Tomb With a View

“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.”