Tomb With a View полностью

Every time I picked up the newspaper, I expected to see some screaming headline about how the cops (read that, Quinn) had made major strides in solving Marjorie’s murder. Every time I turned on my TV, I held my breath, hoping against hope that I might not see You-Know-Who’s gorgeous face looking back at me. I knew him well, see, and I knew that when the big moment came, when the lights were on and the cameras were rolling, he’d be his usual chilly as a frozen cucumber self in front of the crowd. Oh yeah, he’d be all about business. His jaw would be tight. His shoulders would be rock steady inside a suit no cop should be able to afford. His voice would be impassive as he told the world he had a suspect in custody.

His eyes, though . . . his eyes would spark with a message meant just for me: Take that, Pepper. I solved it before you did!

The fact that he didn’t even know I was investigating said something about how paranoid I was about the whole thing. And how determined.

Was it any wonder I was itching to get back to my investigation?

Too bad working at Garden View tends to get in the way of my real life. Perfect example: the next day. After missing work on Wednesday in the name of paying a visit to Nick’s home, then darting off to Marjorie’s, I couldn’t very well call off again. So there I was, all day Thursday, stuck in the memorial. And all day, there were people in and out.

None of them was Jack. This was unfortunate, because it meant I didn’t have a chance to satisfy my curiosity about either what he was up to or if he was really as good a kisser as I remembered. And no, the sign outside the stairway that led up to the ballroom wasn’t moved again. I knew that for certain because I dragged myself up and down those darned winding steps five times that day, just to check.

So that part of my investigation was at a dead end.

There was no sign of the president, either, so even though I doubted he’d been paying enough attention to remember one tourist, I couldn’t question him about Gloria Henninger’s visit to the memorial. I wondered if she was part of the comings and goings he complained about. I wondered why Gloria lied about never being in the cemetery. I wondered what business she could have had there, and of course, considering how much she liked “that Klinker woman,” I wondered if she’d murdered Marjorie.

I had no answers and no way to find them considering I was stuck inside catering to tourists like . . . well, like I was the cemetery’s official tour guide.

And again, my investigation was up against a brick wall.

With nothing left to do, I actually worked like a dog that day. I showed visitors around, and talked about presidential history and mosaics and marble and all that other stuff, and even though I mostly didn’t know what I was talking about and made up half of what I told them, they all seemed pretty pleased and left there thinking they knew more than they did when they walked in. Even at four o’clock when it was time to lock up, I still wasn’t done. At Ella’s request, I headed to the administration building to proofread the latest edition of her Garden View newsletter. After bailing out on her the day before, I figured it was the least I could do. It was six o’clock by the time I left the cemetery, and even then, I didn’t head home. I know, I know . . . a private detective’s work is never done. I had no choice. I went right back to Marjorie Klinker’s.

I still had all her junk in the trunk of my car, remember, and a boatload of questions to ask Nick.

I parked in what was becoming my usual spot and hurried up the front porch stairs. At that time of the year, it was still light in the evening, and I guess it was a good thing it was. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have screeched to a stop when I noticed the gouges all along the front door jamb. I bent closer for a better look. Sure enough, the lock had been forced.

My first reaction was surprise. But I am ever practical. Especially when it comes to danger. My second thought was that I needed reinforcements. Obviously, when anything happened in the neighborhood, Gloria and Sunshine were the first to know, and I had already made a move toward their house when I saw that there was no car in Gloria’s driveway, no lights on in the house, and no signs of movement from inside. Didn’t it figure, the one time I needed the neighborhood busybody, she was out for the day.

Left to my own devices, I put a finger to the door and pushed. It had been closed, but not all the way, and it swung open. I’d seen my share of cheesy horror movies in my day; I knew better than to go inside alone. But honestly, I couldn’t help myself. I took one look and caught my breath. I just had to step inside for a better look.