Or maybe he did. He nodded. “Gus Scarpetti told me about that, too. About your father. He said that when I told you about my prison connection, you’d be less than pleased.”
I laughed. “Gus Scarpetti is not the kind of guy who says somebody will be less than pleased. Come on, he said I’d be pissed, right? He said I’d pop like the cork in a bottle of Asti.” I’d already done that, but I never even realized it until I heard my own loud voice echo back at me. I swallowed my temper and controlled the knee-jerk reaction. “Gus isn’t always right,” I said, daring Lamar to contradict me. “Not about everything.”
“I’m sorry. About your father, I mean. But really, Miss Martin, if you’d consider it logically, you’d realize that prison is the best place for him. A well-run prison, that is. With the right structure, consistent discipline, and the proper support, he just might be able to turn his life around. That is the whole point, isn’t it? We should be working toward rehabilitation, not retribution. If we can find a way to change prisoners from the inside-if we can educate them and help them overcome problems with low self-esteem and teach them respect for others-then they’ll be open to learning useful skills, and once we send them outside prison walls, they’ll become productive members of society.”
“Dad was already a productive member of society. If you call nose jobs and chin jobs and boob jobs productive. There are plenty of people who think those things aren’t just productive, they’re essential.” I gave him a sour look to signal that as far as I was concerned, this conversation was at an end.
Until I thought about what he’d just said.
“Hold on!” I held up a hand to stop him, even though Lamar wasn’t about to say anything else. “First you criticize Gus. Then you talk up the benefits of prison. And you committed a murder.”
“I didn’t say I committed it. I said I was accused of it. I said-”
“You said you died of natural causes. In prison?”
His nod was barely perceptible.
“Then that means you were tried. And found guilty.”
“Yes. Right here in Cleveland.” He looked away, and maybe it was just my imagination or a trick of the sunlight, but I think he faded around the edges. Suddenly he wasn’t as solid looking anymore, and just as suddenly, I realized what I was sensing from this ghost wasn’t hesitancy or shyness. He was embarrassed to be rolled up in the same criminal-element ball with the likes of Gus Scarpetti.
“So, you weren’t a career criminal, huh?”
My question hung in the summer air between us.
He pushed his glasses up higher on the bridge of his nose.
“I didn’t do it,” he said. His voice was as steely as the look that flared in his eyes. “I was framed. I don’t know by who.”
“And that’s what you want me to find out.” As epiphanies went, this wasn’t exactly a big one. Ghosts always want something. But something else Lamar mentioned niggled at the back of my mind. I chewed over the thought for a couple seconds before the truth hit. “Whoa!” This time when I held up a hand, I stepped back, too. The better to distance myself from the idea that went flying through my head like one of those Asti corks. “You said we. We should be working toward rehabilitation, not retribution. If we can find a way to change prisoners. You were a cop.”
Was that a bit of a smile I saw lift the corners of Lamar’s mouth? Maybe it was really just the beginnings of a sneer, because the next moment, that’s exactly what he did. “I’m afraid even that amount of irony wasn’t enough for the universe,” he said. “Not in my case. I wasn’t a police officer, you see, Miss Martin. I was a prison warden.”
“Wow.” There wasn’t much more I could say. “So you were running a prison and you ended up in one?”
“Like I said…” He spread out his hands. “Ironic.”
“And you think you were framed for this murder.”
“I don’t think it, young lady. I know it. And you’re going to prove it. You’re going to clear my name.”
Speaking of names, just then I heard mine being called from somewhere in the tangle of greenery behind me. I recognized Ella’s voice and took pity on her. Even sensibly low-heeled Earth Shoes weren’t enough to get a middle-aged, slightly overweight woman through the double-whammy of overgrown landscaping and tumbled headstones.
“I’m over here, Ella!” I called to her and turned in the direction where I heard branches snapping and Ella’s labored breathing.
“You’ll help me?”
Lamar’s question brought me spinning back around, but I didn’t have a chance to answer. Right before I was going to-though I didn’t have a clue what I was going to say-Ella pushed through a head-high wall of weeds.
“I was so worried about you!” She fanned her face with one hand. “I thought you’d been gone too long, and then when you didn’t come back… Good thing I heard your voice, though…” She glanced around at what she thought was the empty expanse of cemetery that surrounded us. “Who were you talking to?”
“Just some neighborhood kids who came by on their bikes.” I motioned toward the sidewalk on the other side of the iron fence not six feet from us. “They wondered what we were doing here, so I explained about the restoration.”
Ella’s expression cleared. “Isn’t that just like you, taking the time to do that! I knew that’s what happened. I told Jim. I told him, I bet Pepper just can’t wait.”
“That’s it!” I made a broad gesture that included the entire section where we were standing. “I’m just so darned excited about this restoration, and then on my way back from the Porta potti I spotted this area, and it looks so interesting, I had to explore. It’s just perfect.”
Appreciation glowed in her eyes. “I’ll make sure you get this section to work on for the restoration,” she said. “I like it, too. It’s so peaceful.”
She mustn’t have heard the hip hop music.
“But we’ll have time for all that later.” She latched onto my arm. “It’s time to get back to the group. I got a call just a couple minutes ago. The TV people are on their way.”
“TV?” I stood my ground, not sure if I was liking what I was hearing. “Are you telling me-”
“Well, it’s all part of what I didn’t have time to tell you earlier. The whole thing is going to be filmed, you see. The restoration project, I mean. They’re making a documentary. And then when Jim told me he’d arranged all that with the local PBS station, I said… well, I just thought I was being funny. You know what a wacky sense of humor I have! I suggested they make it a sort of reality show. You know, like Survivor. Or The Amazing Race. Something like that.”
I was more confused than ever. I didn’t even bother to look over at Lamar to see if he was feeling the same way. Lucky him, he had no concept of reality TV. He’d died years before some sick-minded person thought it up. I worked through all Ella had said. “So, the people from Survivor are going to come in and-”
“No, no.” By this time, she was tugging me, and I had no choice but to go along. We marched through the waist-high weeds, carefully stepping over headstones and smashed bottles and what looked to be a broken crack pipe.
Always single-minded, Ella didn’t speak another word until we were back on the drive that would take us to where Jim and the others were waiting. “There are going to be two teams, you see,” she said. She paused for a moment, at the same time grabbing the hem of her orange top and flapping it to cool herself off. “And each team will be given one section of the cemetery to work on. Since you like that one back there so much…” She looked back the way we came, and for the first time, I noticed that Jefferson Lamar was nowhere to be seen.
“I’ll make sure that’s where you and your team work,” Ella continued. “Each team is going to be responsible for the entire restoration of its section. You know, the planning and the landscaping. And the whole thing is going to be filmed and put on TV each week. We’ve got volunteer judges all lined up: the director of the art museum, the arts editor from the Plain Dealer, and one of the professors from the Art Institute. Isn’t it exciting!”