I freaked.

“But Marjorie is crazy!” I wailed. I’d walked into my office and put away my Juicy Couture bag and the salad I brought for lunch right before Ella showed up, so my hands were free. That was good, because it gave me the opportunity to add a wild gesture that I was certain said everything there was to say about Marjorie’s mental state.

And Ella? She gave me that look she usually reserves for her three teenaged daughters. The one that has patience written all over it along with the P.S. I’m not going to put up with you acting this way much longer.

The minute she was in my office, Ella sat down in my guest chair. Now, she popped up, the better to look imposing and boss-like. She should have known that wasn’t going to work on me. I was more than a head taller than her. I was more than fifty pounds lighter than her. I had the curly red hair, the attitude, and oh yes, the style that a middle-aged woman in Earth Shoes could only dream about. Ella may have been the boss, but I had the whole imposing thing down pat.

This didn’t stop her from folding her hands at her waist and lifting her slightly saggy chin. It was a gloomy Wednesday and the air outside was heavy with humidity and the promise of rain. Ella must have been watching the local weather when she got dressed that morning. Her pantsuit was as gray as the clouds that hung over Cleveland like an untucked bedsheet. Her expression was just as deadly serious. In fact, the only things that made her look a little less like one of those thunderclouds outside were the pink beads she had looped around her neck twice and the nail polish that matched them perfectly, down to the hint of sparkle. “I know you don’t mean that about Marjorie,” she said, and because she mistakenly thought it got to me every time, she added a motherly smile.

“It’s too hot for senior citizens to come to the cemetery on tour,” Ella added. “And school hasn’t started yet, so there aren’t any school groups requesting tours, either. That means you don’t have that much to keep you busy, so you can’t tell me you do. This is the best use of your time, and really, it’s such a special occasion. You do agree that the commemoration is important, don’t you?” She twitched away the very thought. “Well, of course you do!”

Commemoration?

Like I was actually planning on working that day, I took my time turning on my computer, the better to give my own mental data bank time to reboot. Now that Ella mentioned it, I did recall seeing something in the Garden View employee newsletter about an upcoming commemoration. Seeing being the operative word here, not reading. Since Ella was the one who proudly wrote and edited the newsletter, I couldn’t admit it. At least not outright.

“The commemoration.” I nodded to convince her we were thinking in perfect harmony. “And Marjorie’s part in the commemoration is . . . ?”

“Well, she’s offered to chair the event, of course. I mean, I really didn’t expect any less of her. When it comes to President Garfield, Marjorie is something of an expert.”

Ah, the pieces started falling into place and not a moment too soon. “Oh, that commemoration.” I flopped into my desk chair. After four years of working at Garden View Cemetery, I should have known better, but really, a girl can hope, right? I’d fooled myself into thinking all this commemoration talk involved something exciting, or at least mildly interesting. Just like that, my hopes faded along with my smile.

Something told me Ella realized it, because her rah-rah smile faded, too. “You do remember the President Garfield commemoration, don’t you?” she asked, dropping back into the guest chair. “You did read about it in the newsletter? And you were listening when we discussed it at the last staff meeting, right?”

Yes, Ella is my boss, but she’s also my friend. There is only so long I can try to pull the proverbial wool over her eyes, especially when, since my dad’s in prison and my mom lives down in Florida, she likes to think of herself as the calming, mature influence in my life. Ella has convinced herself—with no actual reinforcement from me, it is important to note—that I will someday follow in her footsteps and be the community relations manager of a fancy-schmancy cemetery like Garden View. This puts her in the precarious position of thinking of herself as my mentor. Every once in a while, she thinks she needs to prove it. Every once in an even greater while, I feel as if I have to live up to her expectations.

I wondered if my expression looked as pained as it felt when I admitted, “I was listening. Just not very well.”

There’s one thing about Ella: she never loses heart. She proved it when she explained things slow and easy: “The commemoration starts this November. That’s because November nineteenth is President James A. Garfield’s one hundred and seventy-ninth birthday. He’s entombed here at Garden View. Of course, you know that. His monument is usually only open in the spring and summer months, but—”

“We’re making an exception for that one day,” I interrupted, and Ella didn’t mind. It did her little cemetery-community-relations-manager soul good to know that, once in a while, I did actually listen.

She nodded. “That day will kick off the commemoration, and it will continue until next year when we celebrate his one hundred and eightieth birthday and the one hundred and thirtieth anniversary of his assassination. Oh, dear.” Ella put a hand to her cheek. “I don’t suppose I should say celebrate. Not when it comes to the president’s death.”

When Ella’s in full cemetery-I’m-lovin’-it mode, there’s no stopping her. Still, I was duty-bound to at least try. “I have no problem working on this whole commemoration thing with you,” I told her, as perfectly honest as I didn’t always have the luxury of being. “But Marjorie . . .”

I save my monumental sighs for situations that warrant them. Those usually involve guys. Or the cases I investigate for the dead. Important stuff. Things that affect my ego, my libido, or situations that involve me putting my life on the line. I wasn’t sure where this one fell, but I did know that avoiding Marjorie was crucial, at least to my sanity. It was, therefore, an appropriate moment for a monumental sigh. “How about if I just do all the commemoration stuff by myself?”

“Isn’t that just like you? What a trooper you are!” Ella said this like it was a good thing. “But you know I’m not going to let you do that. For one thing, it’s too big a job for any one person. For another, tours will be starting up again in full swing soon, and we’ve got to keep your schedule open. I can’t have you completely distracted by the commemoration. And besides . . .”

I knew what she was thinking, and I bet I was the only one in Garden View who had the nerve to say it out loud. “Besides, if Marjorie isn’t in charge of the whole thing, she’ll make all our lives a living hell.”

“Well, really, Pepper . . .” It wasn’t much of an argument, but since she’s an honest person, it was the only one Ella could come up with. She didn’t need to say another word; Ella sighed, too.

Like anyone could blame us? After all, we were talking about Marjorie.

Let me bring things up to speed here. I’ll bet I’ve never mentioned Marjorie Klinker, right? Well, no big surprise there. That’s because in the great scheme of volunteers who have ever volunteered for anything worth volunteering for (and a whole bunch of things that aren’t), Marjorie is the most annoying, the most irritating, and the most astonishingly aggravating of them all.

Helping—isn’t that what volunteers are supposed to do? Well, Marjorie’s definition of helping doesn’t exactly match anyone else’s. She’s been a volunteer at Garden View Cemetery since forever, which makes her a fixture in the place, and not a good one. She thinks of herself as irreplaceable, indispensable, and vital to the cemetery’s operation.

Is it any wonder I avoid Marjorie like the plague? That I try not to think of her, much less talk about her? Marjorie is—

“She’s really an asset to Garden View Cemetery,” Ella said, finishing my thought, but not the way I would have. “There’s no way our paid staff can do everything we need to do around here. We depend on our volunteers. We need to show how much we appreciate them. They give us their time and their talents, and all that is really important. And of all the volunteers we have, Marjorie is the—”

“Biggest pain in the butt?” I made sure I said this sweetly. I wouldn’t want to hurt Ella’s feelings. Not for the world. But I couldn’t let her go on thinking these crazy thoughts, either. It was my duty as Garden View’s one and only full-time tour guide to set things straight. “She’s obsessed,” I said.

“She’s dedicated,” Ella insisted.

“She’s a know-it-all.”

“She’s well read. You know she has a burning interest in President Garfield. How many people can say that? How many people know anything at all about him? That makes Marjorie invaluable. Plus with her background as a librarian, I always know her research is impeccable. Nobody knows more about the late president than she does.”

“That’s because she’s so loony. Come on, Ella, you’ve heard her carry on and on and on. She thinks she’s special because she’s some long-lost relative of the president.”

“Which is why she’s immersed herself in his life. Really, the fact that she thinks she’s a descendant—”

“Is what proves she’s really a nutcase, since all the real descendants say she’s wrong and there’s no way they’re related.”

As well reasoned as it was, my argument was getting me nowhere fast. I could tell because, little by little, Ella’s lips pinched. Pretty soon, I couldn’t see them at all. It was time to pull out the big guns. When appealing to Ella’s softer side doesn’t work, sometimes there’s nothing left to do but tell the truth. “Marjorie horns in when I’m giving tours,” I told her, and not for the first time. Four years of working at Garden View meant four years of having to deal with Marjorie’s complete and total lunacy. I’d complained before, and each time, Ella had reminded me how important people like Marjorie are to the operation of the cemetery. Ella couldn’t afford to step on any volunteer toes, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t—and wouldn’t—go right on complaining. “She pushes me out of the way to be the center of attention. She corrects me in front of tour groups even when I don’t need to be corrected and—”

“Marjorie does know an awful lot about Garden View and about our residents.”

“So you think it’s OK for her to step right in front of me and take over my tours? To grab the microphone out of my hands and tell a tour group that I’m mistaken and that if they’d just listen to her, they could find out the real story on the people buried here?”

Ella’s laugh was light, but not totally convincing. “Oh, Pepper, you’re exaggerating. Marjorie’s just enthusiastic. She’d never do anything so rude.”

“But she did. She has. She—” I was sputtering, and it wasn’t pretty, and since I am more interested in pretty than I am in the workings of Garden View Cemetery, I controlled my urge to scream. There seemed no better way to end the Marjorie lovefest than by distracting Ella. And nothing distracted Ella more thoroughly than cemetery business. “You want to tell me exactly what you have in mind for me to work on?” I asked her.

She saw the question as a surrender when it was really just a stall tactic. Thinking she had the upper hand, she scooted to the edge of her seat. “We’ll set up a sort of staging area in the conference room here in the administration building. You and Marjorie can sort through all the memorabilia the cemetery owns related to the president and catalog it there. I have a feeling Marjorie will want to include some of her own collection, too, and that’s fine by me. You know, she’s amassed one of the most amazing collections of Garfield memorabilia in the country. Together, you’ll need to decide what should go on exhibit, what special printed materials we’ll need, how we should celebrate . . . er . . . commemorate. It’s going to be such a wonderful experience for you, Pepper. And I know you can do it. After all, you were in charge of that cemetery restoration project earlier in the summer and—”

Ella kept talking, but I wasn’t listening. The Monroe Street Cemetery restoration wasn’t something I wanted to hear about. Not now. Not ever. Sure, I’d led my team in the successful revamping of one section of the old-and-moldy city-owned cemetery on the other side of town, but that doesn’t mean all my memories of the project were warm and fuzzy. I’d solved a murder and finally brought closure and peace to a restless ghost, but I’d also gotten shot at, nearly been killed in a car at the top of a flag pole (long story), and lost the guy who I thought was the guy who was going to be my guy for a long time when I finally confessed to him that I kept getting into dangerous situations thanks to the ghosts who refused to leave me alone. That was when he accused me of being a liar, not to mention as nutty as a fruitcake. Not so incidentally, it was also when he walked out on me.

I shook away the thought just as Ella was finishing up whatever it was she’d been saying. “. . . good on your résumé. Not that I hope you ever need one. I mean, I hope you’ll be working here for a long, long time. I’m not planning on retiring for another fifteen years or so, and by then . . .”

My brain went into full-freeze mode again. Thinking of working at Garden View for another fifteen years had a way of doing that to me. I might have sat there like that forever if not for the words that finally penetrated my slurpiness.

“. . . I mean, after everything that happened with that nice policeman boyfriend of yours.”

“Quinn?” Of course she was talking about Quinn. He was the only nice policeman boyfriend I’d ever had. Except that he wasn’t all that nice. At least not in the ways Ella defined the word. I didn’t realize I’d sat up like a shot until I already had my elbows on my desk. That’s when I also realized how uncomfortable Ella looked.

“I know it’s none of my business,” she said. The color that raced into her cheeks matched her beaded necklace. “Though really, I suppose it is. My business, I mean, because I mean, I really do think of you as one of my girls, Pepper. And you haven’t told me exactly what happened between you and Detective Harrison, but I know it’s something, and not something good. He hasn’t come around to see you here at work since you finished the restoration, and he usually stops in once in a while. He hasn’t called and left any messages. You haven’t said a word about him and . . . well . . . frankly, Pepper, you’ve been moping.”

“I haven’t. I never mope.” I had no choice but to challenge her because of course I’d been moping; only I thought I was only doing it at home where nobody would notice.

“You’ve been depressed.”

“That’s silly.” The denial tumbled out of my mouth at the same time I looked down at the new outfit I was wearing. Since I knew I wasn’t going to be out in the cemetery that day, I’d passed on the standard-issue khakis and polo shirt with the words GARDEN VIEW and STAFF embroidered over the heart in tasteful script. I was wearing an emerald green sleeveless front-zip cotton shirtdress with a waist-clinging belt and adorable Jimmy Choo snakeskin platform peep-toe sandals. They were gold. And did I mention adorable?

Yes, the outfit was new.

Yes, I’d bought it as well as the three other new outfits I’d worn to work in the past week in the hopes that a little shopping therapy would make me forget everything I wasn’t getting from Quinn.

No, I hadn’t thought anyone noticed.

I guess I was wrong.

I pushed away from my desk and dug my shoulders into the high back of my chair. “If you’re giving me this commemoration job because you think it’s going to help ease some kind of broken heart—”

“I figured you’d have some extra time on your hands.”

“And you think I’m crying into my pillow every night and this is somehow going to cheer me up. Number one, working with Marjorie isn’t going to cheer me up. In fact, one day with her and you’ll probably have to call Quinn yourself because there’s bound to be a homicide. Want to guess who’s going to be the victim? Number two, the whole crying into my pillow thing? Way overrated.” I ought to know, I’d been crying into my pillow each and every night for the last three weeks, and it hadn’t helped me feel one damned bit better.

Rather than think about it, I told Ella the same lie I’d been telling myself. “I don’t miss him, if that’s what you think. In fact, I’m glad he’s gone. And I’m not the least bit bored. I’ve got plenty to keep me busy.”

“Yes, of course you do. Like working on this commemoration.” Ella got up and bustled to the door. Something told me she figured if she stopped listening and just kept on talking, things would work out fine in the end. She should have known by now: they never do. “That’s one of the things I admire so much about you, Pepper. I know you’re not fond of Marjorie. But you’re still willing to work with her. That’s really wonderful. It’s so refreshing. And it’s exactly why you’re going to go over to the Garfield Memorial right now. That way you and Marjorie can talk, and you can get to know each other a little better.”

“But I don’t want to get to know her better.” Was that me whining? Absolutely! And I didn’t regret it one bit. The more Ella sounded so sure of herself, the more sure I was that I wanted nothing to do with her plan. “I just want to—”

“Be a team player! Of course you do. I knew that’s what you’d say. Because that’s one of the things you do best, Pepper. You help out when I need it. You step up to the plate. You pitch in and give everything you do your best shot.” She emphasized this last point by poking a fist into the air.

And I knew a losing cause when I saw one. I fished my purse out of my desk drawer, flung it over my shoulder, and headed for the door.

“That’s my girl.” Beaming, Ella opened my office door and led the way out into the corridor. We were nearly in the reception area when we heard the most awful noise. It sounded like a cat with its tail in the spokes of a twelve-speed mountain bike.

Ella and I exchanged dumbfounded looks. Side by side, we hurried into the reception area.

We found Jennine, the woman who welcomed clients and answered the phones, standing over a tiny woman in khaki pants and one of those tastefully embroidered polo shirts I mentioned earlier, only hers said VOLUNTEER on it. The woman’s head was in her hands and she was sobbing so violently, her shoulders were shaking.

Things got even stranger when the bawler had to come up for air and we saw that it was—

“Doris!” Ella beat me to the exclamation. She also beat me to Doris, but then, squatty Earth Shoes get better traction than four-and-a-half-inch heels. Even before I got over to the couch where Doris was sitting, Ella was kneeling on the floor in front of her. She took Doris’s hands in hers. “What happened?” Ella asked. “Doris, are you OK?”

Doris’s silvery hair was cut in a stylish bob that bounced when she nodded. She reached into her pocket, pulled out a lace-edged handkerchief, and dabbed it to her blue eyes. She sniffed. “I’m fine,” Doris warbled.

“You don’t look fine.” Since no one else was going to say it, I figured I had to. I went to stand in front of Doris and gave her a careful once-over. No cuts, no bruises, no smudges of dirt. She hadn’t fallen and nothing looked broken. I reached behind Jennine’s desk, rolled her chair over, and sat down, the better to be eye to eye with Doris when I tried to get her to tell us what happened.

Why did I care?

Truth be told, in the world of cemetery volunteers, Doris Oswald is the exact opposite of Marjorie Klinker.

Marjorie is a pushy pain in the butt.

Doris is everybody’s grandmother.

Marjorie likes nothing better than acting superior to everyone. About everything. All the time.

Doris is sweet and kind, and every time she shows up at Garden View to do one volunteer job or another, she brings stuff like homemade brownies or bunches of flowers from her garden or these really cheesy crocheted bookmarks she makes for everybody and I always make fun of and then keep because, really, they might come in handy if I ever decide to read a book and, besides, Doris is nice enough to make them.

Doris is about as big as a minute, and for a woman in her seventies, she’s got a sense of style, too. I admire that, and I like Doris. Honest. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have cared why she was crying.

“Doris?” I tried to get through to her again because, softie that she was, Ella was crying, too, and I knew she wasn’t going to be any help. “Take it slow and easy. Tell us what happened.”

Doris sniffled. “The ladies from my bridge club came to see the cemetery bright and early this morning.” This did not seem an especially sad incident, but Doris’s voice wobbled over the words. “I showed them the chapel and then we were over in the Garfield Memorial . . .” Her bottom lip quivered like an electric toothbrush. “We’d just walked in and . . . and I was just telling the ladies about James A. Garfield . . . you know, how he was only president for six months and how . . . how he was assassinated and . . .”

“And let me guess, Marjorie showed up and told them everything you said was wrong.”

Doris’s watery eyes lit. “How did you know?”

I shot an I-told-you-so look at Ella, who managed to ignore me so completely, I had no choice but to shift my attention back to Doris. “Then what happened?” I asked her.

“Well, she just . . . she just took over! She acted like I wasn’t there. Like I didn’t exist. Like she’s the only person in the whole wide world who knows anything about President Garfield, and like she’s the only one allowed to tell anyone about it. I know it’s no big deal . . .” Even though she said it, Doris didn’t look like she believed it. To Doris, this was a very big deal; a fresh cascade of tears began to fall. “These ladies are my friends and . . . Mar . . . jor . . . ie . . . she . . . she embarrassed me in front of them. She made me look like a fool.”

“Don’t be silly.” This comment came from Ella, of course. She’s the only one who would tell a weeping, wailing person not to be silly when silly was exactly what she was being. Me? I would have advised Doris to go back over to the memorial and kick Marjorie in the shins. Ella is a kinder, gentler person. “It’s OK.” Ella patted Doris’s back. “I’ll have a talk with Marjorie. I’ll tell her that next time—”

Moving pretty fast for a woman her age, Doris bounded off the couch. “Well, that’s just it, isn’t it?” She sniffed, touched the hanky to her eyes, and threw back her slim shoulders. “I’ve made up my mind. There isn’t going to be a next time. I’m . . .” Her voice wavered, but her determination never did. “I’m quitting as a Garden View volunteer. I’m never coming back here again!”

Ella’s jaw dropped and her eyes got wide. No big surprise there. For one thing, part of Ella’s job is making sure the volunteers are kept busy—and happy. For another, Ella just happens to be a nice person. She doesn’t like conflict. She doesn’t like to see other people unhappy. Every motherly instinct she possessed (and I can say with some authority that she has a lot of them) kicked in. She got to her feet, wrapped an arm around Doris’s shoulder, and gave her a hug.

Over Doris’s trembling shoulders, she shot me a look that said I shouldn’t worry, she’d get things under control. I had no doubt of it. No way Ella was going to let Doris quit. Not like this, anyway.

“I can understand why you feel that way,” Ella said at the same time she smoothly turned Doris toward her office, and away from the door that led to the parking lot. “Let’s have a cup of tea and talk about it.”

“I don’t know.” Doris wrung the hanky. “I’ve made up my mind. That Marjorie Klinker is the nastiest person in the universe. I’m not going to take her guff anymore.”

“Of course you’re not.” Ella piloted Doris back toward her office, where I knew there was a hot pot and an assortment of herbal teas. “But you can’t leave while you’re upset,” she said, her voice as soothing as the steam off one of those cups of tea. “So we’ll just sit down and talk. And Pepper . . .” She gave me one final glance over her shoulder. “Pepper’s going over to the memorial right now. She’ll take care of everything. Right, Pepper?”

Like I could do anything but agree?

One more sigh and I headed out to where my Mustang was parked so I could drive over to the memorial on the other side of the three-hundred-plus-acre cemetery. If only my mood was as purposeful as my steps. Not only did I now have this commemoration thing to not look forward to, I had to face the woman who had made sweet Doris Oswald cry.