What I wasn’t counting on was getting down to my car parked behind my apartment building and finding that two of the tires had gone flat. I grumbled, sure, but never let it be said that Pepper Martin isn’t a woman of action. I called AAA on my way back up to the apartment, where I took off the kiwi-colored dress, carefully folded it, and stashed it in a carry bag so I could change back into it at lunchtime. That done, I pulled on the dreaded khakis and polo shirt and, as long as I was at it, a pair of sneakers, too. Sure the open-toed slingbacks I’d been wearing were adorable, but just as sure, I could never walk the mile from my apartment to the cemetery wearing them, even if it weren’t all uphill. The slingbacks, too, got tucked into the bag. Thus prepared, I started out for the monument.
It was a sticky morning, so even if it was born of necessity, bringing clothes to change into was an act of pure genius. Just like cute shoes with high heels aren’t meant for walking, perspiration stains on a gorgeous dress make such a bad impression. Especially when the fabric is dry clean only.
By the time I had climbed all those stairs that led up to the front door of the monument and stuck the key into the lock, I was breathing hard and desperate to sit down.
So one can only imagine how much I did not want to be greeted by a certain dead commander in chief.
“This is impermissible.” President Garfield paced the entryway like a caged lion. He’d obviously been waiting for me, he was so worked up, the great orator actually sputtered. “I simply will not tolerate . . . I cannot abide . . . these sorts of interruptions are unconscionable, not to mention rude. Comings and goings and—”
“It’s Tuesday. I’m supposed to be here.” I was sweaty and tired, remember. I couldn’t afford to stand on ceremony, even with the president. I trudged into the office, set down my purse and my carry bag, and flopped into the chair behind the desk. It was blessedly cool inside the monument and I fanned my fiery cheeks and wished I could enjoy a few moments of peace. You’d think a man who’d made it all the way to the White House would have been smart enough to pick up on that.
“I have been patient,” the president said, coming into the office and sounding anything but. The way he huffed and puffed, it was like he was the one who’d had to slog to work that morning. “I have been forbearing. I have been as a man who is adrift on a stormy sea, and who sees that there is no beneficial result to be had from raging against the conjunctive forces of Fate and Nature. He must stay his time, and excogitate his plans. He must—”
With a sigh, I pushed myself out of the chair. “He must get to the point?”
The president flushed. He had a high hairline and the color flowed over his cheeks and all the way up his forehead. “The point is, young lady, I can no longer abide such disturbances. I have a country to run!”
It was early. I was hot and tired. There was no coffee-maker in the memorial like there was in the administration building, where I would have stopped first thing if I was in my car instead of on foot, and the caffeine from the cup I’d had back at home had been sweated out of me. I was a little nervous about having lunch with Jack, and a little annoyed that, so far, my case wasn’t coming together. I was a little worried that Quinn was making more progress when it came to Marjorie’s murder, and more than a little sure that if he was getting somewhere more promising than my nowhere, he wouldn’t share any information with me and that he would, in fact, gloat about it the first chance he got. Oh, how I didn’t like the thought of Quinn gloating!
Like anybody could blame me for blowing a fuse?
I pounded out into the entryway and flung open the door, stepping back so the president could get around me. “You want to run the country? Fine! Get out of here and go run it. You certainly couldn’t do a worse job than all the other goofballs who think they know what they’re doing.” When he didn’t move fast enough to suit me, I stomped one sneaker-clad foot and waved him toward the outside world. “Go!”
The president threw back his shoulders and marched to the door. “I will do exactly that,” he rumbled, and he stepped outside.
If we were in some TV drama, or one of those romance novels my mom likes to read so much, I would have slammed the door behind him and brushed my hands together in a good-riddance sort of way. I was all set to when I looked out to where the president stood on the flagstone veranda and saw his jaw go slack. His shoulders dropped, and he turned as pale as I’d always pictured ghosts would be before I met one and found out they don’t look any different from anyone else. His eyes bulged and he jerked forward and threw his arms out to his sides—right before he let go a cry so gut-wrenching, it rattled my bones.
