Tomb With a View

“Murder?” For a moment, he was baffled, as if he really had forgotten that behind the secrets and the scheming and the counterfeiting, there really was a woman whose life had been snuffed out. “You’re talking about that silly woman who took those few cards?”

“So you didn’t kill her?”

He was either horrified at the thought or he was a mighty good actor. “You know me well enough. Or at least, I wish you did.” He looked me over, slowly and carefully. “Ah, Pepper! If only we’d met in another place and at another time. Then you would know I’d never do such a thing.”

“But one of your minions would do the dirty work for you.”

“Minions?” Jack . . . er . . . Jonathan’s laugh was as bright as the lighting was not. “You’ve been watching too much bad American TV. I don’t have any minions.”

“Not even Viktor Patankin?”

This time, he narrowed his eyes, and when he looked me over again, I think he was trying to see beyond the surface. “You’re a cop.”

“I’m a cemetery tour guide.”

“Patankin isn’t my minion. He’s just a silly little man who sometimes performs a few select services for me. Don’t tell me he’s gotten himself in trouble.” He twitched away the thought. “Whatever he says, I’m sure he’s got it all wrong. Viktor’s English isn’t very good. He tends to get things mixed up.”

“Except that he’s pretty much told them everything, and the feds have the credit cards to back up his story.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “You are a fount of knowledge. I’m impressed. With your good sense and your resourcefulness and your . . .” Again, he gave me a careful once-over. “Your other assets. I don’t suppose you’ve ever considered a life of crime.”

“Is that an invitation?”

“Oh, no. This is an invitation.” He was standing close enough now to look me in the eyes. “White sand beaches. Palm trees. Crystal blue waters. I’ve got a place in the Caribbean.”

“And my guess is you’re not sharing the address.” His smile was his only answer. That, along with, “We’d make a great team.” A noise from upstairs distracted him and his smile dissolved in an instant. “Or maybe not. You called the police?”

“Nah, I went right to the top and called the FBI,” I said. “Right before I walked in here. I figured it was my best bet.”

Footsteps pounded down the hallway, but even that wasn’t enough to get Jack flustered. “Don’t worry about the credit cards and leaving me in the lurch,” he said. “I won’t be penniless. There are plenty more credit cards where those came from and plenty of dead people who don’t mind in the least when I appropriate their names. I won’t suffer. In fact, I’m heading to a place where there’s no extradition. You wouldn’t—”

“Care to join you? I’ll have to pass.”

“Just as I thought. Then it’s good-bye, Pepper.” We were toe-to-toe, and he leaned in close, then paused, asking permission without saying a word.

I gave it the same way.

The kiss was deep, searching, and intense, and when it was over, Jack disappeared into the shadows on the far side of the room just as the federal agents burst in.

They scrambled up the old stone stairway that led out into the cemetery, but they never did find him.

Too bad. It would have looked good on Scott’s record to have collared the head of the counterfeiting operation.

Too bad Jack was a crook, too, ’cause he sure was a mighty good kisser.

Call me crazy. Or maybe it was just my hormones talking.

I believed Jack when he said he didn’t kill Marjorie.

I was glad. Sure he was a major felon (at least that’s one of the things Scott called him when he showed up at the cemetery and read the riot act to the agents who’d let Jack get away), but aside from that teensy character flaw, Jack didn’t seem like such a bad guy. Besides, now that I knew he hadn’t killed Marjorie, I could relive those couple knee-melting kisses and not feel guilty. Or grossed out.

Of course, the fact that he wasn’t willing to cop to Marjorie’s murder didn’t help out in terms of my investigation. I had eliminated Doris and Ray as suspects, and now Jack was off the list, too. It was time to narrow the field even more.

With that in mind, I called Gloria Henninger and told her to stop down at the memorial the next Monday afternoon and I would take her to lunch.

I know this doesn’t exactly sound like an investigative strategy, but believe me, I had a plan. I put it into motion the moment she was through the front door.

“You sure found the memorial with no trouble,” I said. Yes, it was a shaky accusation, but desperate times, desperate measures, and all that crap. I pinned Gloria with a look.

She was made of sterner stuff than I’d expected. In honor of our lunch date, she was wearing pink pants and a white T-shirt with a photo of Sunshine on it. Her top lip curled like the dog’s. “The memorial is big,” she said. “So is the cemetery. It’s easy to find.”

I wasn’t about to let her off the hook so easily. I took a step closer, and since I’m like a foot taller than her, it wasn’t hard to look imposing. “You said you’d never been here before.”

“Did I?”