Oak and Dagger (4 page)

“But we can call it the case of the missing paperwork,” he said with a toothy grin. The grin faded as he observed my messy desk again.

I crossed the room and scooped up a pile of paperwork from my desk; not that it made a dent in the disorganization. It just made the papers in my arms as soggy as I was.

“With a little diligent work, I'm sure you'll figure out what happened.” Gordon patted my arm. “You always do.”

“I didn't lose it on my desk. I would have noticed a large-scale plan in these piles when I was looking for my to-do list yesterday.”

I dropped the soggy files and paced in front of the thirty-year-old schematic still spread out on Lorenzo's drafting table. What if there was a thief wandering the White House halls, and what if that thief had stolen the schematic for some nefarious purpose? If that was the case, then this was a matter for the professionals to be investigating, not the gardeners.

I reached for the grounds office's phone to report the possible theft. But just as I touched the phone's receiver, it pealed out an impatient ring.

I swallowed hard before picking up the receiver. “Hello?”

“Put Gordon Sims on,” the man on the other end of the line barked without identifying himself or his office.

“It's for you.” I held the phone out for Gordon.

After the short phone call ended, Gordon set the phone's receiver back into its cradle. He put his hand on my arm and gave a tender squeeze before announcing, “I'm wanted over at the West Wing.”

He stared at the floor for a moment and then pulled off a shoe to wring water from one of his drenched socks into a small trash basket.

“Are you being blamed for Casey's mistake?” Lorenzo asked.

“Let's not start by placing blame.” Gordon removed his other shoe and peeled off a second wet sock. “We'll get this straightened out.”

“Don't you have time to change into dry clothes?” I asked. We all looked bedraggled and in dire need of a good blow dry.

“That irrigation line break will have already hit the national news cycle. Film footage of President Bradley getting thrown back by a spray of water must have made a spectacular video. The press would be foolish not to run with it, which means the press secretary will need to start answering questions like: What happened? Why did it happen? Was it a breach in protocol? A security breach? Was the President at risk? They're important questions that need to be answered.”

“Would you like me to go with you?” I asked. “It was my project. I should be the one to take the blame.”

Gordon rubbed his damp hair with the towel again and seemed to consider my offer before he smiled. “Thank you, Casey, but no. Stay here and find that missing schematic.”

“I didn't misplace it,” I grumbled. “Someone must have walked off with it, stolen it even.”

But Gordon didn't hear me. He'd already left.

“If Gordon loses his job”—Lorenzo jammed his finger in my face—“I will make sure everyone knows that you and your incompetence are to blame.”

“Gee, thanks, Lorenzo, but I'm going to fix this.” The back of my neck tightened. “Someone took that schematic. I feel it in my bones.”

Lorenzo eyed my messy desk as if it were the proverbial smoking gun.

“I mean it. I only leave the unimportant paperwork in those piles.”

“The purchase order for five tons of topsoil went missing for three weeks,” he reminded me.

“Un-im-portant paper-work,” I repeated, emphasizing each syllable. “The topsoil was delivered on time. I'm going to find out who took that schematic. You know
I
will.”

“Not if I find it first.” He started rifling through the papers scattered on my desk.

I didn't have the energy to stop him. Besides, maybe he'd make a few inroads in getting my desk organized. I picked up the phone and dialed the extension for the Secret Service's office.

The agent who'd answered couldn't understand why I was calling to report a missing schematic and had me repeat what I'd thought had happened several times. “I didn't misplace the schematic. It was stolen!” I finally shouted in exasperation.

She put me on hold.

A few minutes later two Secret Service agents, Steve Sallis and Janie Partners, appeared at the grounds office's doorway. I knew the two of them well. They often drew the short straw when it came to dealing with the gardeners. We seemed to have a reputation—
undeserved
—for being troublemakers.

Clashes between the grounds office and the Secret Service often occurred because the grounds office was required to coordinate all landscaping decisions with the Secret Service. If it were up to the Secret Service, all of the plantings would be mowed down. Bushes and trees provided hiding places and blocked an agent's line of sight.

Special Agent Steve Sallis stood at the door with his arms crossed. He was dressed in a black suit and had a black mood that matched, which was unusual for him. Not the suit, but the mood. I'd never known him to be stingy with his smiles.

Special Agent Janie Partners, who had a slight purple tinge to her chestnut-colored hair and wore a feminine black suit and a scarf with a batik golden oak leaf pattern, was also acting oddly subdued. She wrote fastidiously in a small notebook as I told them about Frida's claims of her research being stolen from her office. I then showed them where we kept the schematics and how the most recent one for the South Lawn was no longer there. While she seemed to be listening, I got the distinct feeling that neither Janie nor Steve really believed what I was telling them.

“Will everyone stop staring at my desk?”

“I understand your frustration,” Janie said. She used the same tone the agents used with unruly tourists who wanted to jog across barricades or hang on the White House's iron fence to take silly pictures. “Why don't you look around a bit more and then call us back?” she advised with another nod toward my desk. “I'm sure the schematic will turn up.”

For the first time in my life, I regretted my lack of interest in filing. And since Lorenzo had given up on digging through the piles of paperwork, after the agents left I changed into dry clothes and started the arduous task of organizing my desk myself.

I was halfway through the first stack when Gordon returned from the West Wing. Both Lorenzo and I jumped to our feet when we saw him. Our chief gardener looked positively ashen.

“What happened?” I asked with no small degree of alarm. I should have been the one to be raked across the coals. “What did they say to you? What did they do?”

Gordon shook his head. “Naturally, everyone on the President's staff is shouting right now. Images of the water exploding in Bradley's face are all over the news reports. Those news reports have spooked an envoy from the Republic of Turbekistan who was supposed to meet with the President this afternoon.”

“Tur—where?” I asked.

“The Republic of Turbekistan. I know, Casey, I'd never heard of it, either. It's a small country in Eastern Europe that used to be part of the former Soviet Union.” The lines on his face deepened. “The envoy has not only canceled this afternoon's meeting, he's gone into hiding. The West Wing is frantically trying to find and then reassure the envoy so they can reschedule.”

“He went into hiding over a broken irrigation line? There must be something else going on,” I said.

“Probably.” Gordon crossed the room to study the out- of-date schematic.

“How important can talks be with a country no one has heard of?” I asked. “The meeting wasn't even listed on the President's schedule.”

“Apparently, Turbekistan has recently discovered a large oil deposit, but they don't have the funds to build the infrastructure to extract the oil. And the leaders of Turbekistan don't trust the big oil corporations. So they're looking to partner with a country with deep pockets. In exchange for paying for the infrastructure, the U.S. will receive a sharp discount on the oil we purchase from them. I was told the negotiations with this envoy could make or break Bradley's presidency. The oil reserve is that large.”

“The oil could be the boost to the economy this country desperately needs right now.” Lorenzo glared at me again.

“That's true. And if the envoy doesn't feel safe, administration officials are worried he will take Turbekistan's oil and go negotiate with China,” Gordon said.

“And if that happens?” I asked.

Gordon shrugged. When he wouldn't look in my direction, I suspected there was more to this story than what Gordon was telling us.

“If the envoy won't agree to reschedule the talks, what happens?” I asked again. “Will the grounds office be blamed? Will
you
be blamed?”

Gordon lifted his shoulders again in a shrug. “I'm sure it won't come to that.”

“Hell no, it won't,” Lorenzo said as he frowned at me.

“No, it won't,” I agreed. “You're not going to lose your job because of a skittish envoy from some country out in the boondocks. I'm going to march over to the West Wing right now and tell President Bradley this was my fault.” Sure, gardeners couldn't just waltz over to the Oval Office and chat with President Bradley, but I could try. “Or I could talk with the envoy, explain to him that what happened this morning was a mistake, an accident.”

“No, Casey. You don't need to do anything. Let the West Wing handle the damage control. I'm sure, in time, it'll work out. I'm just tired.” Gordon leaned his timeworn hands against Lorenzo's drafting table and lowered his head. “There's some pruning in the Children's Garden I've been putting off for too long already. I should try to get it done before I have to meet with Ambrose and explain to him that Frida's lost her freaking mind.” He groaned. “I'm getting too old for this. I can only handle one fire at a time.”

I wrapped my arms around him in a Southern-fried hug. “I'll make this right,” I promised. “I swear I will.”

“I'll make damn sure she does,” Lorenzo added.

Chapter Three

I've liked lots of people 'til I went on a picnic jaunt with them.

—BESS TRUMAN, FIRST LADY OF THE UNITED STATES (1945–1953)

F
EELING
lower than a snake's belly, I vowed to myself I'd protect Gordon at all costs. He was not going to take the blame for my mistake.

If not for that darn missing schematic, I would have chosen a better location for the commemorative trees. The irrigation line wouldn't have broken. The envoy from Turbekistan wouldn't have canceled his meeting with the President. And Gordon wouldn't have looked so disappointed in me.

After a solid hour of sorting, filing, and tossing, the towers of mismatched paperwork on my desk were gone. Not only that, the stack of phone messages had also been handled. And as I'd suspected, there was still no sign of the missing schematic.

I called Special Agent Janie Partners to inform her that I'd cleaned my desk and the area around it. The plans weren't there.

She told me to keep looking.

“Wait,” I said before she could hang up. “Has the Turbekistan envoy rescheduled his meeting with the President?”

There was a long pause before she said, “He hasn't.”

Which meant Gordon's neck was still on the chopping block.

“Casey, are you willing to take some advice?” she asked.

“Of course. Always.”

“I like you,” she said. “And I don't want to see you get into more trouble. So please don't ask about Turbekistan again.”

“Why?” I asked.

But she'd hung up.

Since the phone receiver was still in my hand, I dialed Jack's number.

As I waited for him to pick up, I practiced in my head what I would say. I'd be causal. I'd not say anything about the date he'd almost made, but canceled just this morning. Instead, I'd explain what happened with the schematic. Perhaps ask him if he could talk with Steve and Janie and convince them that I wasn't a nut. Someone had to have taken it.

I'd tell Jack about the threatening text message, too.

Jack's cell phone flipped over to voice mail. I sighed. He was rarely able to take personal calls when on duty. I shouldn't have expected him to break the rules and take my call. But still, I was disappointed.

“Hi, Jack. It's Casey,” I said after the beep. “I, um, I just wanted to talk through a few things and, you know, have you use some of your sidekick superpowers to help me put together the pieces of a puzzle in the grounds office.”

I smiled to myself as I disconnected the call. Jack—a take-the-lead kind of guy—hated it when I called him my sidekick.

My gaze shifted to the to-do list sitting on the corner of my newly organized desk. As always, there were pages of tasks. Most would take me out into the gardens. And since I did my best thinking in the garden, I grabbed my wide-brim sweetgrass hat and gardening gloves. I dropped my clippers into the leather holster attached to my belt and headed outside to the gardens.

As I passed through the wide, arching hallways on the White House's ground floor, I noticed (not for the first time) how the arrival of tiny, twin baby boys had lightened the atmosphere. Despite the morning's fiasco, the butlers and maids had an extra spring in their step. I even heard the very proper chief usher making silly
goo-goo
noises.

Everyone moved with a new, happy purpose. We all wanted to make life as easy for the First Lady and her tiny new babies as we possibly could so they would grow strong and healthy.

I was doing my part by promoting organic, commonsense practices in the gardens. Much of my work was very similar to what happened in home gardens all across the country. The White House was, after all, a family household.

In the visitors' foyer near the East Wing, I pushed open the glass door that led out into the Jacqueline Kennedy Garden and hurried through. The geometrically planted garden was neatly tucked in a niche between the White House and the East Wing. In the past hour, more clouds had rolled in. The fall breeze stung my cheeks with its cool, damp slap.

I shivered as I surveyed the showy mix of deep orange chrysanthemums and flowering kale that needed to be tended and trimmed. Soon, we'd be pulling out all the annuals in these beds in preparation of the winter season. But until that happened, it was my responsibility to keep the fading plants looking as lush as possible.

I crouched down at the corner of the garden closest to the East Wing's entrance and started snipping off one spent chrysanthemum bloom after another. I dropped them into neat piles on the brick garden path.

I'd worked my way around one of the garden's many lollipop-shaped holly topiaries and had moved to the next one when the door leading out to the garden swung open.

I raised the brim of my hat to find the White House curator adjusting her thick glasses. She looked stouter, more wrinkled, as she stood there glaring down at me.

“Can I help you?” I asked, making no effort to hide my impatience with her.

“Tell your supervisor I've canceled the meeting with Ambrose,” Frida Collingsworth said.

“You have? Does that mean you found your missing research?”

“I . . . I may have. And while you're at it, you can tell Gordon that my new assistant”—she turned to the handsome Arabic man who was hurrying to catch up with her—“Nadeem Barr, will be the liaison between my office and yours. I want nothing to do with any of you.”

With a sigh, I rose from my crouched position beside a perfectly rounded chrysanthemum. Nadeem, her assistant, reached out a hand to help me. “Thanks,” I said.

His cheeks darkened as he fought a smile. “I . . . um . . . It's nothing.”

Nadeem was taller than my five feet six and looked considerably older than the last twenty-something assistant who had worked for Frida. Actually, he looked older than me, which wasn't very old at all. I wasn't forty. Not yet. I had a few months to go before my birthday. So on second thought, he didn't look that old at all.

And he was handsome, too, with dark brows that cloaked his deep chocolate eyes, and broad shoulders. He would make a convincing exotic prince, the kind who lounged with a beautiful woman on the cover of a romance novel. Not that I noticed things like broad shoulders or dark expressive gazes anymore. I only had eyes for Jack.

“It's good to meet you.” I pulled off my gloves and wiped my hand on my pants before shaking his hand. “I'm sure we'll get along just fine. And forgive me, but Frida, you need to get that bee out of your bonnet. I don't know why you'd think Gordon would take anything from your office in the first place. And what were you saying earlier about a treasure?”

“Treasure?” She flashed a nervous glance at Nadeem and then back at me. “I—I—I have no idea what you're talking about,” she sputtered. “Come along, Nadeem. I'll warn you now that the grounds office is famous for poking their noses where they don't belong.”

I gritted my teeth and pulled my gardening gloves on again.

“It—It was, um, nice meeting you.” Nadeem's voice was soft, halting, as if he carefully considered each word. “If, um, you know, if there's anything I can do to help—”

“Come along, Nadeem.” Frida nearly ripped her shy assistant's arm out of his socket as she pulled him away from me. “There's no helping the grounds office. And don't get too used to any of them. I have a feeling there's going to be some major personnel changes coming down the pipeline soon.”

Frida walked straight through my neat pile of dead flowers, scattering them.

“I, um, look forward to getting to know you better, Casey,” Nadeem called as he let himself be dragged away.

I crouched down and swept the spent flowers back into their tidy piles before returning to work on the plants. As I snipped, I wondered about Frida's prediction that the grounds office was about to have personnel changes. She was obviously talking about Gordon.

And Gordon had said Frida was trying to ruin him.

But
why?

And if she was trying to ruin Gordon's reputation, I couldn't help wondering if she would go as far as to sneak into our office to steal the South Lawn schematic.

It seemed like a stretch. I was still trying to piece together a plausible theory for what could have happened to the schematic when two ladies, both staffers from the East Wing, headed my way.

“Ever since she's come home with those babies, the First Lady has been unreasonable when it comes to her schedule,” the older of the two ladies complained to her companion as they passed by on the garden path as if I were invisible.

“It's only been a little more than a month,” her companion pointed out. “And the babies were born premature. Give it time. I'm sure things will improve.”

I glanced up and watched the staffer, who I recognized as the First Lady's Chief of Staff, make an ugly face. That was interesting. This was the first I'd heard of unhappiness with the babies. Most of the East Wing staffers I'd spoken with were ecstatic with all the positive press the two bundles of joy were bringing to the White House.

“Things had
better
improve.” The First Lady's Chief of Staff bit off the words as she yanked open the door to the East Wing. “I can't keep canceling events, especially those heavily attended by campaign donors. And Bradley needs help with that crazy Mr. Aziz. We need Margaret to play host.”

“Who is Mr. Aziz anyhow? Is
he
a donor?”

“Oh, no. He's an envoy from some Eastern Bloc country. It's all hush-hush about why he's here. But from the briefing I was given, I got the distinct impression the President needs this visit to be a success or else we can forget about four more years of job security.”

“But do you
really
think—”

The glass door closed behind them as they entered the enclosed breezeway that connected the East Wing with the main residence.

Not a moment later the same door the staffers had just passed through flew open. Lettie Shaw, the First Lady's sister, charged into the garden and hurried down the bricked garden path. Dressed in a smart pair of black pants and a black sweater, Lettie looked like an older, slightly chunkier copy of her famous younger sister. There was a bit of gray in her brown hair she kept slightly longer than Margaret's trademark pageboy cut.

She stopped a few feet away from me and, after adjusting the pea green raincoat she had draped over her arm, retrieved her buzzing cell phone from her pocket. A wide smile lit up her elegant features as she read the phone's caller ID. “Finally,” she breathed.

I felt rather like Miss Marple hunched in the planting bed with my straw hat shading my face, quietly observing without anyone caring to notice.

Lettie answered the call with a brisk, “Hello.” She then appeared to hold her breath as the person on the other line spoke.

The blush of pleasure drained from her cheeks as she listened. “Surely there is something I can do?”

Her smile completely faded away. “I've already lost my house and my car. I'm desperate. There has to be some way—”

After listening to whoever was on the other end of the call, she exploded with a violent burst of emotion. “No!” she shouted. “No, I can't ask her for help. She would never—” There was another long pause as she listened. “I see. Yes, yes. I know. I'll . . . I'll just have to . . . Yes, there is another way. Oh, I hate to do it, but . . . No, I can't talk about it now. Good-bye.”

She glanced nervously around—her gaze floating over me as if I were invisible—before rushing down toward the South Lawn.

I raised my brow at that and made a note to work in this garden around lunchtime more often.

My hands barely had time to find a smooth rhythm again when Marcel Beauchamp, the well-respected interior designer who was busy redecorating the First Family's living quarters to accommodate the twins, lumbered out of the South Lawn and up the path toward the East Wing. Although he stood at least a foot taller than me, he had a wide barrel chest that swayed and heavy jowls that jiggled with each step. He passed by just as a fat raindrop hit the ground next to me.

Everyone called him a brilliant artist, and I'm sure he was. Yet he'd taken more time than I thought necessary to design the upstairs living space for the First Family. But what did I know about the temperament of an artist?

Because the First Lady was a lover of the outdoors, Marcel often visited the gardens for inspiration. Perhaps he got inspiration by rolling in the grass. At least it appeared that way as he brushed at a stain on the knee of his khaki trousers before he hurried inside.

A few minutes later Frida's assistant, Nadeem Barr, jogged up the bricked path from the South Lawn, his long legs covering quite a distance with each stride.

“Is everything okay?” I asked him.

He paused a moment. “Ms. Collinsworth, um, she sent me to get ready for our meeting with the garden historian from the National Arboretum. She was headed toward, you know, the Children's Garden. She—she was grumbling to herself about thievery and treachery. Is it always like this?”

“No, of course not,” I answered, probably too quickly. In the short time I'd worked at the White House, there hadn't been a dull day. “Well,” I amended, “we don't usually argue with each other so much, but I've noticed that one should expect the unexpected around here.”

“Given your past experience, you should be well used to that.”

My past?
I drew back as if he'd struck me. “What do you mean by that?”

What did he know?

My past had been something I kept hidden from public view. And I certainly didn't appreciate hearing a near-stranger remark about a past that had torn my family to shreds and had nearly killed me.

“I—I just meant . . . um . . . in your line of work. Gardeners can't control Mother Nature and all.” He held up his hands to the coming rain and flashed that disarming smile of his again. He did have a nice smile.