Tomb With a View (8 page)

“This is the last straw, Marjorie!” I didn’t know people ever really said that, I mean, not in real life. I tipped my head to try and catch every word. “So what you’re telling me is that you’ve been leading me on. Is that it? This whole thing . . . it’s been nothing but a charade. And now this!” Ray paused like maybe he was showing something to Marjorie. “This just about proves it. You don’t care about anyone’s feelings but your own. You act like I’m some sort of trained monkey.”

“But, Ray . . .” Marjorie must have known how desperate she sounded. She swallowed so hard, even I heard the gulp. When she started up again, she tried so hard to sound sexy, it was pathetic. Not to mention nauseating. “You aren’t going to ruin a perfectly good thing just because—”

“There is no good thing. Don’t you get that? There never has been. Whatever relationship we have—”

“It could be good. It could be better than good.” Maybe she saw that trying to reason with Ray was getting her nowhere fast. Marjorie’s voice iced over. “I simply can’t believe you’re getting upset about such an insignificant thing. If you’d just give me a chance—”

“I’ve given you all the chances you’re going to get. I’ve been patient. And I’ve been willing to believe you’d come through with what you promised. And all I get is the runaround.”

“That’s not it at all.” Suddenly, Marjorie’s voice sounded closer, as if Ray had walked out of the room and she was following. I scooted back into the living room. “It’s just that I want things to be good for us, to go smoothly. If you can’t see that—”

“It doesn’t matter, don’t you get it? I’ve had it with this whole thing. I’ve had it with you.” Ray’s voice was louder, too. I sat back down on the couch, and grabbed one of the books off the coffee table, the better to look like I was busy reading—and not eavesdropping.

Just in time, too.

His cheeks flushed, Ray walked into the living room. I think that’s the first he remembered I was there. He stopped long enough to acknowledge me, then headed to the door. “I’ll . . . I’ll see you around Garden View, kid,” he said, and he didn’t wait for me to answer. He was out the door in a flash.

“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.

S
talker!

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—”

“Ugly.” The woman spit out the word, dropped her cigarette, and ground it beneath the sole of one slipper. She switched the dog from one arm to the other. “That’s exactly what I told that crazy Klinker woman last spring when she had it trucked in here. Told her that statue was an eyesore. Told her it needed to be moved. Told her the neighbors weren’t going to stand for it.”

Like I needed to ask? I did anyway. “And Marjorie said . . . ?”

It was Gloria’s turn to
harrumph
. “Gave me a lecture about her rights as a property owner, that’s what she did. Told me to mind my own business. Just kept right on doing what she was doing. Put that statue right there and that was bad enough, but then last week she put up that spotlight. It’s too much. That’s what I told the city. I told them neighbors have to put up with some things. I understand that. But this? This is too much. Even little Sunshine . . .” She gave the dog a squeeze that made its already bulging eyes pop a little more.

“Sunshine won’t even walk out into our backyard to do her business. That’s how afraid of that statue she is. That’s what I told the city. Told them little Sunshine is terrified and that it’s just not right. You’d think they’d care. I’m a taxpayer, after all. You wouldn’t hear it from either of my ex-husbands, but I’ll tell you something else, honey: I’m a reasonable woman. And I’ve been reasonable. I’ve asked that crazy woman nicely. I’ve begged her. I’ve pleaded. When that didn’t work, I wrote letters to the newspapers and to the TV stations, and I’ve called my councilman. Nobody cares. That Marjorie Klinker acts like she’s better than everybody else.” Both Gloria and Sunshine aimed venomous looks at the house, and Gloria’s eyebrows slid up her forehead.

“You know what we do?” She lowered her voice and looked back at me, sharing the secret. “Every single night before we go to bed, Sunshine and me, we say our prayers. And you know what we ask for? We pray for Marjorie Klinker to die. Hasn’t happened.” She was disappointed; her shoulders drooped. “Nothing’s happened. The city doesn’t care. The TV stations don’t care. The newspapers don’t care. There are times I think I’m going to live until my dying day looking at that eyesore of a statue.” Disgusted, she shook her head. “I guess if anything’s going to change, it’s up to me. I’ll just have to kill her myself.”

It was hard to argue with logic like that, and I never had a chance, anyway, because Gloria turned and shuffled into the house next door.

Watching her, a shiver snaked over my shoulder. I didn’t pay any attention to it. What I did instead was load that box of junk into my trunk and get in my car. Right before I drove away, I took one last look at the house.

I was just in time to see Marjorie race across the living room, tossing books and magazines every which way.

I didn’t pay any attention to that, either, except to think that Gloria and Sunshine were pretty good judges of character: Marjorie Klinker was one strange cookie.

 

 

 

I
wasn’t surprised to find Doris Oswald in the cemetery administration building the next morning. It’s not always easy to keep people happy, especially when they’re volunteering their time, but Ella has a magical gift for smoothing ruffled feathers. Of course she talked Doris out of quitting! What she’d talked Doris into, I didn’t know, but I saw that whatever project Doris was working on, it must have been overwhelming for the elderly woman. She was flustered and short of breath when I bumped into her in the hallway.

“Oh, Pepper!” Doris’s cheeks were rosy pink. “I was just . . . That is, I just . . .” Doris waved toward the copy room.

I suspected there was a problem with our cranky copier, and I so didn’t want to get dragged into it. I pointed Doris toward Jennine, who was way better at taking care of all things technical than I would ever be, and zoomed into my office before I could get waylaid by anyone else.

Once I had the door shut firmly behind me, I turned on my computer and checked my e-mail. I had a message from a suburban teacher who wanted to schedule her class for a tour, and since I had nothing better to do and knew that it was better to get these sorts of things over with than obsess about them, I picked up my phone to call her. It beeped, the way it does when I have a voice mail message.

My voice mail only kicks in when Jennine isn’t there to take my calls, and trooper that she is, Jennine is always there during business hours so this struck me as a little weird.

Unless Quinn had gotten a serious case of “I’m sorry” in the middle of the night.

My spirits rose. Yeah, I was still plenty mad at him, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t willing to cut him some slack. If he was appropriately penitent.

Anticipation buzzed through my bloodstream. Well, for a second, anyway. Until I reminded myself that if Quinn wanted to talk in the middle of the night, he wouldn’t call the office. He had my cell number.

Grumbling at the thought that whoever wanted me must have wanted something to do with a cemetery tour, I punched in my code, and waited. According to the computer voice that kicked in right before the message started, the call had come in the night before, right about the time I’d left Marjorie’s.

“Ms. Martin? Marjorie Klinker here.”

I cringed.

“Ms. Martin . . .” Marjorie huffed and puffed, trying to catch her breath. “There are so many Martins in the phonebook, I don’t know which number might be yours. Otherwise I would have called you at home. Or on your cell phone. That, of course, is a very good idea. Remind me to bring it up with Ms. Silverman tomorrow. Volunteers should have employees’ cell phone numbers, so that they could call them day or night in case of an emergency.”

I rolled my eyes.

“That is what this is, of course. An emergency. I certainly wouldn’t have called you . . .” She put just enough emphasis on that last word to make me feel as insignificant as she intended. “. . . if it wasn’t. Ms. Martin, I must see you in the morning. The instant you get to Garden View. First thing. It is extremely important. Please!”

Hearing Marjorie say
please
was a little like finding out a goldfish can talk. I gave the receiver a questioning look at the same time I deleted the message.

“The instant you get to Garden View!” I repeated the words in the same overly dramatic tone of voice Marjorie had used and made a decision right then and there: Marjorie Klinker wasn’t the boss of me. Just so she wouldn’t forget it, I took my good ol’ time. I called that teacher and scheduled a tour for the next week, and since just thinking about spending a couple hours with fourth graders made me weak in the knees, I knew I had to fortify myself with a cup of coffee. Since it was Friday and Ella usually brings donuts in on Fridays, I was hoping for a bit of a sugar high, too.

Donuts weren’t the only things I found in the break room. Ray was there, too, and I tried to make small talk mostly because I wanted to find out what he and Marjorie were going at it about the night before, but he would have none of it. He looked up long enough to say hello when I walked in, but that was it. He was preoccupied with the newspaper open on the table in front of him, though since he kept turning the pages and never once stopping to read any of the articles, I don’t know why.