Tomb With a View

“It would be nice if I could figure out what exactly happened to Marjorie. You know, to satisfy the whole balance of the Universe, right and wrong thing and all that.” I figured it was the kind of argument that would appeal to a politician, even a dead one. Which was why I focused on the justice angle and completely left out the whole Quinn/revenge factor because, really, it was none of his business. “It sure would help if you could fill me in on what went on here this morning.”

“Help? Who? Most certainly not that unfortunate woman. Nothing I tell you will bring her back.”

“Then could you just pop over . . . wherever . . . and talk to her? Ask her what happened and who dun it? That sure would make things easier.”

“Who did it,” he grumbled. “And no, I cannot accommodate you in this matter. It is not the way these things work.” When he turned and marched toward the stairway, I followed. “I’ve already told you I am unable to help. I was preoccupied this morning with matters of state. The single thing I noticed was that the woman was here early. Far earlier than you arrived.”

“Was she alone?”

“When I saw her, yes. Most assuredly.”

“Where did she—” We were almost at the stairway and I stopped for a moment. There were sections of the memorial where visitors weren’t allowed, and those sections were roped off and had signs nearby that said, CLOSED TO THE PUBLIC. The sign at the bottom of the stairway that led up to the old ballroom on the third floor was upside down. Automatically, I righted it and kept on with my questions. “Where did she hang out?” I asked the president.

I swear, his cheeks got red. No easy thing for a ghost. “I . . . I beg your pardon!” he sputtered. “I assure you, I certainly saw nothing hanging out, and if I had—”

OK, I had a laugh at the old guy’s expense. When I was done, I explained. “Hanging out. It means, like, the place she was when she was wherever she was when she was here.”

His eyebrows dipped. “Your grammar is deplorable.” He floated down the stairs.

I took the more conventional route and got back down to business. “So Marjorie . . . she was . . . ?”

“On the balcony, of course. You know that. But earlier, she was downstairs.”

“In the ladies’ room? Or in your crypt?”

I expected another lecture that included some nonsense about how indecent it was to even mention the ladies’ room. Instead, the president shook his head. “As I said earlier, I was preoccupied. I paid her no mind. I really cannot say where she went.”

He stopped floating at the main floor. I kept on going. If Marjorie had spent even a few minutes of the morning downstairs, I wanted to know why. I checked out the ladies’ room, and knew right away that she hadn’t been in there. The fixture above the sink had one of those curlicue, energy-saving lightbulbs in it. After it’s switched on, it takes forever for the bulb to brighten. Every employee and every volunteer knows to turn it on just once in the morning, then turn it off again right before the memorial is closed. It was still off.

When I stepped back into the hallway between the ladies’ room and the crypt, the president was waiting there for me.

It was more than a little creepy glancing from the President Garfield at my side to his flag-draped casket.

Rather than think about it, I went into the crypt. The crypt below the rotunda is shaped like an octagon. The president’s coffin along with that of his wife, Lucretia, are on display behind an iron fence at the center of the room. So are two urns. I knew from working at the cemetery that they contain the ashes of his daughter and son-in-law.

I did a circuit around the caskets and stopped right back where I’d started. “I don’t know what Marjorie could have been doing down here.”

“Paying her respects?”

I think it was a whatcha-call-it, a rhetorical question, but I was too deep in thought to care. “She’s got pictures of you everywhere. And books and all these weird sorts of trinkets. I don’t see why she’d have to come down here to pay her respects.” Like it might actually help me think, I went around again and my gaze traveled from the coffin of the president to that of his wife.

“You know . . .” I edged into what I knew could be a touchy subject. “I’ve been wondering . . . about that girl, Lucia Calhoun. If there really were any children—?”

I never got as far as even finishing the question before President Garfield started rumbling like a thundercloud. “Young lady,” he growled, “I understand that society these days is far more casual and less structured than it was back in my day, but really, I do not think that excuses a complete lack of decorum, do you?”

I wrinkled my nose. I wasn’t sure when we’d gone from discussing his love life to talking about decorating.

“It is simply not appropriate for you to be asking about such things,” he snarled.

“But Marjorie thought you were related.” My guess was this wasn’t news since Marjorie talked about it all the time, and Marjorie spent all her time in the memorial. “And now Marjorie is dead and—”