“This is just the office.” I guess he knew that, but I figured it didn’t hurt to point it out. I was the cemetery’s one-and-only full-time tour guide, after all. “The rotunda is bigger and fancier. The president and his wife—”
“Lucretia, yes.” Jack’s eyes lit. “I can’t wait to see the crypt.”
“Really?” I couldn’t have sounded more skeptical. Or less like somebody who was supposed to be proud of the place she worked. I cringed. “I mean, really! You’re actually here to see the memorial?”
He leaned back and took a quick look into the rotunda. “You’re telling me that all these other people . . . Let me guess, they’re all here because of the murder.” His sigh rippled the air between us. “There are always new and different ways that people disappoint me. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. They’re probably trying to get the facts firsthand from you since you were the only one here when the body was discovered. You were the only one here, right?”
I nodded.
“You were the only one here so everybody assumes you saw something. But you didn’t, right?” He brushed aside his own question with the lift of one shoulder. “Of course you didn’t. If you had, you would have told the cops, and somehow, the media would have gotten wind of it. From what I’ve heard, the police don’t even have a suspect.”
“They wouldn’t tell me if they did.” It was the truth, though I failed to mention the Quinn component. There was no use muddying the waters, and besides, there was no way Jack would care. “All I told them is what happened. I came in here. I found the body. I called the cops.”
“And there was nothing else? Nothing suspicious? Of course there wasn’t, and I bet I’m sounding just as morbid as everyone else. I’m sorry. It’s hard not to get caught up in the sensationalism. I should know better, and I should have known to stay away for a while, too, out of respect for the poor woman who was killed. But this was my only opportunity to see the memorial. What with earning a few continuing education credits, I’ve been busy all summer, and school’s going to be starting again soon.”
“You’re a—”
“History teacher. Lafayette High School. Hammond, Indiana.”
“I never had a history teacher who looked like you.” I hadn’t meant to say the words out loud. My cheeks got hot. “I mean—”
“No problem. Believe me, I didn’t expect a cemetery worker who looked like you, either.” There was that smile again, as bright as the sun and just as hot. “So you’ll give me a tour, right? If you have time? I’ve always been a huge admirer of James A. Garfield.”
That’s what I thought. What I said was, “Of course, but we’ve got a time limit. Marjorie’s funeral is this afternoon, and in her honor, the memorial is going to close at one and stay closed for the rest of the day. That gives us . . .” I glanced at the clock on the wall and so did Jack.
“Plenty of time,” he said. Like the hero in a swashbuckling movie, he made a dramatic gesture toward the doorway, but before I could walk out with him, he caught sight of the red rose on the floor. He scooted over and picked it up. “You drop this?” he asked, then looked again. When I threw the flower from my stalker onto the floor, I hadn’t exactly been careful about it. Its petals were mooshed and the stem was bent. Jack twirled the flower between his fingers. “You learn a lot teaching high school,” he said. “You know, watching students and teachers and parents, dealing with their dramas and their moods. I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that somebody . . .” He gave me a look that was only half-teasing. “Somebody is in the middle of a lovers’ spat.”
Just the thought of the word
Maybe Jack was the basketball coach at Lafayette High, too. He tossed the rose across the room. It arced over the desk and splatted into the wastepaper basket without ever touching the rim. “Good.” He grinned. “That means I don’t have any competition.”
Oh yeah, a girl’s head could get turned by a man like Jack McArthur. This girl’s head sure did. By the time we were out in the entryway and he was deciding if he wanted to hit the rotunda or the crypt first, I didn’t even care that he was a fan of James A. Garfield. Don’t get me wrong! I still knew it was lame. I just didn’t care.
“So . . .” He drew in a breath and glanced around, taking in the marble, the stained glass, and that statue of the president, his right arm bent and his hand resting against the vest pocket where I’d just recently seen him take out his nonticking watch. “Where to first? What do you think is the most important aspect of the memorial, Pepper? You probably know the building better than anyone, you must have your favorite spots. Certainly, the fact that Garfield isn’t buried here, that his casket is on display . . . that’s unique in and of itself.” His eyes glinting, Jack waited for me to comment, and when I didn’t, he sailed right on.
