Only I wasn’t trying to catch a thief, was I? I was trying to catch the murderer who killed the thief.

No matter. As one of my college professors used to say, it was all just semantics, though what the meanings of words had to do with Jewish people, I didn’t know.

Maybe Ted Studebaker was Jewish. But that didn’t matter, either. Unless he was Orthodox and his shop wasn’t open on Saturdays. What did matter was that I had to wait until then, but once the weekend rolled around and I didn’t have my pesky nine-to-fiver to worry about, I drove out to cute, picturesque, pricey Chagrin Falls.

Yes, there really is a waterfall. It’s nowhere near the Niagara variety, but it’s still pretty, in a picture postcard kind of way. The river that feeds the falls meanders through the village of charming cottages and gardens and spills over a twenty-foot drop right near an old-fashioned popcorn and ice cream shop. I swear, it’s true. Like something out of a corny movie, only for real, and it brings in tourists by the droves.

There is also a main street (predictably called Main Street) that features a gazebo and a whole bunch of boutiques and gift shops where scrumptious-looking fall clothes were displayed in the windows. It was a shame I didn’t have time to browse and shop. But then, I didn’t have the money to shop, either, so unless like Marjorie, I was planning on using Bernard O’Banyon’s credit card . . .

No worries. The card was safe at home, hidden in the bottom drawer of my dresser underneath the wool sweaters I had a feeling I would be taking out any day now.

It was barely September, and I was chilled to the bone.

An unseasonably cold wind whipped down Main Street, and I wished when I was getting ready to leave my apartment I had paid more attention to the weather than I had to fashion. I was wearing a short-sleeved white linen jacket. It was as cute as can be, but between that and the tank top I had underneath it and my skinny jeans and wedge sandals, it didn’t offer much in the way of warmth. I was carrying an oversized leather tote, so I couldn’t even wrap my arms around myself in the hopes of generating a little heat.

Good thing Ted Studebaker Antiques wasn’t far from where I parked the Mustang.

I took a minute (no more, believe me, I was too cold to waste time) to look at the understated display in the front window of the shop. It featured a gigantic American eagle carved out of mahogany. It looked just like the one embossed on Studebaker’s business card. In front of that was a table with fancy legs with a silver coffeepot on it and a tasteful sign in flowing script that said, PRESIDENTIAL COLLECTIBLES A SPECIALITY.

I sailed right on in like I had every right to be there. But then, I guess I did. I had questions to ask: about Marjorie’s collection, about Nick’s sudden interest in it, and about the fact that there must have been something in that Garfield lollapalooza that someone was desperate to find.

The shop was in a big, old building, and it had one of those tin ceilings, and walls that were painted muted gray. It smelled like lemony furniture polish in there, and it was no wonder. Every table and chair and elaborate china hutch was shined to within an inch of its life. Every plate and vase and oversized pitcher and bowl set gleamed so that every picture of every president on those plates and vases and oversized pitcher and bowl sets was shown off to perfection. There were bookcases all around and hundreds of books on them with titles like Jefferson the Statesman, and The Kennedy Years. There were presidential autographs framed and hung on the walls, and portraits, too. Dozens of them. They reminded me of the ones I’d seen in President Garfield’s office—stern-faced presidents in old-fashioned duds, looking grim and important.

Ted Studebaker Antiques was impressive, all right. Even to me. I reminded myself not to forget it. When I finally came face-to-face with Ted, the last thing he needed to know was that, in reality, antiques give me the creeps.

And it’s no wonder why.

If the people who shopped there could see what I saw—which was a whole bunch of ghosts hanging around, too attached to their earthly possessions to leave them behind—they never would have taken the chance of buying the stuff and dragging it (and the ghosts) home. Even so, it wasn’t the spook-a-rama that turned me off. It was the idea of owning something—I mean, purposely—that someone else had owned before. Who in their right mind would want to do that?

When Ted himself stepped out from a back room, I recognized him right away. I’d seen him in those snippets of Antique Appraisals I’d watched on TV. He, apparently, had never returned the favor and caught even a moment of Cemetery Survivor. Otherwise I was sure he would have recognized me, too.

“Can I help you?” he asked, and even if I hadn’t seen him on the show, I wouldn’t have been surprised by his deep, baritone voice. It went perfectly with his barrel chest, his shock of wild, silver hair, and his impressive height. Though the window display may have been understated, and the shop was civilized and genteel, there was nothing unpretentious about Ted Studebaker, his two-thousand-dollar suit, his Italian silk tie, or his alligator shoes. He looked me over and grinned, not in a lecherous-old-man way, but in a very gay way that told me he appreciated my sense of style.

I could see that Ted and I were going to get along.

He eyed me and my tote bag up and down, and before I could say a word, he said, “If you’re here for an appraisal, I’m afraid I’m going to have to disappoint you. I wish I could help, darling, but no can do. These days, my agent is in charge, and she insists I can’t even think about an appraisal without a signed release form and a camera rolling.”

“Then I guess it’s a good thing I’m not looking for an appraisal.” He had a dazzling smile, so it wasn’t hard to smile back. “Actually, I was by here a couple weeks ago, and I saw your sign.” I looked toward the front window. There was a roly-poly ghost standing in the way, hovering over a set of china with big pink flowers on it. Not that it mattered. Studebaker couldn’t see the ghost. And I didn’t need to see the PRESIDENTIAL COLLECTIBLES sign. “I was wondering, do you just sell presidential memorabilia? Or do you buy, too?”

Like collectors everywhere, Ted’s eyes lit up at the prospect of discovering something new and different that wasn’t on the market yet. He rubbed his hands together, and the heavy gold rings he was wearing glittered in the light. Unaware of the short, pudgy ghost wearing a miniskirt she shouldn’t have been caught dead in standing in the way, he ventured closer. When he got too close to her for comfort, a shiver snaked over his shoulders, but something told me he must have been used to the chilly feeling. With as many ghosts as were hanging around the shop, he must have run into their icy auras all the time. There was a glass case nearby chock-full of old jewelry and he came to stand near it.

Little did he know he had positioned himself right next to another ghost. This one was a skinny woman in a black Victorian gown. I shooed her out of the way with a look that told her I didn’t appreciate getting flash frozen and joined him.

“You’re interested in selling?” he asked.

I hoisted up the leather tote and held it in front of me in both hands. “Maybe. If what I have is worth selling. But if you tell me that, that would be like you giving me an appraisal, right? I don’t want you to get in trouble with your agent.”

“I’ll handle her.” He gave me a wink and looked at the tote. “You have it with you?”

I did. I set the tote on the counter.

“He’s going to try to flimflam you, kid.” The voice came from just over my right shoulder and I looked back to see a ghost wearing a suit and tie who looked like he’d just stepped out of one of those old black-and-white gangster movies. He had a pug-dog nose that sat a little crooked on his face and a nasty-looking scar that followed the outline of his jaw, all the way from his left ear down to his chin. “Don’t let him con you, sweetheart. I seen him do it, see. To plenty of other suckers. Whatever you’re selling, hold out for a good price. Before you agree to anything, make him hand over the cabbage.”

It wasn’t like I could tell the ghost the price Studebaker quoted didn’t matter, that I wasn’t there because I was looking for money, but for information.

I reached into the bag.

The ghost leaned forward. “Don’t be a pushover, doll.”

I ignored him and pulled out one of the pieces of Garfield garbage . . . er . . . memorabilia that had been in the trunk of my car since the night before Marjorie was killed. It was a framed front page from the Kern County Weekly Record in Bakersfield, California, dated July 7, 1881. PRESIDENT GARFIELD—HIS ATTEMPTED ASSASSINATION, the headline read. HOVERING BETWEEN LIFE AND DEATH.

If they only knew!

I presented the piece to Studebaker and waited, giving him my best look of eager anticipation.

Just like he did on TV when he was sizing up some piece of junk or another, he stepped back, his weight resting on one foot, and pursed his lips. He clicked his tongue. He turned the frame toward the light for a better look.

“It’s interesting, surely,” Studebaker said. He set the framed newspaper page on the counter and tapped one finger on the glass. “I’ll give you twenty dollars for it.”

“Told you he’d try to pull a fast one,” the ghost in the suit hissed in my ear. “He does it all the time. You shoulda been here the day some dame waltzed in with a musty old book of poetry. Studebaker turned up his nose, all right, and offered the babe five smackers. She refused, and I was glad. If Studebaker woulda taken a closer look, he woulda seen there was a letter tucked in the pages of that there poetry book, signed by that Hemingway guy. Wish I could tell him. That would teach him a lesson!”

I tuned the ghost out and turned back to Ted. Truth be told, I wasn’t surprised that the newspaper page was practically worthless. Marjorie had come right out and told me she wouldn’t dare entrust me with much of anything that was valuable. Still, I couldn’t let on. “I thought it might be worth a little more,” I said. “It’s pretty old.”

“Oh, darling! Everything in this place is pretty and old. Including me! That doesn’t mean anyone’s going to pay big bucks to take me home.” Studebaker’s laugh boomed through the store.

My smile was anemic. But then, I was playing hard to get. “But you’ll turn around and sell it for more, right? I mean, that is your business. So if you’re going to sell the newspaper and get more for it than you gave me, I thought . . . well, I thought maybe you could up your offer a little.”

I think he was just trying to let me down easy when he gave the framed newspaper page another look. “I’m being honest here,” he said, at the same time the ghost at my shoulder muttered, “Don’t believe it, sister. He don’t know the meaning of the word.”

“I’ll need to have it looked at by an archivist to see if there’s anything that can be done to preserve the old newspaper,” Studebaker said. “And it will probably need to be reframed. Even once all that’s done, the most I can ask for it here in the shop is sixty dollars or so. So you see, I’m being as generous as I can possibly be.”

I pretended I was disappointed and scooped the newspaper page off the counter. After all, I couldn’t really sell it. Somewhere along the line I had to get it and all the other nonvaluable stuff Marjorie had saddled me with back to Nick.

Studebaker watched the newspaper page disappear back into the tote bag. “You have more?” he asked. “At home? More old newspapers? More Garfield collectibles? The president was from this area, you know. There’s a great deal of Garfield memorabilia left in northeast Ohio.”

“I might have a little more. I used to think it was valuable, but after what you’ve told me, I guess none of it is worth very much.” Rather than stand there and clutch the tote bag, I set it on the counter. “Tell me, Mr. Studebaker, what kinds of things are valuable? Are some presidential antiques worth more than others? And why?”

“Ah, you’re being sly!” He shook a finger at me. Not like he was mad, more like he knew I wasn’t as obtuse as I was pretending to be. I wasn’t. But not in the way he thought. “You do have more collectibles at home. Tell me about them.”

I thought back to Marjorie’s house and how it had been neat and organized one day, and completely trashed the next. “All the obvious stuff couldn’t be that valuable, because all the obvious stuff was overlooked,” I mumbled. “And Nick—”

“Nick? Nick Klinker?” Studebaker threw back his head and laughed like a jolly Santa Claus. “Now I see what you’re up to. You’re Nick’s fiancée, aren’t you?”

Though I’m not sure what it means and I don’t know who would want to look inside an animal’s mouth in the first place, I am a firm believer in never looking a gift horse in the mouth. I stuck out my hand and shook Studebaker’s. “You can call me Bernadine,” I said. “I know you’ve been to . . .” I coughed, but then, it was kind of hard to get the words out without gagging. “To dear, sweet Aunt Marjorie’s house to look things over. But really, Mr. Studebaker . . .” I leaned closer. “I’m sorry to be so secretive, but Nick has been acting so strange. He says not much of what dear Marjorie had is very valuable. I just can’t believe that’s true!”

He hesitated, weighing the wisdom of getting in the middle of a family argument. I liked to think it was my winning personality that helped him make up his mind. “Nick is right. About some of it,” he finally said. “But Marjorie had a good eye when it came to Garfield collectibles. That tile from the railroad station!” His eyes glowed. “Now there’s something I’d love to get my hands on. I saw something similar once on the wall at Lawnfield. You know, the president’s home.”

“And the tile?” I did a sort of slow-mo rerun through my last visit to Marjorie’s. As far as I could remember, the framed tile was right there on the floor with everything else that had been left behind. “Is that tile especially valuable?”

“It doesn’t have as much monetary value as it does historic value.” Studebaker studied me closely. “What are you getting at, Bernadine? I’ve had a couple long talks with Nick and he assured me he’d been through everything and he was being totally up front with me. Is there something Marjorie had that he hasn’t told me about?”

I could play coy with the best of them, and I went all out. I glided one finger back and forth over the glass countertop, then realized I probably shouldn’t have. As sparkling as the whole place was, I hated to be the one who left fingerprints. I also couldn’t take the chance of Studebaker noticing my definite lack of an engagement ring. “There are a few more things I need to look through. You know, boxes in the attic. That sort of thing. I’m not even sure Nick’s seen them yet. I just wondered if I should pay more attention to certain things. You were saying, about how some things are more valuable than others. Like what?”

He thought about it. “Well, one-of-a-kind things, that’s for certain. And if you’re not sure if something’s one of a kind, all you have to do is call me. I’ll be glad to pop over and take a look for you.”

“That’s so kind.” I smiled my thanks. “So what would be one-of-a-kind?”

“Well, certainly anything of national significance.” Studebaker made a face. “Obviously, you’re not going to find anything like that. Marjorie knew her stuff when it came to the president. Anything like that, she would have donated to the government. You know, so it could be put on display.”

“Display.” The word ping-ponged through my mind for a couple confused moments. I wasn’t sure why until I thought about the first time I’d met with Marjorie about the commemoration. “She was all happy about something,” I said, remembering Marjorie’s weird, secretive grin. “She wouldn’t say what it was. She only said it was important and that she was going to put it on display.”

“Maybe it was something—”

Before Studebaker could continue, the front door opened and the mail carrier walked in. “I’ve got that package you’ve been waiting for, Mr. Studebaker!” she chirped.

Studebaker excused himself and went running.

“Heard what you said!” The ghost with the scar along his jaw crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the glass-front display case. “What’s the story, morning glory? You’re asking an awful lot of questions. Seems to me, you ain’t getting very far with the answers, neither.”

“You got that right.” I kept my voice down so Studebaker and the mail carrier couldn’t hear me. “There was a break-in, see, and I’m trying to figure out what whoever broke in was looking for.”

“And this Nick guy . . . ?” The ghost angled me a look. “He the one who’s been calling here?”

“Calling? Here?” I wasn’t as dense as I was surprised that a ghost would have been paying attention.

Predictably, the ghost thought dense was the likelier explanation. “Calling. You know, sister, like on the Ameche, the horn, the blower.” He held a hand to his ear like he was talking on the phone. “I heard Studebaker jabbin’ on the phone just the other day to some fella named Nick. That Nick, he must have been talkin about sellin’, ’cause Studebaker, he was talkin’ about buyin’.”

This wasn’t news.

Studebaker was walking along with the mail carrier toward the door, and I knew I didn’t have much time. “Did he say what he wanted to sell?” I asked.

The ghost grinned. A couple of his front teeth were missing. “That Nick, he must have said as how it was something personal because Studebaker got all excited like. But then he sort of froze. You know, just as he was about to say somethin’ else. He listened to the Joe on the other end of the horn say somethin’, and I swear, I thought Studebaker was gonna have some sort of apoplexy or somethin’. ‘What? What!’ he says, and I’ll tell you, he’s usually such a hotsy-totsy Abercrombie. But I swear . . . I swear, I thought the guy was gonna cry. That’s how excited he was.”

Studebaker opened the door to let the mail carrier out. “Thanks,” I told the ghost.

“Soitenly!” He had already faded away when Studebaker came back.

“Now . . . you were saying . . . about some of the other things Marjorie may have owned . . .”

But I had already found out all I needed to know.

I thanked Studebaker for his help, promised him that my darling Nick would be in touch with him soon, and headed outside.

The ghost was waiting for me on the sidewalk.

“So you got the lowdown, right, sister?”

There was a couple passing by, so I couldn’t answer. I just nodded.

“You wanna share?”

I didn’t especially, but I owed him that much. “Nick Klinker’s got something personal that once belonged to President Garfield,” I told him. “That’s what he’s been so excited about. It’s not just an inaugural invitation, or a newspaper or anything like that. It’s got to be something the president actually owned.”

“And . . . ?” The ghost waited for more.

“And I think that means it’s plenty valuable.”

“Now we’re talking!” He rubbed his hands together. “You think this Nick is gonna sell it?”

I thought back to the mess that was Marjorie’s, and now that I thought about it, I thought back to the night I had visited her at home, too. Just as I was driving away, I saw her tearing through the house as if she’d lost something. “I think Nick would be happy to sell it if he could find it,” I said. “And I think—no, I know—that two people know it exists. One of them is Nick, and the other is Studebaker. The only thing I need to figure out now is if either one of them might have wanted it so bad, they were willing to kill for it.”

I was sure I was right, and so caught up in what it all meant, I walked away. It wasn’t until I heard the ghost behind me that I turned back around.

He was standing outside the antiques shop and he raised one hand. “Abyssinia,” he said.

It was a corny joke, but this time, I couldn’t help but laugh.