Tomb With a View полностью

I’d hoped Cemetery Survivor had been forgotten by everyone who’d ever bothered to watch the reality show based on the cemetery restoration we’d done earlier in the summer. It was that bad. Still, it was kind of a kick to be recognized. I sidled past him and slipped behind the desk, and no, I didn’t feel like it. I mean, I was stuck in the memorial and I had all those ghoulish people out in the rotunda who kept asking me about Marjorie, and I had a murder to solve. I gave the man a smile, anyway. “You want an autograph or something?”

“I want . . .” His fingers worked over his tie, faster and faster. He licked his lips. He shuffled his feet. “I want . . .”

I am nothing if not a good sport, but being stared and stammered at has a way of making even the most self-assured woman lose her legendary cool. Still, I managed to keep smiling. And waiting.

He, however, couldn’t get out of the “I want” loop.

Still standing, I tapped my fingers against the desktop.

He shuffled forward. He scuffled back.

I tapped some more.

“I saw you on TV,” he mumbled. “I watched. Every week.”

“That’s terrific. Really. But if you want to talk about Cemetery Survivor—”

“Talk? No. I want . . .” He shuffled another step closer to the desk.

By this time, I’d pretty much had it. I mean, it was one thing being a TV sensation. It was another thing to have my time wasted by someone who probably just didn’t have the nerve to ask what it was really like to find Marjorie’s brains sprinkled all over the rotunda.

I pointed at the desk. “Work,” I said. It might have been a far more effective strategy if there was actually something on the desk, but since the guy was so busy staring at me, I don’t think he noticed so I went right on. “I’ve got a whole bunch of work to take care of. So if you really don’t want anything . . .”

He jumped like he’d been slapped. His tongue flicked over his lips. “I want . . .” He shambled to the door, and the closer he got to it, the faster he moved. “I want . . .” I heard him say one last time, before he rocketed into the entryway and out the front door.

“Well, that was weird.” I dismissed the thought—and the guy—with a toss of my head, and I was all set to plop down in the chair behind the desk and pretend I was actually working, the better to avoid the crowds outside the office.

It was then that I noticed the single red rose on the desk chair.

OK, call me slow on the uptake. I’d been so busy dealing with his weirdness, I never even thought that Ball Cap Guy and my stalker might be one and the same person.

My knees turned to rubber, and before they gave way completely, I swept the rose from the chair with shaking hands and plunked down. I lectured myself about letting my imagination run away with me. I reminded myself that just because someone was a little . . . well . . . a lot odd . . . that didn’t mean that same someone was dangerous. Or threatening.

“He was just a tourist,” I told myself. “And this is a public place, and anyone can come in, and sometimes, people are just a little strange, and that doesn’t mean he’s your stalker or anything. Does it?”

Brave words. They actually might have made me feel better if I didn’t keep remembering the way his eyes had been glued to me.

When I reached for the phone to call cemetery security, my hands trembled. I guess that’s why it took me a couple tries and I still couldn’t punch in the right numbers. Before I had a chance to give it another go, I heard the front door of the memorial creak open, and yeah, my head told me it was probably just another harmless visitor come to ooh and ahh over the murder scene. My instincts weren’t so sure.

My heart pumping a mile a minute, my stomach somewhere up in my throat, I watched a thin stream of sunlight sneak through the front door and pool on the floor of the entryway. It was followed by a shadow that paused for a moment, then pivoted toward the office.

He was back!

I swallowed down the sour taste in my mouth and reminded myself that Pepper Martin is no namby-pamby wallflower. Just to prove I was listening, I braced my hands against the desktop and pushed myself to my feet at the same time I tried to issue a warning. My mouth was filled with sand; the words wouldn’t form. I gulped and tried again. “Get lost!”

“Wow, I’d heard people in Cleveland were tough, but I didn’t think it would be this bad.”

He came around the corner.

Not doughy Ball Cap Guy.

No way. No how.

This guy was tall. Blond. Gorgeous.

Really. I mean it. Absolutely, drop-dead gorgeous.

Strong, square jaw dusted with golden stubble. Eyes the exact color of the robin egg’s blue in the golf shirt he wore with dark, tight jeans. Loose-limbed, rangy body. The greatest smile I’d seen in a long time.

Oh yeah, he was the total package.

And I felt like a complete idiot.

“I am so sorry.” I was moving toward him even before I realized it. “I don’t usually tell visitors to beat it. Honest. It’s just that—”