Tomb With a View

Another thought hit and stuck, and I gave myself a mental slap. “It explains that voice mail message she left at my office, too. She said she had to see me the next morning. She said it was important. Of course it was! Marjorie couldn’t find the letter anywhere else so she knew I had it. She had to get it back. It was the most important piece of Garfield junk . . . er . . . memorabilia she owned.”

The president hung his head, and if I didn’t remember he was a politician (which automatically made him a liar in my book), I might have been more inclined to forgive him when he said, “I am terribly sorry. If I had remembered the letter . . . if I thought it had any relevance . . . You believe it does.”

It wasn’t a question. I nodded, anyway. “If somebody wanted to sell this letter and Marjorie didn’t—”

“Then that same person—”

“Killed her. And then when he couldn’t find the letter among her things, he ransacked her house and her locker here at the cemetery, looking for it.”

The president’s brow creased. “It seems to me, that means he might still be looking for this letter of mine. And that if he knew you were in possession of it—”

“He’d be real eager to get his hands on it.” I slid the president a look. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” I asked.

A smile sparked in his blue eyes. “Only if you’re thinking we might still use this letter as bait to catch a killer.”

20

Oh yeah, that’s exactly what I was thinking, and with the plan in mind, I called in the big guns. Figuratively and literally.

I should have known better. My previous cases had taught me that nothing mucks up an investigation like involving the professionals.

“I still don’t think this is a good idea.” Scott was so fidgety, I had a feeling he would have paced the office of the memorial if Quinn hadn’t positioned himself just to the right of the desk. The way Quinn was standing there—his feet apart and his arms crossed over his chest—it was clear he wasn’t about to move and just as clear that Scott wouldn’t get past him. Not without a physical confrontation, anyway.

“What if he doesn’t show?” Scott asked. “What if he does, and we can’t get to you in time? If you’re putting yourself in danger, Pepper—”

“Pepper likes to put herself in danger.” It was the first thing Quinn said since he’d shown up in answer to my phone call. “It’s one of the things she does best.”

I didn’t bother to respond to this comment. It was juvenile, for one thing, and for another, it wasn’t true. I did a whole lot of things better than I put myself in danger, and Quinn should have remembered that.

“It’s too late,” I said, responding to Scott because I mean, really, why even try to reason with Quinn? “Ella pulled some strings and got the information out to the media, and the story about it was on the news this evening. They didn’t say what it was, but they talked about the fabulous thing we’d found and how it’s related to President Garfield and how we’re all set to put it on display here at the cemetery. We made a big deal about how, after the commemoration, the item is going to be donated to the National Archives. He’s bound to show up looking for the letter. It’s his only chance to get his hands on it and sell it before it’s out of his reach forever.”

Yes, it was brilliant, but I have to admit, the plan wasn’t mine alone. Civil War soldier and strategist that he was, the president had actually helped me come up with it. The whole thing made sense to us, and waiting for confirmation from the two guys who would enforce it, I looked back and forth, first to Scott, then to Quinn. When neither one of them said a thing, I gave up trying to be reasonable, flicked off the lights in the office, and headed into the rotunda.

“Hey, what can possibly go wrong?” I asked neither one in particular. “I’ve got you two superheroes here watching out for me.”

Was I trying to convince them, or myself?

Not them. I knew that. Scott was nothing if not good at his job, and he took his responsibilities seriously. Quinn . . . well, he was a royal pain and I was still plenty bitter about the way things had ended between us. But Quinn was a professional, too. In his deepest, darkest fantasies (and believe me, I knew a thing or two about Quinn’s fantasies), I had the feeling he’d like to see me fall flat on my face. But he wouldn’t let anything happen to me. Not from a safety standpoint, anyway.

Now all I had to do was convince myself.

Listening to my heart beat out a rumba rhythm in my chest, I stepped into the empty rotunda. It was after hours, and the crowds of tourists were long gone. The chandelier above the president’s statue was lit, and it threw a circle of light onto the marble dais. Beyond its glow, the far ends of the rotunda sloped into shadow.

Believe me, I took a good, long look into those shadows before I went to station myself at the table Ella and I had set up to the right of the lighted dais.