“And you must be knee-deep in getting ready for the new school year, what with lesson plans and all. I get so mixed up sometimes!” I made sure I rolled my eyes when I said this, the way I’d seen the truly dim girls do. “I remember you said you were from Hammond, Indiana, but where did you say you teach? Laramie High School?”
“Lafayette High School.”
I smiled like I was too dumb to keep track.
“History.”
I hate a liar who can keep his story straight.
I spooned up some crème brûlée. “A history teacher probably knows a lot about . . . well, history! I mean, presidential history.”
“Exactly.” Jack took two bites of dessert to my one, and I saw that if I didn’t get a move on, he was going to get more than his share. The crème brûlée was that good. “That’s how I developed my interest in President Garfield.”
“So a history teacher would know about his life.”
“Sure.” He took another bite of dessert, but his eyes were on me. I do not have an overactive imagination, but I swear, there was a flash of irritation in those incredibly blue eyes of his. I knew what it meant. No matter how innocent my questions, by asking them I was challenging him.
And Jack didn’t like to be challenged.
He kept his eyes on mine. A not-so-subtle signal that no matter how innocent or clever I was, he wasn’t going to cave. He sat forward and propped his elbows on the table. “Would you like to know what year he was born? It was 1831. Or when he accepted a teaching position at the Western Reserve Eclectic Institute? That was 1856. Just a year later, he was named president of the school. It’s called Hiram College now, you know.”
“No, no. Nothing like that. That’s not what I meant.” I didn’t know enough yet; I couldn’t afford to alienate Jack. I kept my tone as light as can be. “What I was really wondering about is any family secrets he might have had.”
It wasn’t my imagination the first time and it wasn’t this time, either. That little spark in Jack’s eyes tamped back. I hadn’t even realized his shoulders were stiff until I saw him relax. He put down his spoon and sat back. Which gave me unspoken permission to finish the dessert. While I did that, I watched him watch me, and damn, but I wished I could read the thoughts going through his head. Did he know I was on to him and his lies about Lafayette High School? Maybe. But there was one thing for sure—he was a cool customer. Too cool to show it.
“You’re talking about his affair with Lucia Calhoun,” Jack said. He drank his coffee hot and black, just like Quinn did. I sipped. He gulped it down. “That’s no secret. Garfield admitted the indiscretion to his wife. She forgave him.”
“And there were no children.”
“Not as far as anyone knows.” Jack sat up. “Wait a minute! Are you telling me you think there were? That there’s some kind of proof?” Since I was being coy in the name of detecting, it was just as well that I had a mouth full of crème brûlée and couldn’t say a thing. He went right on. “If you did have some kind of proof . . . wow . . . that would create quite a sensation.” He smiled at the prospect, but little by little, that smile faded. By the time it was completely gone, there was nothing but worry in Jack’s eyes.
A guy who cares enough about me to worry.
It’s one of those things that always gets to me. Especially true when Jack reached across the table and covered my hand with his and little sizzles of electricity danced across my skin.
I reminded myself about my “no murderers” rule.
“You told me once that the woman who was murdered at the memorial . . . you said something about how she thought she was related to the Garfields. Now you’re asking about something personal that belonged to the Garfield family. Does this have something to do with the murder, Pepper? Because if it does . . .”
Chalk it up to flashbacks. This sounded a little too much like the horse hockey I’d heard from Quinn, and I knew what was coming next. Jack was going to say exactly what Quinn would have said in this situation: mind your own business.
I pulled my hand out from under his and tucked it in my lap, the better to keep the electricity down to a minimum and keep myself from getting burned.
Maybe I didn’t have to because the next second, Jack asked, “Are you looking into the murder? Investigating? Wow! I’m impressed. But I’m worried, too. That sounds dangerous. And I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.”
“I’m not exactly investigating,” I told him because, since what I was doing, exactly, was investigating, the last thing I wanted was to admit it. “I’ve just heard some things and talked to some people and it all got me wondering.”
The waitress came over to refill our coffee and leave a leather portfolio with the bill in it, and I waited for her to pour, then added sweetener to my coffee. “I guess I just don’t understand why people care about old things and history that doesn’t matter anymore. I thought maybe you could explain it to me.”
