Oak and Dagger (24 page)

Chapter Twenty-seven

I've always felt that a person's int
e
lligence is directly reflected by the number of conflicting points of view he can entertain simultaneously on the same topic.

—ABIGAIL ADAMS, FIRST LADY OF THE UNITED STATES (1797–1801)

“
C
ASEY!” Marcel exclaimed as I hurried into the Diplomatic Reception Room from the outside. I bounced off the designer's round chest.

“So sorry,” I said. “I'm in a hurry. Did you see Lorenzo come through the center hallway?”

“
Non
, he is not here.”

“He must have gone another way. But where is he headed?” I wondered aloud.

“I cannot tell you.” Marcel latched on to my arm. “But I must go outside. And as you remember, the Secret Service requires you to escort me.”

I tried to wiggle out of his hold. “The Secret Service said you need an escort. They didn't say it had to be
me
. You need to find someone in the East Wing who can help you.”

The Diplomatic Reception Room, located on the ground floor under the iconic half-round South Portico, was one of the many oval rooms in the residence. Its walls were covered with a modern reproduction of an 1830s wallpaper depicting dramatic, larger-than-life landscapes such as the Natural Bridge in Virginia, Niagara Falls, and Boston Harbor. I barely saw the beautiful walls before Marcel pushed me back outside.

“We are in a hurry,
non?
”

I was about to break away from him and charge back into the Diplomatic Reception Room to search for Lorenzo when I spotted him outside. He was with Special Agent in Charge of the Counter Assault Team, Mike Thatch. Milo did a little dance as he followed along with the men.

As luck would have it, the two men and dog were heading the same direction in which Marcel was dragging me . . . right into the Rose Garden.

The Rose Garden, tucked between the West Wing and the main residence, was in full fall bloom, with baskets of bronze-colored “Denise” chrysanthemums hanging from the Jackson magnolia tree. The garden consisted of a central lawn bordered by flowerbeds. Saucer magnolias and crabapples provided height. Geometric boxwood hedges provided visual rhythm. And grandiflora and tea roses stood alongside annuals such as chrysanthemums, asters, salvias, and flowering kale, providing a range of textures and bright colors to the space.

I watched with dismay as Lorenzo and Thatch, several yards ahead of me, traversed the garden and took a direct path to the colonnade that led to the West Wing. There, they met up with several other Secret Service agents . . . and Manny.

Well, doesn't that just take the biscuit.
I'd been bending myself into a pretzel just to get a few minutes, conversation with Manny, and all Lorenzo had to do was walk up to him.

Pulling Marcel along with me, I followed the same path Lorenzo had taken, but was sidetracked by Seth Donahue, the First Lady's high-strung social secretary. Unfortunately, no matter how I tried, there was no sidestepping a determined Seth.

“You've been ignoring my texts,” Seth said.

“I've been busy,” I replied.

He pointed to the grassy area in the center of the garden where three White House workers dressed in navy blue jumpsuits were positioning a familiar-looking sofa.

Nadeem scurried behind the workers, placing little plastic discs under the sofa's legs so that the antique wouldn't be sitting directly on the grass.

“Oh!” Marcel exclaimed and lumbered over to chat with Nadeem and study the sofa's blue silk upholstery with a decorative eagle medallion motif stitched in golden thread.

“What is that?” Seth demanded as he pointed toward them.

“A sofa?” I guessed. “I'm in a hurry. I need to talk to—”

“No!” Seth marched over to a small patch of crabgrass in the fescue lawn and stomped on it. “This is what I don't understand.”

“It's a sprig of crabgrass. As I said, I'm in a hurry.”

“
Crabgrass?
” The way his voice squeaked, you'd think I'd identified a nuclear warhead instead of a common weed.

“They pop up occasionally,” I said.

“It can't be there. I have a photo shoot scheduled to start in ten minutes. And I need per-fect-tion. That—that thing is ugly. It'll ruin everything.”

“Okay.” I reached down and plucked the sprig of grass from the ground. “See you around.”

“Wait.” He blocked my path again. “Aren't you going to check for more weeds? This is an important photo shoot.” He lowered his voice. “The President, First Lady, and her twins will be having an official portrait made this afternoon. The First Lady insisted on staging the photos in the garden. Brilliant idea. If only the gardens weren't in shambles. I miss Gordon. He knew how to keep the grounds in tip-top shape.”

“I miss Gordon, too.” More than Seth could imagine. I also missed how Gordon could handle Seth with more tact than I ever could. “Now if you'll excuse me, I need to stop Lorenzo from—”

“Don't forget about the commemorative tree planting,” Seth said and dodged in front of me again. “I need those revised planting plans from you.”

“Honestly, with everything that's been going on, I haven't had a chance to work on it.”

“Well,
start
working on it. I've rescheduled the tree planting for Monday.”

“Monday?”

He nodded. “And as I've already told you, I need to approve the planting location. I need the new planting site in my hands today.”

I suspected Seth was the only one who felt a burning need to reschedule the commemorative tree planting, but since he'd put himself in charge of coordinating the details for the grounds office, I didn't have much choice but to agree.

“I'll get right on it,” I said.

“No, Casey, you'll work on it now. I want it on my desk in an hour.”

Since I didn't have time to argue, I gritted my teeth and nodded.

“Seth, this is not right,” Nadeem called from the grassy area of the garden. “Frida would never have approved of us taking a Bellangé sofa out of the Blue Room.”

“She's not here,” Seth said coldly.

“This sofa is one of the oldest in the collection. It's part of the original pieces the Monroe administration had purchased after the 1814 fire,” Nadeem pointed out to no effect.

“It is most lovely.” Marcel nodded as he ran his hand over the silk fabric.

“You.” Seth rounded on Marcel while I rushed to catch up to Lorenzo. “Monday. Whether the rooms are done or not, you are leaving on Monday. So stop wasting time and get your work done.”

“Wasting time?” Marcel cried.

“Monday,” Seth countered.

“Impossible.” Marcel slashed his hand with an angry swipe through the air. But he seemed to back down almost immediately. “
S'il vous plaît
, Seth, you cannot expect me to work a miracle. There is still too much to be done.”

“The sofa shouldn't be sitting in the damp grass. We shouldn't be moving the furniture around,” Nadeem groused. But he was only an assistant, a new one at that, and Seth clearly had no plans to listen to him.

As much as I wanted to hear the end of both of those arguments, I didn't have time.

“Lorenzo.” I waved my hands as I closed the distance between us. “Lorenzo.”

“Casey, did you put him up to this?” Manny asked, his salt-and-pepper mustache quivering.

“No, I . . .” I furrowed my brows. “Lorenzo, what have you said?”

“I told him what he needed to hear. I know who killed Frida. It wasn't Gordon.”

His loud declaration of knowing the killer's identity caused Seth and Nadeem to look our way. Marcel continued to
oh
and
ah
over the sofa.

“He didn't mean it,” I announced to everyone within earshot. “I mean, yes, Gordon is innocent. And I suppose in a way, Manny, I put him up to it.”

“That's not true,” Lorenzo protested. He would have said more, but the Palm Room's double doors swung open at that very moment. Several Secret Service agents, half a dozen East Wing staff members, and the First Lady's official photographer preceded First Lady Margaret Bradley into the Rose Garden.

Margaret didn't notice the commotion going on around the historic sofa in the garden. Her full attention was on the pair of babies I assumed were nestled in the basinet she was carrying.

Lettie hurried out the door after her sister. She had a baby's blanket draped over her shoulder and was snapping pictures with a cheap digital camera.

“You don't need to do that,” Margaret said.

“I'm capturing these precious moments,” Lettie said.

“We have a professional photographer to do that.”

“It's not the same thing.” Lettie lifted the camera and snapped pictures of the First Lady crossing the Rose Garden to the antique sofa.

The First Lady was dressed in a stunning almond-colored dress with a wide sash tied high on her waist. Her sister, in contrast, wore old jeans and the same blouse as yesterday.

“Lorenzo! Cathy!” Lettie waved when she spotted us, indicating that she wanted us to join her.

“
Casey
,” her sister muttered with a note of exasperation.

“We're not through here,” Manny warned.

“Certainly not,” Lorenzo said. “I haven't had a chance to tell you what's going on.”

But Lettie was still waving us over. And the Secret Service agents who had acted as a blockade to the First Family stepped aside to let us enter into their protection zone.

“Oh! The babies!” I cried with delight and hurried over to meet them.

Lorenzo, torn between doing what he thought was necessary to help Gordon and his desire to make friends with the First Family, reluctantly followed.

A pair of red-faced cherubs peered out from a soft blue blanket nest in the basinet. “Hello, Bradley boys.” I wiggled my fingers at them in greeting.

“Shh . . .” Seth hissed.

“They'd been crying all morning,” Margaret explained. “They're so tuckered out I don't think a marching band would disturb them.”

“But they're doing well?” I asked and then puffed out my cheeks and pursed my lips, opening and closing my mouth like a fish might. I was hoping to entertain the babes, but I think they were still too young to get the humor.

“Oh, yes.” The relief in Margaret's voice was wonderful to hear. Her face lit up with joy. “The doctors have given my two little sirens a clean bill of health, especially their lungs. That's one reason why John suggested we take the publicity photos. That, and to head off the controversy with . . .” She trailed off. “Forgive me.” She then quickly corrected herself. “How is Gordon doing?”

“There's no change in his condition, which we're told is a good thing,” Lorenzo said. “But we're worried about what the police might do to hurt him.”

“I'm worried, too,” she said.

“Worried about what?” Lettie asked as she snapped pictures of us.

“About Gordon,” Margaret said.

“You don't have to worry about him. The DA will be pressing murder charges tomorrow. Once that's out of the way, Lev Aziz will come out of hiding, and everything will work out.”

“You aren't supposed to be talking about Aziz,” her sister scolded.

“Sorry.” Lettie wandered off to take some pictures of Nadeem and Marcel.

Margaret's cheeks flared red. “It's not like that. We're not trying to rush justice or push a conviction for political gain.”

She might not be, but I could imagine that some within the administration were doing just that.

We didn't get a chance to ask her more about the situation. The photographer was ready to start. The first set of photos was going to be the First Lady with the babies. Later, the President would join them.

Since we were in the way, the Secret Service directed us back to the colonnade, where Manny was still talking with Thatch.

“Listen to me,” I whispered in Lorenzo's ear right before we joined up with Manny again. “Unless you have pictures of Lettie committing the crime, you will lose your job if you accuse the First Lady's sister. Do you
understand
me?
You will lose your job.
And if that happens, I'll be the one in charge of the gardens.”

The last part convinced him.

He straightened.

“Now, Lorenzo,” Manny said when we returned, “what was it you were saying? You said you had proof? If not Gordon, who killed the curator? And what proof do you have?”

“I . . . um . . . it wasn't me. It was Casey,” Lorenzo stam- mered.

“I figured as much,” Manny said with a nudge to my arm. “You're a bad influence on the people around you.”

“I inspire people to seek justice,” I said, and regretted immediately how hokey that sounded.

“She's always going off on crazy tangents.” Lorenzo's voice grew louder. “Just this morning Casey told me that she knows how to find Thomas Jefferson's lost treasure.”

Once again everyone, from the photographer to the interior designer, stopped what they were doing to turn and gawk. My cheeks burned with embarrassment. This wasn't the best way for my plan to unfold. Or the safest.

But we'd have to make it work.

Soon, Frida's killer would hear—if they hadn't already heard—that someone else had joined them in the race to find Jefferson's treasure. And, I suspected, that person would feel compelled to act.

“That's right,” I said. “I know how to find the treasure.”

• • • 

“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?
”
Jack burst into the grounds office. “Everyone is talking about how you announced to half the administration that you know how to find Jefferson's mythical treasure.”

“I do . . . well, I think I do,” I said.