But there was no way I was going to admit it. Not to Lamar. Not to myself.

With that in mind (or more accurately, not in mind, since I refused to think about it), I spent the next few days after the Team One fundraiser trying to prove to myself that I didn’t need to talk to Dale Morgan to help me solve the case.

I went back to the park where I’d met Reno Bob and sat in my car and kept an eye on him, just waiting for him to do something suspicious. He never did.

I went back to Bad Dog’s Big Car Nation and hung around in the check-cashing place next door, as inconspicuous as I could be under the hot pink and orange

I reexamined the crime scene photos and reread the suspect and witness interviews, and I realized that if I’d been paying more attention the other umpteen times I’d read through the file, I could have saved myself the pleasure of meeting Steve the Strip Man. There was a rust-colored mark on Steve’s interview transcript that showed there had once been a paperclip attached to it, and a free-floating, handwritten note in the file with said rusty paperclip still attached. Eliminated, it said. Incarcerated.

Just like Reno and Bad Dog at the time of Vera’s murder. But not at Central State.

Did it matter? Not if Vera was the intended victim all along, and Jefferson Lamar was just the patsy who got in the way.

With all these questions swirling in my head, and as long as I had the file out, I reread the newspaper articles about the murder. By now, I knew the details by heart. Maybe that’s why, for the first time, I bothered to look at the byline above the stories.

Mike Kowalski.

The same name appeared over and over, and it sounded familiar. Just to check, I grabbed the morning’s Plain Dealer and paged through it. Mike Kowalski was still around, all right. That day, there just happened to be an article about him at the top of the Metro section. Apparently, he was some kind of hotshot because he’d just won a national award for investigative reporting. I skimmed the article that appeared below the picture of Kowalski

Oh yeah, Kowalski was a journalistic superhero, all right, but I called him anyway, and I was all set to give him my song and dance about restoration and research. As it turned out, I didn’t have to. He was a fan of Cemetery Survivor. In fact, he said I was one hot chick and his favorite thing about the program.

Just how desperate was I?

I made a date to meet him for coffee anyway.

Thanks to that photo that ran with the story about him, I recognized Kowalski the moment I walked into a neighborhood bar called Sullivan’s, even though he wasn’t wearing tights and a cape like I expected.

It was just as well. Kowalski was a middle-aged bald guy with a triple chin. He was wearing khakis, a blue oxford-cloth skirt, and a tie that was light blue with yellow polka dots that were supposed to be there and a bunch of food stains that weren’t. Kowalski had beady eyes. They lit like Fourth of July fireworks the moment he caught sight of me.

I did my best not to get grossed out, slid into the booth across from where he sat, and ordered coffee. There was a fat cheeseburger and a double order of fries on the plate in front of him. He added a lake of ketchup and looked me over.

Don’t worry, as soon as I heard that “hot chick” comment, I knew what was going to happen, and I had wisely

He was so not getting it.

“Research, huh?” Kowalski grinned the way older guys always do when they’re trying too hard to impress a younger woman. “You sure you weren’t just looking for an excuse to meet me?”

I’d already decided there was only one sure way to a reporter’s heart, and I kept to my plan. I’d stopped at Garden View that morning and made copies of all the newspaper articles in the police file, and I pulled them out of my purse and plunked them on the Formica table. “I’ve been reading your clippings. You must know more than anyone about the Vera Blaine murder.”

He chewed a couple fries and washed them down with a slurp of coffee. “I’ve been thinking about writing a book about it. Hey, if they make it into a movie, you want to star?”

He wasn’t serious. I wasn’t interested. I twinkled. “That would be terrific. Only it might not happen for a while, right? I mean, it takes a long time to get a movie made. By then, I’ll be too old to play Vera.”

He grabbed his burger and took a bite. Ketchup, mustard, and onions oozed out of the bun and slopped onto his plate, splashed his tie, and added a couple new polka dots. “We can make an exception,” he said, with his mouth full. “For you, honey, I’d do anything.”

I added sweetener to my coffee and took a sip. “Let’s start with your articles.” I spread them out. “You wrote a lot of them. You were really well connected to the case.”

“I was a jerk.” He didn’t sound embarrassed, just sorry. “I was fresh out of J school and I took every assignment

“Did it?”

He set down his burger so he could grab some more fries. “If it did, would I be sitting here right now?”

I thought back to the story in the morning paper, and believe me, I wasn’t trying to score points, just stating the facts when I said, “You’re some kind of god when it comes to investigative reporting. You won—”

“That big award. Yeah, right. Blah, blah, blah.” You’d think a guy who’d been singled out for his excellence would be a little more thrilled. Kowalski waved the whole thing off like it was nothing. “You’re young,” he said. “Someday maybe you’ll understand.” He chuckled, though I didn’t know what was supposed to be so funny. “Or maybe not.”

Honestly, I wasn’t sure what we were talking about. My best bet was to keep the conversation on track.

I thumbed through the articles until I found the one I was looking for. “I’m curious,” I told him, “about the desk clerk from the Lake View Motel, this Aaron Burton guy.”

Kowalski darted a look at me that I could read as clearly as I could his lame pick-up line. He was wondering if there was more to me than just a great body and a pretty face.

Was that good or bad?

Rather than worry about it, I stayed focused. I pointed to one of the articles, and because it was upside down to him, I read out loud. “You quoted the desk clerk here . . . ‘“They was here plenty,” said Aaron Burton, a Lake View employee. “I seen them before, lots of times.” ’ ”

I set down the article, planted my elbows on the table,

Kowalski finished his coffee and waved the waitress over for more. It wasn’t until after she poured and he added three packs of sugar and four of those little creamers that he bothered to answer me. “What makes you think he lied?”

“It’s hard to explain.” True enough, since the only thing I had to go on was the word of a dead guy who swore up and down that his and Vera’s relationship was nothing more than what was appropriate for a boss and his secretary. “I don’t think Lamar and Vera were having an affair.”

Kowalski tipped his chin in the direction of the article I’d just read to him. “That’s not what that guy said, is it? And he was there. You . . .” He gave me a quick once-over. “At the time, my guess is that you were maybe in kindergarten.”

I smiled because Kowalski’s voice was tight and that beady gaze of his was focused on me in a way that told me he was getting pissed. I didn’t know why, but I knew that if I didn’t keep things on an even keel, he was going to ask me to leave, and I was going to lose out on anything he could tell me. “But here’s the thing . . . Aaron Burton never testified at Lamar’s trial,” I said, and I knew this because I’d been through the file so many times and double-checked my hunch just in case I’d missed something. “In fact, the cops never even interviewed him after the murder. If his testimony was so crucial to the case—”

“Apparently it wasn’t. They convicted Jefferson Lamar without it.”

“But why? How?” I was amazed that an investigative reporter with Kowalski’s reputation didn’t see what I

He had a fry in his hand and he tossed it on his plate, where it landed in a pool of ketchup and added another spot to his tie and one on his shirt. “You think I wasn’t telling the truth?”

“Not at all!” I was losing Kowalski and I was losing him fast. I scrambled to keep my questions coming at the same time I sidestepped around his ego. “You’ll have to excuse me, I’m not a professional. I mean, not like you. I’m just a cemetery worker looking for a way to look good on a silly TV show.” I leaned forward. “You want to help me, don’t you?”

He sat back. His gaze flickered from my face to the front of my shirt.

I avoided the temptation to get up and leave.

It was a good thing, because the next second, Kowalski gave in.

“Aaron Burton was a druggie,” he told me. “The reason he never testified was that by the time of the trial, nobody could find him.”

“And you think—”

He pushed away his plate. “He didn’t testify because the cops could never find him. The kid probably OD’d or something. Chances are, he was lying dead somewhere and maybe nobody ever found the body.”

“Seems awfully convenient, don’t you think?”

“Not for Burton. Not if he was dead.” Kowalski hauled himself out of the booth and tossed a twenty on the table. “I’ll get your coffee,” he said. “That way I can go back to the office and tell people I bought lunch for a beautiful woman. They won’t believe me, but what the hell.”

And just like that, he walked out.

I would never know, of course, but it was an intriguing possibility, and though I don’t know any other private investigators, so I can’t really speak for them, my guess was that there wasn’t a PI anywhere who wouldn’t have been at least a little curious.

If only I had the time to worry about it!

The next week was a whirr of cemetery work, and we tried to keep our chins up and get ready for our team’s fundraiser in spite of the sobering news that Team One had been awarded twenty points for its tea and we were lagging thirty points behind. We worked like dogs, and if it wasn’t for Ella, we would have probably ended up looking like idiots.

I would have been grateful if she just kept to her cheerleader role and didn’t decide to deliver bad news just an hour before our fundraiser was scheduled to start.

“Five thousand dollars? Team One raised more than five thousand dollars?” I paced the wide flagstone veranda outside the Garfield Memorial, stunned by the news Ella had just delivered. “That means they had . . .” Math is not one of my strong points. I tried to do some

She peeked at the papers in the file folder she was carrying. “Two hundred and fifty-six,” she said. “They sold two hundred and fifty-six tickets to the tea.”

“And we’ve sold, like, what?” I tried to remember, and again, the numbers failed me.

But not Ella. “You’ve got one hundred and thirty-five sold as of right now,” she said. “But don’t worry. It doesn’t mean a thing. You know Team One sold tickets to people who never even showed. Like the mayor and a bunch of state senators and—”

I groaned. “It doesn’t matter if they showed or not. They still got the money. And that means if we don’t have a whole bunch of last-minute ticket buyers, they’re going to get that bonus twenty-five points.”

To me, this was something akin to a tragedy. Which didn’t explain why Ella had a wide smile on her face.

“What?” It was the only logical question.

She kept right on smiling. “You care,” she said.

This stopped me. “I care? About—”

“About the restoration. About your team. About Monroe Street. About cemeteries. Oh, Pepper!” Where this idea came from, I wasn’t sure, but she was so jazzed about it, she couldn’t keep from bobbing around like a buoy on a choppy lake. Come to think of it, that night, she looked a little like a buoy, too, in a clingy red pantsuit that showed off her substantial curves and crystal jewelry that glittered in the evening sun.

“I knew this was going to happen,” Ella said, in that motherly voice I’d heard her use on her three daughters. “I knew you were going to be a real mover and shaker in the cemetery business. This proves it. That’s why you want to win. You’re striving for excellence.”

“I want to win,” I told her, “because except for Bianca,

“You don’t mean that.” She said that in the way people always do when they know you do mean what you say, they just can’t believe you had the nerve to say it. “Admit it, you’re feeling proprietary about your team. You’re feeling good about Cemetery Survivor. You’re taking real pride in your work. It’s because—finally!—you’ve developed a real love for what you’re doing. Don’t be afraid to admit it. You know you can always tell me the truth.”

“OK, I admit it.” It wasn’t true, of course, but I didn’t have time to worry about it, and if it made Ella happy to think I’d morphed into a cemetery geek, that was all that mattered. “I’m glad things are going well with the restoration. But if we don’t get a few more people in here tonight . . .” Automatically, my gaze traveled to the teal blue doors of the Memorial. They were closed at the moment, and we were waiting for one of the maintenance crew, who said he’d be there any minute, to unlock the building and let us in.

“Not to worry.” Ella patted my arm. “We were here . . . how late last night? You and your team were a great help. Everyone worked so hard! You know your displays look gorgeous. Everything is going to be just perfect.”

I guess in a weird kind of way, she was right. We’d worked like dogs on making sure the art show looked good, and now, it was time to just sit back (figuratively speaking, of course) and enjoy.

I pulled in a calming breath, picturing it all. As guests walked into the rotunda of the memorial, the first display on the right was Absalom’s. He’d made a bunch of new voodoo dolls specially for the show, and the wild colors of their outfits along with their crazy hairstyles and the flashes of beading and jewelry on them set just the right mood, especially since his display was across from the imposing statue of the president at the center of the memorial.

The next display was Jake’s, a mishmash of photos—some black and white, some in color—of everything from our team working at Monroe Street to the bus Jake took to the cemetery each day. Delmar’s drawings were next, and though I hadn’t said a word to anyone, I thought they were going to get the most attention. The kid had talent, that was for sure. His renderings of what he thought Monroe Street could look like with a lot more work and some big donor contributions were sure to inspire folks to pitch in and join the cause.

Sammi (who was considerably mellower since her last close encounter of the physical kind with Virgil) had insisted on having her stuff in the last display area. She’d made a couple purses for the show (one out of a coffee can and another out of red velvet and gold braid that looked as if it had come from either a church or a bordello). She’d also chosen to display her white vinyl shorts and top outfit, a bikini crocheted from dental floss, and a pair of sneakers that she’d studded with rhinestones and embroidered with Christmas tree tinsel. There was some talk of including the Wonder Bread dress until Sammi discovered that in his eagerness to get it off her, Virgil had left a nasty hole in it. But remember, this was a kinder, gentler Sammi. She actually didn’t seem to mind all that much.

“I know it all looks pretty good,” I said, talking to myself as much as to Ella.

“Considering how creative it all is, I think it’s going to cause quite a sensation.” Ella grinned. “I talked to the art critic from the Plain Dealer this morning. They’re planning to run a whole photo spread.”

“That’s good. It’s all good.” It was. I knew it. That didn’t stop the familiar rat-a-tat of jitters from starting up inside me again. “But now we need more people. Maybe our groupies don’t love us anymore.”

“Maybe your groupies just aren’t people who do things like buy tickets ahead of time. They’ll show up. You know they will. I think they’d pay money just to see Delmar and Reggie. I’ve got to say, that Reggie . . .” Ella’s face turned a shade of red that matched her pantsuit. “Obviously, he’s not my type. I mean, he’s a criminal after all, and he’s so rough around the edges and so—”

I cut her off with a laugh. “No apologies necessary,” I told her. “Reggie’s a tough guy, and a lot of women are attracted to that type.”

She cringed. “A lot of women, yes. But I’m usually not one of them. I’m level-headed, remember. My goodness! What would my girls say if they knew that when I was watching last week’s episode and saw Reggie stripped down to his denim shorts digging that hole where the new fountain is going to go . . . and he was all hot, and the sweat outlined every muscle in his body . . . I felt this rush of heat, you know, and one of the girls—I don’t remember which one—one of the girls asked if I was having hot flashes, and I didn’t want to tell her what it really was, and—”

Fortunately, Tony, the maintenance man, arrived, and we didn’t have any more time to discuss Ella’s bad-boy fantasies. As Tony was walking up the steps to the doors

Remember how I said I was planning on going all-out for the art show? Well, I think I really outdid myself. I was wearing a body-hugging, Empire-style, strapless satin dress with a V bodice that showed off just enough cleavage. The dress was what they called an “ikat tribal print” at the store where I bought it, with streaks of color that ranged from vivid canary yellow to lemon to a nice, clear white that perfectly matched my round-toe sling-backs and my chunky bead necklace and bracelet.

Oh yeah, I looked good, all right, and Absalom acknowledged as much with a tip of his head. He was wearing a three-button tuxedo with a long jacket, and I guess he and Sammi had decided to color-coordinate. His lime green brocade vest was a perfect match for her gown with its see-through lacy midriff and flounced hem. I recognized the pattern and the color. I’d seen a shower curtain just like it at Target.

“We are going to rock tonight!” Absalom slapped me a high five and did the same to Ella. She didn’t know him as well as I did, so she didn’t brace herself for the impact, and she nearly fell over. As a way of apologizing, Absalom wound an arm through hers and escorted her to the door. “After you,” he said to me, and waved me into the building first.

Immediately inside the door to the memorial is an entryway with a winding staircase on the left that leads down to that crypt where the caskets of the president and his missus are on display for everyone to see. On the other side of the entryway is the tiny gift shop/office where the docent who usually mans (or womans) the building waits for visitors. Ahead of us and up two shallow steps was the rotunda, and though I’m not usually

“Oh my gosh!” I stopped cold and Ella slammed into the back of me. After a moment of stunned paralysis, I forced myself to move. I stumbled into the rotunda with Ella, Absalom, and Sammi right behind me.

One by one, they saw what I saw.

“What the—” Absalom’s voice rumbled up to the top of the dome above our heads and echoed back at us.

“Oh, dear,” Ella chirped.

And Sammi? She took one look at her display, screamed, and broke down in tears.

“What’s going on in here?” Reggie and Delmar had just arrived, and they rushed inside and looked to me for answers.

Somehow, I was able to find my voice. “Our art show . . .” I looked around again, and my heart sank. “Our art show has been vandalized.” I waved a hand toward what had been a beautiful display when last we saw it. Now it was a mess. Absalom’s dolls had been torn down and stomped on. Jake’s photos were ripped to pieces. So were Delmar’s drawings. A couple of Sammi’s outfits had been burned. The ashes of all that was left of them lay in little mounds on the floor.

And all of it . . .

From my vantage point, I could see all four displays.

I turned every which way, trying to get a sense of the entire message, and when I couldn’t, I violated every rule of Garden View and stepped onto the marble platform that houses the statue of the president. From there, I could see exactly what James A. Garfield could see. Too bad his statue couldn’t talk. Then he might be able to tell us who had scrawled the message that started at Sammi’s display and ended on Absalom’s. It was written in the garish pink lipstick I’d thrown in the Monroe Street trash the moment I found it. It said—

I gulped down the sudden sour taste in my mouth and read the words out loud. “Pepper, don’t ignore me.”

“Oh, dear.” With nervous fingers, Ella twisted her beads.

Sammi was on the floor next to her display, scooping up the ashes and weeping.

Delmar was too stunned to move, and Absalom, he pounded one fist into the open palm of his other hand. I could just about see the steam shooting out of his ears.

That’s how Crazy Jake found us when he shuffled in and snapped some pictures.

“You look pretty, Pepper,” he said. “You’re standing with the president. You’re the first lady.” Jake thought that was pretty funny, but it didn’t take a genius to know he wouldn’t be laughing when he saw that his photos had been destroyed. Maybe Reggie and Delmar realized that; they latched onto Jake and walked him outside before he saw any of the damage.

I stepped back to where my teammates waited. “What does it mean?” I asked Absalom. “Who would do such a thing?”

“I don’t know,” he thundered. “But when I find the guy, I’m going to break his freakin’ neck.”

I am not a violent person, but I thought it was a great plan.

“Pepper.” Ella touched a hand to my arm. “Pepper, I know how awful this must be for you. All your hard work.” There were tears in her eyes and she sniffed. “And I know you don’t feel like thinking about anything else right now, but Pepper—”

“The caterers are here!” Delmar called from outside.

“And your guests are going to be right behind them,” Ella reminded me. “Pepper, what are you going to do?”

Honestly, I didn’t know. It was too hard to think about anything except the damage that stared me in the face.

That, and the inescapable reality that pounded through my body and filled my veins with ice water.

I had pissed someone off. Big time.

Call me Little Miss Sunshine, but I had a feeling this was actually good news. It meant I was getting close to finding out who killed Vera Blaine.