It wasn’t very encouraging. Especially since now, I was more confused than ever about what the hell was going on. Before I had a chance to think about it, though, a couple things happened. The front door opened and three middle-aged women walked in and started oohing and aahing. I didn’t know if they were gushing over the monument or the murder scene, but either way, I had to get down there and play hostess. Just as I got to the stairway, my cell rang and I fished it out of my pocket, saw it was the guy who’d gone to take care of my flat tires, and figured I’d better talk to him before he did something that was too expensive for a cemetery tour guide’s wallet.
“Hey, did you take a close look at those tires of yours?” he asked. Obviously, though he’d done some repairs and maintenance on the Mustang, he didn’t know me well. Tires are just about the last thing I’d waste brain cells thinking about. “Those tires of yours weren’t just flat, Miss Martin. They were slashed.”
I was on the winding staircase and I paused, one hand on the railing and one foot dangling above the next step. “Slashed? What on earth are you talking about? Why would anybody—?”
“Don’t ask me, honey. All I can say is that it was no accident. Either some punk was out getting his kicks with a little vandalizing, or . . .”
It wasn’t what he said, it was the way he said it. That one little
“Or?” I asked.
He clicked his tongue. “Well, if that’s the case, then I’ll tell you what, sweetie. There’s somebody out there somewhere who doesn’t like you a whole, big bunch.”
11
Every time I heard the front door of the memorial open, I thought about Ball Cap Guy, and every time I thought about Ball Cap Guy, my heartbeat sped up at an impossible rate and my imagination raced right along with it.
The words of the auto mechanic swirled inside my brain and left me lightheaded. Oh yeah, there’s nothing like thinking about a stalker with a knife sharp enough to slash tires to make a girl jumpy.
Preoccupied, I twitched my way through the early morning, and a dozen or so visitors. Joy of joys, Ball Cap Guy never showed his doughy face. It wasn’t much consolation. Not with the words
The good news in all this was that apparently it was a slow day around Garden View. Doris showed up at the administration building to do whatever it is volunteers do, and since Ella couldn’t find anything to keep her busy, she sent the little old lady over to the memorial. Not that I thought Doris would be much help in a fight, but I had to admit, it was nice to have someone else around. At least if my stalker showed, I had some backup.
With no emergencies in sight, Doris was busy with a group of four ladies who were asking more questions about Marjorie than they were about the president. After watching her kick dirt on Marjorie’s grave, I was itching to know how much—exactly—Doris knew about Marjorie (and more important, Marjorie’s murder), but unfortunately, I was stuck dealing with a visitor who was actually there to tour the memorial. He was a half a foot shorter than me, a pudgy guy wearing a suit that was too dark and too wooly for a sticky summer day. He had an impenetrable Eastern European accent and a scraggly beard that was the same salt-and-pepper color as his hair. No matter how hard I tried to avoid him, he dogged my steps, and once he had me cornered, there was no getting away from him. Even when I finally gave up being polite and just blatantly tried to eavesdrop on what Doris was saying, he kept pestering me with questions.
“This president of yours, this James Abram Garfield . . .” He carefully read the name from the brochure he’d picked up outside the office. “He must have been your bestest of presidents, to have a place in which he is buried such as this. I am thinking he must have done many big great things, yes?”
I half expected the president to show up and start listing them, and when he didn’t, I was on my own. “There was something about the Post Office,” I mumbled. “And the Civil War and—”
“Murder.”
I heard Doris say the word, and in hopes of catching more, I quickly stepped closer to where she and the four other women were standing.
The little man had other things on his mind. “These mosaic tile pictures, they are very marvelous.” He looked up to the dome high above our heads and the head of the statue of the president. Since Doris and the ladies she was talking to turned around and headed in the other direction and the only way I was going to hear any more from her was to take off after them, I gave up with a sigh and I looked up, too. The last time I’d been in the rotunda, it was so full of that swirling, sparkly fog, I couldn’t even see the dome.
