Tomb With a View

I knew it wasn’t polite to say whatever to a president—dead or alive—but it’s not like anyone could blame me. Then again, the way the president looked at me, his nose wrinkled and his eyes narrowed, I had a feeling he wouldn’t know what I was talking about, anyway.

6

After that, everything happened pretty quickly. The media arrived complete with sound trucks and satellite dishes and reporters who saw the yellow crime scene tape and pounced on its implications like bees on the sugar cubes at a garden tea party.

To her credit, Ella was helpful enough to keep everyone happy and just evasive enough to avoid answering any direct questions about murder. Understandably, by the time she was done, she was wiped. I couldn’t blame her. She trundled back to her car so she could get to the administration building and start answering the phone calls we knew were sure to start pouring in. I, remember, had been told not to leave.

Like I was going to let that stop me?

I was in the office and already had my Juicy Couture purse in hand and my car keys out when Quinn walked in.

“Pepper Martin and murder. Why am I not surprised to be saying those words in the same sentence?”

“It’s not like I killed her.” I’d never even considered the fact that the cops might suspect I had, and just thinking about it made my blood run cold. Rather than let Quinn know it, I dropped into the chair recently vacated by Ella. “I suppose you want to ask me all the same questions the other cop asked me.”

“Maybe.” I’d seen Quinn in action before—work action, not that kind of action!—and I knew that when he was operating in detective mode, he could be as intimidating as hell. I refused to cave even when he took his time gathering his thoughts, the better to put me on edge.

After what seemed like forever when I did not check out (at least not too much, anyway) his navy blue suit, his spit-shined shoes, or the trace of a morning shadow on his chin that told me wherever he’d spent the night, it wasn’t at home, I traded him look for look.

He took a small, leather-bound notebook out of his pocket and flipped it open. “Officer Gonzalez tells me you found the body.”

There was no use repeating myself. I put down my purse and my car keys and folded my hands on the desk, waiting for more.

“She was already dead?”

“Her head was smashed on the marble floor, her blood was everywhere, and she wasn’t breathing. I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure that means she was dead.”

“You didn’t touch the body? Move anything? Pick up anything that might be evidence?”

“Oh come on, how stupid do you think I am?” I had a feeling I didn’t want to hear his answer, so I barreled on. “Like I told that other cop, I was supposed to meet Marjorie here this morning to talk about a commemoration the cemetery is planning. I showed up. I found her. She was dead. End of story.”

“Was there anyone else around?”

I thought back to when I arrived at the memorial. “Marjorie’s car was parked outside. There was nobody else here.”

“Could someone have come down the steps after you arrived?” Though he didn’t need to, he waved in the general direction of the stairway that led to the balcony. “Could they have gotten past you without you seeing?”

“Only if I was blind and deaf. If somebody was up there when I got here, they’re still up there.”

“We’ve looked.”

“Then whoever that somebody is . . .” I gave him time to jump in and maybe supply me with a little information, and when he didn’t, I kept on going. “They were gone before I walked in.”

Quinn took his time flipping the page of his notebook before he asked, “You knew the victim?”

“Since you’re going to hear it from everybody who works here, you might as well hear it from me first. Yes, I knew her. She was a volunteer here at Garden View, and the biggest pain in the behind I’ve ever met. Well . . .” My smile was so sweet it hurt. “The second biggest.”

He ignored the dig. Too bad. I thought it was a pretty good one. “So what you’re telling me is that you think there might be someone here in the cemetery who wanted to see her dead.”

I laughed. Let’s face it; it was the only logical response. “I said she was a pain, I didn’t say anyone wanted to kill her. Oh . . .” I thought about Gloria Henninger of the pink bathrobe and the dog. I thought about how Marjorie made Doris cry and almost leave a volunteer job she loved, and I thought about Ray, who wasn’t smiling when he left Marjorie’s house the other night. I thought about me. Oh yeah, I’d wanted to kill Marjorie plenty of times. This wasn’t the proper occasion to admit it.

“Don’t tell me you have a theory.”

Quinn must have read the look in my eyes, but even though it was kind of what I was going to tell him—that I didn’t have a theory so much as I had a couple interesting snippets of information to tell him about—I didn’t. That’s what he got for rolling his eyes.

I kept my smile firmly in place. “No theories.”

“You could always ask one of those dead people to help out. You know, the ones you claim you talk to.”