Oak and Dagger (15 page)

Jack was shaking his head as if he knew something.

“Why? What have you learned?” I asked.

“That's what I came over to tell you. This afternoon I watched the surveillance videos of the South Lawn that were recorded the day Frida died. I saw Nadeem leave Frida and then circle around toward the kitchen garden.”

“But he told me that he—”

“He lied. That's what guys like him do. They lie.”

“But why would he—” I started to ask when Jack's cell phone buzzed.

He glanced at his phone's readout and groaned. “I've got to go.”

“Will you be back?” This was the third time Jack had left abruptly in the past couple of weeks. It was becoming as worrying as never getting invited to his house.

“Probably not,” he said, offering no explanation about where he was headed, or why it was so urgent.

“You're not actually married with a wife at home, are you?” I laughed as I said it.

He didn't laugh with me. Instead he wrapped me in a hug, rubbing his strong hands up and down my back. For all his faults, he was an expert at hugs. “I'm sorry,” he said.

“Sorry?” I wiggled out of his embrace. “Sorry that you're married?”

“What? No!” He dredged his hands through his hair. “I'm sorry you think I'm trying to hide something from you. It's nothing. Really. Nothing. There's just something I need to work out. It's not—” He closed his eyes and huffed. “I just have to do this.”

I wanted to press him to explain himself, but it wasn't as if I was being completely honest with him. I was still holding on to that article about my father like a child holds on to a security blanket. I don't know why I couldn't talk to Jack about it, or about my father's crimes. I just couldn't. But keeping Jack out of that part of my life felt dishonest. I needed to trust him. I needed to trust I would be strong enough to hear what Jack might know about my murderous dad. Even so, my heart clenched at the thought of telling him.

“Are you going to be okay?” he asked after he'd walked me back to my front door.

I nodded.

“I'll let you know what happens with the note you found in Frida's office. Hopefully Manny will take it seriously.” He brushed a quick kiss across my lips and was gone.

I was still standing on the front stoop when my cell phone sang the first few notes of Kelly Clarkson's “Stronger.” At first I thought Jack was texting to remind me to lock the front door. I pulled my phone from my pocket and hit a few buttons.

My smile faded as I read the incoming message. Like the odd text I'd received shortly before Frida's death, this one had come from a restricted number. This time I didn't dismiss the threatening message as a wrong number. The same word as before glowed ominously on my phone's screen.

DIE
.

Chapter Fifteen

I want minimum information given with maximum politeness.

—JACQUELINE KENNEDY, FIRST LADY OF THE UNITED STATES (1961–1963)

O
N
Wednesday morning, the ground was still saturated from the previous days' heavy rains, but the skies were clear save for a few high wispy clouds. The roar of jets from the nearby Ronald Reagan National Airport filled the air as I herded five eager garden volunteers through the security checkpoint at the southeast gate and across the lawn toward the First Lady's legendary kitchen garden.

One of my proudest achievements, the kitchen garden was located at the bottom of the South Lawn next to the fountain. The garden was in a spot where it could be viewed by the public but was far enough away from the iron fence that the Secret Service didn't have to worry about food tampering.

Just a few weeks ago, a class of schoolchildren helped harvest over four hundred pounds of leafy green vegetables, broccoli, radishes, pumpkins, potatoes, sweet potatoes, peppers, and tomatoes from the fifteen-hundred-square-foot space.

“Casey.” Special Agent Janie Partners jogged across the lawn to catch up to me. Today she was wearing a dark blue suit with an unusually tame, matching blue scarf. Her short hair was now ebony black. Her eyes were hidden behind the Secret Service's standard-issue dark sunglasses. “I heard about the threatening text messages.”

“News travels fast around here,” I said as I continued walking toward the kitchen garden. “Jack insisted on driving me to work this morning. Not that I minded.” Last night I'd contacted both Jack and Detective Manny Hernandez about the texts and had left both of them detailed messages. Manny never called me back but had sent over a uniformed officer to take my statement and look at the phone.

Quite honestly, I didn't think much of the threat; not when there was work to be done in the garden.

Janie disagreed. She stepped in front of me and crossed her arms over her chest like she was blocking an overenthusiastic voter from mobbing the President. “You need to stop.”

“Go on ahead to the garden,” I called when my volunteers noticed I was being waylaid and had turned their curious gazes onto me. “I'll catch up in a minute.” I shifted the large sweetgrass basket, filled with gardening gloves, trowels, and hand trimmers, from one hip to the other. “What do I need to stop? The first text message arrived before Frida's murder. It's not connected.”

Janie shook her head. “That's not what I'm worried about, Casey. You need to stop investigating Frida's murder. Let the police handle this one.”

“I can't. While everyone is rushing to judgment and calling Gordon guilty, he needs someone to prove his innocence.”

Janie looked decidedly uncomfortable. She tugged on her dark blue suit coat as if it had suddenly shrunk two sizes. “Have you thought about what you might find?”

“Yes. I'm going to prove that Gordon wasn't in the garden at the time of Frida's death.”

Janie lifted her dark sunglasses. “What if you don't? What if you learn something you don't want to hear, Casey?”

“I won't.” Slowly, I realized what she was saying. “You think he's guilty.”

She bit her lower lip and started shaking her head. “I like Gordon, but some people snap. I don't know why. No one does. Just take my advice. I know how much you care for Gordon. I don't want to see this destroy you.”

“It won't, because he's innocent,” I said too loudly.

The volunteers, who had already started to work weeding in the nearby rows of vegetables, stood up to watch me.

“He's innocent,” I repeated. Let the world hear me say it. My voice started to shake. “Manny is wrong. Gordon would never hurt anyone. He couldn't.”

“I've seen the evidence, Casey. Manny hasn't missed anything. You were there. You saw it. Gordon had Frida's blood splattered all over his clothes. He was the last person to see Frida alive. And once Manny dots all of his
i
's and crosses all of his
t
's, he's going to charge Gordon for the crime.”

“You're wrong. And Manny's making a huge mistake. If you'll excuse me, I have work to do. Gordon wouldn't appreciate it if I neglected his gardens. For the past thirty-plus years, this place has been his life. I won't have him coming back and finding it in shambles. And he will be coming back. As soon as he's well,
he's coming back
.”

“I hope you're right. And Casey?”

“
What?
”

“Milo has been digging holes again.” She pointed to a line of upturned earth near the tennis court.

I groaned.

• • • 

MY TWO FAVORITE VOLUNTEERS, THE ELDERLY
Pearle Stone and Mable Bowls, ambled over to meet me. Pearle, dressed in a velour lavender running suit, led the way with her arms held wide. “Casey, Casey, how are you holding up, my dear?”

Mable, who liked to prove that because she was six months younger than her eighty-year-old friend, she was that much more nimble, pumped her arms and reached me first. She, too, was dressed in a comfortable velour track suit. But hers was powder pink with glittering white racing stripes down the legs.

Anyone who'd ever met either woman outside the garden would want to copy their flawless fashion sense. But the two women also had a wicked sense of humor and enjoyed finding the most outrageous outfits for their volunteer time in the kitchen garden. Mable wiggled her skinny hips and smacked her bright red lips.

“Honey, we've got to find a way to bust our hunky Gordon free,” she shouted. I doubted she realized it was a shout. The two ladies were both in denial that they needed hearing aids.

Pearle, huffing, caught up with Mable, and threw her soft velour-coated arms around me. “Sweetie, anyone who says anything bad about Gordon will be immediately sent to the lowest circle of social hell.”

“
Junior League
,” both of them said at the same time.

I laughed even though I was a longtime member of the Junior League.

“The poor dear, even her titters are weighted down with melancholy,” Pearle said to Mable.

“I don't know what you're talking about. Her titters look perky enough to me,” Mable replied.

I laughed again at the pure joy Pearle and Mable brought me.

Mable leaned close to me and shouted, “I heard that Frida's shifty new assistant—what's-his-name—and the First Lady's sister were both in the gardens when the incident occurred.”

“Don't forget, the overpriced blowhard Marcel Beauchamp might have been there, too,” Pearle added.

Mable nodded. “I hadn't forgotten. Clearly, one of them saw something.”

“Or perpetrated the crime,” Pearle finished.

“I thought Detective Hernandez was keeping a tight lid on that kind of information,” I said, truly amazed by how many details the two knew about the investigation. It sounded as if they knew more about the investigation than some of the members of the Secret Service.

Mable touched the side of her nose and smiled slyly, which only made me wonder what else they knew.

I hooked my arm with Pearle's and led the pair of living, breathing national treasures back to the kitchen garden, where the other three volunteers were waiting. “You wouldn't happen to know who killed Frida?” I asked.

“Now, honey, if we knew that, Gordon wouldn't be in such a fix.” Pearle patted my hand. “But we have faith you'll come through for him.”

“I'll do my best.”

“That's all anyone can ask,” Mable said.

When we reached the other volunteers, I started to pass out paper envelopes and pencils to the five ladies. “Today, we're going to gather seeds from the bolted lettuce, broccoli, and spinach, but not the radishes. We're going to plant a couple of different varieties of radishes next year. This one didn't perform as well as I would have liked,” I said and gave instructions on how to harvest the seeds and mark the date and variety on the envelope.

On Thursday, which was tomorrow, the grounds crew was scheduled to pull out the fall crops and prepare the soil for the winter garden. That's right, even in D.C., where snow falls every year, we were going to attempt a winter garden. It was Gordon's idea. His buddies from the United States Department of Agriculture were coming to assist in installing hoop houses for the winter garden on Friday, the same day Gordon was going to be charged with murder . . . if you believed the rumors.

Which meant I was running out of time.

After I finished answering questions and handing out the gardening tools and gloves, I maneuvered over to where Pearle and Mable were collecting seed pods from the tennis ball lettuce. The lettuce was an heirloom variety that had been one of Thomas Jefferson's favorites. As I helped collect seeds, my gaze traveled to the stand of hardwood trees that lined the northern border of the kitchen garden. The trees acted as a buffer to the Children's Garden and weren't many yards away from where Frida was killed. Had someone walked through this garden, past the bolting broccoli, on their way to murder Frida?

“Helloo!” a high-pitched voice carried across the lawn.

“Oh dear, not her.” Pearle pulled her straw hat lower on her head.

“I like her,” Mable said. She rose from the lettuce plot, pulled off her gloves, and smoothed out her velour track suit. “She has a sense of humor.”

“Since when do you think desperate is funny?” Pearle asked. “Poor Margaret, she's got her hands full already with her newborn twins. She doesn't need another baby to nurse.”

“I thought Lettie was here to help her sister with the twins,” I said. Not that I'd seen much evidence that Lettie was spending any time with her sister and nephews.

Both Mable and Pearle shook their heads. “From what I've heard, she lost her job and her husband in the same week. That's why she's here.”

“There has to be a reason why her life collapsed all at once, a trigger,” I said. And if that was the case, why would a woman whose life was in shambles be so interested in Frida's work in the bowels of the White House? Unless . . . unless she'd heard about a missing treasure and had a desperate reason to get her hands on it.

“I hear she drinks,” Mable said.

“The Secret Service can't keep up with her,” Pearle said as she snipped off the tops of the bolted lettuce. Her hands moved with the steady grace that could have only been developed through years of experience in the garden.

“That's not necessarily a bad thing,” Mable said with a twinkle in her eye. “And she's not afraid to say what she thinks.”

“That would be fine if she had a thought in that bubble she calls a head,” Pearle replied.

I shushed them both as Lettie Shaw half stumbled, half trotted down the hill toward the garden. “Good morning, Cathy,” she called.

“It's Casey,” I corrected.

“Bubblehead,” Pearle murmured.

“Margaret told me that the volunteers come on Wednesdays. She suggested I lend a helping hand. She just loves this garden. When she's not talking about her twins, she's going on and on about the garden and what to plant in it next. So”—she set her hands on her hips—“what are we doing today?”

She grimaced as I explained to her how we were collecting seeds from select plants in the garden. “Wouldn't it be easier to buy fresh seeds and seedlings next year?”

Lorenzo had asked me the same question about a month ago. Even though I knew he was just giving me a hard time about my organic program, I'd given him the same answer I gave Lettie now. “There are many good reasons to save seeds. Perhaps the best reason for the White House, besides setting a good example, is that we can harvest seeds from the plants that thrived in this specific location. We'll then propagate those seeds next year. At the end of the season, we'll save the seeds from those plants. Over time, we will be planting seeds that are best suited for this location. Your sister has also requested that I collect seeds so she can include White House seed packets in the gift baskets she gives out to visiting dignitaries.”

“Gifts, yes. Good idea,” Lettie said as if she hadn't listened to a word I'd said. I'm not sure she had. Her gaze had been locked on the back of the Children's Garden the entire time. “Yes. I'd like to help.”

“I, too, would wish to assist in this,” Marcel said as he trotted down the hill to join us. He was dressed in gray trousers, a white shirt, and a bulky dark red winter jacket.

“Of course,” I said. What else could I have said? Members of the administration and the staff were encouraged to spend time working in the kitchen garden. The chefs and kitchen staff were the most active. Even the President's press secretary, who had grown up in New York City and had absolutely no idea what he was doing, had spent several hours pulling out newly planted peas in the spring and newly planted carrots in the fall. He had mistaken them for weeds.

Pulling weeds was a good stress reliever for a staff that was constantly under tremendous pressure to perform. Knowing that, I tried not to complain too loudly when the staff mistakenly pulled out the plants and left the weeds.

I welcomed all willing hands, even Lettie's and Marcel's, into the gardens on Wednesdays. After showing the two of them the plants we were harvesting seeds from, I gave them a pile of envelopes and turned them loose.

After about an hour, most of the volunteers had completed their work, while I'd managed to plug the holes Milo had dug. In the same hour, neither Marcel nor Lettie had filled any seed packets. Marcel seemed enamored of the color of the soil. He'd spent the entire time wandering aimlessly through the garden, randomly pushing his hands in the dirt. He lifted a handful up to the light as he murmured to himself, probably contemplating rug or drapery colors.

Lettie, on the other hand, had wandered over to the edge of the kitchen garden. She was standing under a cluster of oaks and little-leaf lindens that created one of the many visual barriers for the Children's Garden. She seemed keenly interested in one particular area. She kept looking back at the rest of us, as if gauging if she was being watched.