Oak and Dagger (29 page)

Clearly, Marcel didn't agree. He pressed the steak knife to my throat. Its razor-sharp blade bit into my skin. “Where is the treasure?”

I don't know how he expected me to answer with this sour-tasting gag in my mouth. He seemed to realize the problem. “If you scream, I'll slice open your throat. Do you understand?”

I nodded.

He removed the tape and dirty handkerchief. And stared at me.

“Why?” I whispered. “You have a successful career. Why are you doing this?”

“It's my father's legacy. His dream. He abandoned his family and ultimately died in search of this treasure. This
worthless
treasure. I had to do something, something to prove to him that he shouldn't have left me. If he had stayed, I would have found his treasure. You wouldn't understand.”

Wouldn't I? I'd lived most of my life without a father, and still his presence haunted me. What if I had done something differently? What if I'd been a better daughter? Perhaps then he wouldn't have run away. Perhaps then my mother would still be alive.

Those ghosts turned round and round in our heads. Never letting up. Never letting go.

I suppose my penchant for sticking my nose into trouble could be considered a kind of madness.

But I never felt the pull to kill anyone.

“Is that why you pretended to be someone else?” I asked. “So no one would suspect you?”

He looked confused by my question. “Oh, you mean Marcel.” He put on his French accent like some people don a hat. “
Mon Dieu
. That fool, he was my ticket into the designer world. No one would hire
Mac from New Jersey
. But Marcel from the fashionable
Paris
is a natural,
non?
Where is the treasure most magnificent? Tell me before I am forced to kill you.”

I glanced at the clock on the wall. Lorenzo should be arriving any minute.

“It's—” I started to say when the doorknob shook.

“Casey?” Lorenzo called out. The door shook. “What's wrong with the door?”

“Don't answer him,” Marcel rasped.

“What are you going to do?” I whispered back. “That's Lorenzo. This is his office, too. He's not going away.”

“Casey!” Lorenzo pounded on the door.

Marcel seemed to hold his breath, waiting. I discovered I was holding my breath, too.

Much to my disappointment, Lorenzo did give up. Silence seemed to press against my ears. Marcel whirled back toward me. He pressed the knife to my throat again.

“I have to get out of here. And sorry, Casey, but you know too much.” The blade dug deeper into my neck. I felt a hot trail of blood as it dripped down my neck.

“Wait!” I needed to stop him. “The treasure. You're right. It was gold. We dug it up last night. Right after you left. This old box, it's just a decoy. The real treasure is in Gordon's office. It's under his desk. You can fill your bag and get out before anyone is the wiser.”

His gold-flecked eyes glittered with madness. “In Gordon's office.”

“Under his desk,” I said, careful not to move my head with that knife too close to my neck's important arteries.

“Thanks, but unfortunately, I'm still going to have to kill you.”

Oh, no he wasn't. As soon as he lifted the blade from my neck in order to make a slashing motion, I gave a hard jerk to the left side on the chair. It tipped up onto two wheels and then dropped again. I jerked hard to the left again.

This time the desk chair toppled over. Marcel's blade nicked my neck right before I landed hard on the concrete floor.

I shouted at the top of my lungs while wiggling like mad, desperate to break free from my restraints. My foot popped out of its shoe and sock and was suddenly loose. I used the opening to kick Marcel hard in the knee.

He cried out in pain. As I kicked him again, the door splintered open.

Jack and the rest of the Counter Assault Team came pouring into the grounds office. They moved like a tidal wave, washing over Marcel, disarming him, and pulling him to the ground.

“Oh God, Casey! Her neck's been cut.” Jack dropped to his knees beside me, his face going pale. “Get the doctors in here. Now!” He pressed his hands against my neck.

“Jack, I'm fine. It's a scratch.” He didn't listen. “I'm not bleeding to death, but the arm of my chair is digging into my side. Can you cut me loose?”

He tentatively lifted his hand. “The bleeding is slowing. Are you sure you're okay?”

I nodded. “I will be as soon as I'm no longer taped to this chair.”

He used the same steak knife Marcel had used to threaten me and sliced through the layers of duct tape. As soon as I was freed from the desk chair, Jack pulled me into his arms and hugged me so tightly I heard my ribs creak. “I love you, Casey. I love you so much it hurts.”

I drew a long breath. This was the Jack I knew . . . and trusted. He never lied. He would never try and hurt me. I wanted Jack in my life. I drew in another deep breath.

He was waiting for me to tell him how I felt. “Uh, Jack, there is something I've been wanting to tell you.”

“Yes?” he said.

Like removing a bandage
, I told myself and took a deep breath. “I, um—” I screwed my eyes closed and said with a rush, “I love you, too, Jack. I do. I really do.”

When I opened my eyes, I found Jack smiling at me. “See, that wasn't so hard to say,” Jack said. And then with all his buddies watching, he kissed me silly.

• • • 

THE SUREST WAY TO SCARE YOUR RELATIVES IS
to have your face show up on the evening news. Since I dearly loved my grandmother and aunts and had no desire to frighten them, as soon as Dr. Stan had stitched up my neck and Manny had finished taking my statement, I dialed the number to Rosebrook.

While Grandmother Faye listened and my aunts babbled questions in the background, I told her all about the excitement we'd faced at the White House and she in turn relayed what I'd told her to Aunt Willow and Aunt Alba.

“Goodness gracious, child, trouble has always beat a path to your doorstep. You weren't terribly hurt?” she asked when I'd finished.

“Of course not.”

Jack, who had stayed by my side the entire time, squeezed my hand.

“Um, there is something else I need to tell you.” I took a deep breath. “It's about James Calhoun.”

“What about him?” Grandmother Faye's voice grew tight with worry. I could picture her timeworn fingers closing around the plain golden cross necklace she always wore.

“He's living in D.C. He contacted me the other day.” I told her about his service to the nation, about why my mother had died, and the secret life my father had lived. “Even today, he made sure the President's meeting with an oil-rich country went forward. I—I thought you should know.”

Grandmother Faye fell silent.

“What's happening?” Aunt Willow shouted onto the line. “Mama dropped the phone. And she's crying. I've only ever seen her cry one other time. And that was when she'd learned about you.”

“I told her about my dad, that he's—”

“Oh Lordy, he's dead, isn't he?” Aunt Willow cried. “I knew it. He's been dead for years. He would have called Mama if he could. But he's dead. Poor Jimmy. Poor Mama, she never gave up on that boy.”

“He's not dead,” I said. “He's living in D.C. And he contacted me.”

“He did? Did you see him? You'll bring him home,” Aunt Willow implored. “You must bring him home.”

“You mean to Rosebrook?”

“For Thanksgiving. It would be such a relief to see that little squirt again.”

I'd been so wrapped up in my grief that I'd forgotten how deeply my two aunts missed their younger brother. A younger brother no one ever talked about. The only picture of him in the house was a black-and-white snapshot of a roly-poly toddler, which Grandmother Faye kept hidden in a bedside table drawer.

I don't know when or why he left home or what they thought had happened to him. That was a mystery still waiting to be uncovered.

“Please, Casey. It would mean the world to Mama.” How could I say no to my family? But at the same time how could I commit to facing him again?

“I'll see what I can do,” was the best I could promise. Even so, my stomach twisted into a knot.

“And Jack?” Willow added. “You'll bring your hunky Secret Service agent home as well?”

“I don't know. If he's not working, he'll probably want to spend the holiday with his brothers. They could use the together time to disinfect their house.”

“My brothers are on their own with that house,” Jack whispered in my ear. He twined his fingers with mine. “Wherever you go, I want to go, too. If you'll have me.”

Chapter Thirty-three

When I shall again write to you, or where I shall be tomorrow, I cannot tell.

—DOLLEY TODD MADISON, FIRST LADY OF THE UNITED STATES (1809–1817)

“
G
ORDON! What are you doing here?” I exclaimed as our beloved head gardener ambled into the grounds office.

Although he was using a cane and walking much slower than usual, his cheeks had a ruddy glow and his eyes sparkled with mischief. “I work here,” he answered.

It had only been three weeks since we caught Frida's killer and two weeks since Gordon was released from the hospital. With Marcel's confession and subsequent arrest, Gordon had been completely cleared of the crime. Since he didn't have a murder charge to worry about, Gordon was supposed to focus on rehab and on his recovery, and nothing else, for at least another month.

I jumped up from my chair with such speed the pile of Jefferson seed packets I'd been studying scattered onto the floor. I didn't care. I rushed across the room and wrapped my arms around our beloved head gardener. “Of course you work here.”

“Does Deloris know where you've gone?” Lorenzo asked as he joined us at the door. He patted Gordon on the shoulder as a broad smile transformed his usual gloomy expression.

“Bah! Deloris! That old woman is a nag. I can't breathe in that house. I had to get out. So I talked with Ambrose. He and I agreed that I should come in for a few hours two or three days a week. I'm calling it my sanity breaks.”

“I'm thrilled to see you. But the holiday . . .” It was a few days before Thanksgiving. My bags were packed and stashed in the corner. Jack and I were planning to drive straight to the airport after work.

“I'll still be here when you come back,” Gordon assured me with a chuckle. “How's Nadeem doing? He's not still angry that you dug up a historical artifact without him, is he?”

“Being appointed head curator seems to have cheered him up,” I said. “He's been keeping to himself, though, spending most of his time cataloging and organizing documents.”

“Turns out Frida's filing skills were even worse than Casey's,” Lorenzo added. “But he seems to be a good guy to work with.”

Neither Lorenzo nor Gordon knew about Nadeem's clandestine background. The ex-spy still lived in the basement apartment of my building and, I was sure, was still keeping watch of my comings and goings for my dad. But on the whole, I agreed with Lorenzo's assessment. It seemed like Nadeem was one of the good guys.

“Sorry to interrupt the happy reunion,” Jack said as he joined us in the grounds office. After shaking Gordon's hand and telling him how good he looked, Jack turned to me. “There's a woman at the gate insisting that she needs to speak with you, Casey. The guards were going to send her away, but I happened to see that she wanted to give you this.”

He handed me a velum envelope that looked identical to the ones found in Jefferson's treasure chest. Only this one didn't contain any seeds. A beautiful rendering of a purple pepper had been drawn on the envelope along with a variety name I didn't recognize.

“She had this?” I asked. “I need to talk with her. Is she still out there?”

The days were gradually turning colder. The morning air smelled of winter. Jack and I crossed the North Lawn to the large white hut that stood at the northwest gate.

“She's over there.” The uniformed guard pointed to an elderly woman dressed in a blue gingham dress and an oversized tan barn jacket. Her short silver hair and pinched face made her look like a pixie masquerading in human clothes.

As soon as I passed through the gate, she hurried over to meet up with me. “You're the lady from the TV,” she said.

“I'm Casey Calhoun. An assistant gardener here.” I held out the seed packet that Jack had given me. “Where did you get this?”

“That packet of seeds has been in my family for countless years.” She drew a deep breath as if giving herself time to gather her thoughts. “I'm Katie McGraw, and where those came from has been a mystery that has been handed down from generation to generation. It started with my ancestor, Thomas McGraw. He died of natural causes in 1814. Family lore says he died of a broken heart after seeing the White House's burnt shell. I don't know if that's true. But the story of how he came to have that”—she pointed to the velum envelope—“if it was ever really known, has been lost. All my father knew was that one day
it would be time
. I never understood what he had meant by that, but I stayed faithful. I cared for my family's legacy exactly as I'd been instructed. And then I saw the article in the newspaper. I saw the picture of the seeds in their envelopes that you found buried on these grounds. And I finally knew what old Thomas had meant for us to do.”

“What did he want you to do?” I asked.

“He wanted us to return the treasure.”

“T-Treasure?” I stumbled on my words. Thomas McGraw had been in charge of hiding Jefferson's treasure for Dolley Madison when the British had invaded D.C. He'd buried the casket of seeds . . . seeds that had sadly been forgotten. Forgotten, because he had tragically died? Was there more to the treasure than the seeds? Was there also the gold that Marcel had been so desperate to find?

“I was mighty glad when I saw the article, ma'am.” The corners of Katie's eyes crinkled as she gave me a wan smile. “I have no children to carry on after me. And I'm old and tired. The task of caring for the treasure grows more difficult with the passing of every year. Now the treasure can finally be returned to its rightful home.”

KATIE MCGRAW GAVE ME THE DIRECTIONS TO
her home. She'd written them down. So I knew we were in the right place.

“This can't be right,” Lorenzo said as the White House van bounced down a badly pitted gravel drive with small trees growing up through the stones.

When Lorenzo and Gordon had heard about Katie and her mysterious treasure, they both insisted on coming along with me. The three of us were crowded in the van's front bench seat, but it felt good—right, even—to have Gordon with us, like we were a team again.

Even Lorenzo smiled as he continued to find fault with everything I did.

The overgrown drive took us up to a modest and dilapidated house. Paint was peeling off the siding. A large crack bisected a front bay window. “No one lives here,” Lorenzo said just as old Katie McGraw emerged from around the back of the house.

“All the McGraws have lived here,” Katie explained as she led us to the backyard. “It's just me now. And the upkeep of the home and the gardens has become too much for me to handle. I'm afraid I'm letting old Thomas down.”

“You won't have to worry about that any longer,” Gordon said as he made slow progress around the side of the house. “We'll help you with the maintenance.”

We all followed Katie into a large backyard that gently sloped down to the Potomac River. A cool wind blew off the water. Geese called out to one another in the distance.

Katie spread her skinny arms wide. “I give you the treasure.”

Tears filled my eyes when I saw it.

It wasn't gold or pearls, but plants. Wonderful, wonderful vegetable plants that everyone had believed forever lost. I wandered up and down the rows and rows of plants, finding variety after variety that had long been thought extinct. Everywhere I looked, I found the plants that Thomas Jefferson had so painstakingly illustrated on the envelopes he'd used to store his treasure trove of seeds.

Not knowing or questioning why their ancestor had made them promise to keep this living treasure alive, the McGraws had carefully cultivated and saved the seeds from Thomas Jefferson's treasure for nearly two hundred years. It was truly a wondrous sight to behold.

“Thomas McGraw must have taken a few seeds out of each envelope and carried them home with him in the envelope you have,” I told Katie.

“I was told old Thomas believed these plants were special and that we needed to keep growing them and saving the seeds until the time came to return them to their rightful owners. I'm starting to think he was waiting for the White House to be rebuilt, but he died before that could happen.” She led us inside the house and into a small kitchen. She opened the refrigerator door to reveal Mason jar after Mason jar of carefully harvested and packed seeds.

“Oh, he was right,” I said, clutching my hands to my chest. “These seeds
are
special.”

“This is indeed a priceless treasure,” Gordon said with awe, his face lit in the dim light of the refrigerator. “Priceless.”

“There's just one more thing I need to do,” I told Jack when I returned to the White House that afternoon. I think he understood what I meant to do since he didn't ask any questions when I asked if he could drive me to the Mansion on O Street. He'd also offered to come inside with me, but I figured this was something I had to face on my own.

Once again the friendly woman at the door led me to the parlor while she went to find her favorite lodger, James Calhoun. Not long afterward, the floor-to-ceiling bookcase slid open. And the harmless protestor limped out from behind the wall.

“I feared I'd never see you again,” he said and suddenly looked away. “I'm glad I was wrong. I heard you captured Frida's killer, recovered Thomas Jefferson's treasure, and helped save the President's oil deal with Turbekistan.”

“I heard
you
might have had a hand in that last part,” I said.

One of his gray bushy brows quivered. “I'm just an old man.”

“We both know that's not true.” And I wasn't there to pick an argument. “I told Grandmother Faye and your sisters about you.”

“You did?” He hobbled toward the door as if he feared he'd need a quick escape route.

I crossed my arms over my chest. “They want you to come home for Thanksgiving.”

“Is that what
you
want?” He tilted his head to the side as if trying to read my expression.

“Those women mean the world to me. I want them to be happy.”

The corner of his mouth twitched as he seemed to consider my request. Finally he drew a long breath. “I suppose I want that, too.”

“Then you'd better pack your bags. The plane leaves in two hours.”

I CLIMBED INTO THE FRONT PASSENGER SEAT
of Jack's beat-up, gas-guzzling Jeep while Jack plotted on a map the fastest route to the airport. My heart hammered in my chest just as wildly as it had when I'd dug up the South Lawn in search of Jefferson's treasure.

I was going home.

My father took the seat directly behind me and pulled the door closed with the stealth of a master spy. I had no idea where the relationship with my father was going to lead. But whether I liked it or not, he was back in my life. He was family. And I supposed I owed him a second chance. If not for myself, for Grandmother Faye's sake.

After Jack stashed the map, he took my hand and brushed a kiss burning with promises against my knuckles. “Ready?” he asked.

With Jack sitting by my side, and my dad in the backseat, we were all headed home to Rosebrook . . . and to a world of new possibilities.

“I'm ready,” I said.

 

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