized we weren’t at the sea-shore anymore. We were back in the memorial. “I remember that Stone went to get pen and paper. But the letter . . . I have no memory of writing it. And yet there it is, framed and in your hand. Are you telling me it was never delivered? Does that mean it never made its way to Lucia? That I never had a chance to say good-bye to my darling?”
“Please!” I turned the word into two emphatic syllables. “All this time, you’ve held the key to the mystery and all you can think of is your love puppy?”
He had the good sense to look embarrassed—at least for a moment. The next, he was back to his old, blustery self. “It is inappropriate to share such a sensitive piece of information with—”
“Give me a break!” I was pissed, and just to prove it, I stomped one foot on the marble floor. “News flash, nobody cares! Not anymore, anyway. You had a kid with your mistress. Big deal! These days in the world of politics, that’s small potatoes.”
His chin went rigid. “It should not be. Such a lapse of moral judgment should never be taken lightly. It would surely have destroyed my career if the public knew of my relationship with Lucia. And should they have learned there was a child born from our liaison, that would have resulted in the ruination not only of me, but of my family as well. That is why the boy was raised by a distant relative of Lucia’s, why I was unable to acknowledge him as my own. Had word gone out that he was my son, I would have never been elected to office. I would never have been able to hold up my head in public again.”
“Yeah, well, that was back in the old days when politicians had consciences. You should have told me about the letter. You should have told me you and Lucia had a son.”
“It cannot be of great importance. Not to your investigation.”
“It is if your son, Rufus, went on to have a family of his own.”
The president glanced away. “He did.”
“And if his children had children and their children—”
“Yes. Yes!” I was glad he interrupted me. I wasn’t sure about all this genealogy stuff and didn’t know how many children’s children’s children I needed to list.
Rather than even worry about it, I gave him an icy stare. “Yes or no. That’s all I want from you. Not an explanation and not a speech. Was Marjorie Klinker really one of your descendants?”
“Rufus was married at an early age. His wife died after giving birth to their first child. He then remarried and fathered a number of children with his second wife. Through that side of the family, there is a convoluted bloodline that—”
“Ah!” I held up a hand to stop him. “Not what I asked. Was Marjorie related to you?”
The president’s shoulders never wavered. “Yes.” “Well, damn! Wouldn’t that just make her day? Or at least it would if she was alive to hear the news.”
Sarcasm—no matter how well placed—apparently doesn’t work on ghosts. Or maybe it’s just presidents who are immune. Thinking over the possibilities, he rumbled, “You think that unfortunate woman’s murder had something to do with . . .” He dismissed the very idea with a lift of his broad shoulders. “No. That is hardly possible.”
“It is possible if somebody knew about this letter. And if that somebody wanted Marjorie to part with it. Her nephew, Nick, talked to an antiques dealer about selling a piece of your personal property. Well, it can’t get much more personal than this. What if he wanted to sell it and she didn’t? She wanted to reveal the news to all the world at the opening of the commemoration. She said she had something to display, something wonderful and valuable. Don’t you see? If Nick wanted her to sell the letter and she refused because it was too precious to her . . .”
“Yes, yes.” The president nodded. “I understand. Of course I do. They may have quarreled. They may have fought. He might have killed her to get his hands on the letter.” He glanced at the frame in my hands. “But he did not get it, it seems. Did he?”
The little piece of presidential one-upsmanship did not sit well with me. Then again, I guess I could forgive Mr. Garfield. He didn’t know the whole story.
“Marjorie wanted to pull out this little bombshell at the commemoration,” I explained. “And until then, my guess is that she had it at home, where she thought it was nice and safe. But that night I visited her, she was plenty upset by the time Ray dumped her and walked out. So when she gathered the stuff she wanted me to bring over here, she somehow grabbed the letter, too. That explains why I saw her running through the house like a crazy person when I drove away.”
Another thought hit and stuck, and I gave myself a mental slap. “It explains that voice mail message she left at my office, too. She said she had to see me the next morning. She said it was important. Of course it was! Marjorie couldn’t find the letter anywhere else so she knew I had it. She had to get it back. It was the most important piece of Garfield junk . . . er . . . memorabilia she owned.”
The president hung his head, and if I didn’t remember he was a politician (which automatically made him a liar in my book), I might have been more inclined to forgive him when he said, “I am terribly sorry. If I had remembered the letter . . . if I thought it had any relevance . . . You believe it does.”
It wasn’t a question. I nodded, anyway. “If somebody wanted to sell this letter and Marjorie didn’t—”
“Then that same person—”
“Killed her. And then when he couldn’t find the letter among her things, he ransacked her house and her 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 d
idn’t, I should have been relieved, but waiting for the touch of the steel only made me more anxious. I sure hoped Scott and Quinn were paying attention.
“Give me the letter,” Nick growled.
“You are the rightful owner. I mean, being Marjorie’s only living relative and all.” I threw out this morsel in an attempt to wheedle a confession out of Nick, just the way Scott and Quinn had instructed me to. “Why not just go home and work on proving you own it. That way you can walk in here, take rightful possession, and do anything you want with the stupid letter.”
“I can’t take that chance.” Another step closer. I held my breath. “What if there’s no way to prove it’s mine? It’s worth too much.”
“Was it worth killing Marjorie to get?”
“What?” In his surprise, Nick forgot all about his goofy disguised voice, and hearing him sound genuinely shocked, I spun around. I found him with his mouth hanging open, and yeah, the lights were dim and the shadows edged in on us from every side, but I swear, in that one instant before he stuck his right hand in his pocket, I saw what I saw, and what I saw was that his hand was empty. The second he stuck it in his pocket, though, it looked like he had a gun in there.
Or like he was pointing a finger, pretending it was a gun.
The tension washed out of me and I tossed my head. “Oh, come on, Nick. That’s just about as lame as it gets. You don’t have a gun.”
He made a face. “I figured you’d give me the letter if you thought I did.”
“Is that what you told Marjorie that morning you came here to the memorial? That you had a gun? That she had to turn over the letter or else?”
Even with the shadows, I could tell his face went ashen. “I tried to reason with her,” he said, his voice squeezed thin. “Aunt Marjorie was not a reasonable woman.”
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