Oak and Dagger (17 page)

I stepped over the broken bag of potting soil and wrapped my arms around the First Lady. Impulsive, yes. And terribly inappropriate. But in my defense, her cheeks were drawn. Her eyes were bloodshot. And she looked in dire need of a hug.

“Thank you,” she whispered when I released her from the caring embrace. “Your cheek is bleeding.”

She dug around in her pocket for a clean tissue. She smoothed it out before handing it to me. I pressed the tissue to my cheek for a second before taking a look. Small spots of blood flecked the white tissue.

“Thank you,” I said and pressed the tissue to my cheek again. “I guess I hit the floor pretty hard, darn my clumsy feet. I apologize about the mess.”

Manny, dressed in a freshly pressed brown suit, glared daggers at me. His salt-and-pepper mustache flared. “What are you doing here? As if I can't figure it out.”

“They're my guests,” Lettie proclaimed. “We're working on your garden project, Mags. Cathy was worried—”

“You mean Casey,” Margaret gently corrected.

“Yes, of course. She was worried that with everything that had happened in the past few days, she hadn't started the seeds for the founding fathers' garden. And if she doesn't start them now, they won't be ready to be planted in the spring.”

Lorenzo groaned as Lettie repeated my little white lie.

“I personally helped select many of the plants,” Lettie continued. “We're going to grow the historic heirloom plants in the greenhouse, just like you wanted.” I winced at the embellishments Lettie had added. “In fact, Mags, I've been taking a leading role in the project.”

I could feel the heat of hell's fires nipping at my heels. I should have listened to my sainted grandmother. Even if it had been for a good cause, I shouldn't have lied. I held my breath and fully expected the First Lady to call me out and chastise me for making up stories. Margaret, a first-rate gardener, knew darn well that it would be months before we needed to start the spring seeds.

The First Lady, however, didn't even blink. “Thank goodness,” she said with her usual grace. “With everything that's been going on, I was worried the planting would be delayed. I hope you haven't had trouble finding sources for the seeds.”

Lorenzo looked like he was trying to tell me how to answer the First Lady with his bouncing eyebrows.

“We're still working a plant list,” I said and then had to dodge Lorenzo's attempts to kick me. Apparently, that wasn't what he'd wanted me to say. But it was the truth. “Some”—make that most—“of the plants might not be available.”

“Send me a copy of the planting list when you finish,” she said and then turned to the detective. “You must know I support the grounds office in all their projects. Especially Gordon's.”

Manny's lips twisted, which caused his mustache to do a little hula dance. “Yes . . . um . . . I need to get back to the station. If you have any other questions about the investigation, please don't hesitate to give me a call.”

“Yes, thank you for taking the time to meet with me. I feel in the end you'll do the right thing.” Margaret patted Manny's hand.

Manny stepped over the broken bag of potting soil with as much dignity as he could muster and headed toward the elevator.

“Well, that's done. Let's get this mess cleaned up and out to the greenhouse,” Lettie said.

“What do we do?” Lorenzo mumbled without moving his lips.

“You'd better hurry. The detective is getting away,” the First Lady whispered back.

“But I thought we were going to get the planters ready,” Lettie said, looking around.

“We will. In a minute.” I snatched the printout from Lorenzo's hands. “Won't be a minute.”

With Lorenzo sputtering protests about my leaving him to deal with Lettie alone, I jogged down the hall and stepped into the elevator with Manny just as the doors slid closed.

“You've been avoiding me,” I said.

Manny stared straight ahead.

“Gordon didn't do it,” I said.

He continued to stare at the brass elevator doors as if they were the most interesting things he'd ever seen.

“I have evidence.” I shook the printout.

Manny tapped an impatient finger against his leg.

“I thought we were friends, Manny. Why are you doing this?”

A bell dinged, announcing that we'd arrived on the ground floor. The doors slid open.

Manny stepped out of the elevator and gave a nod to one of the Secret Service guards.

“Where do you need to go now, sir?” the guard, clearly his assigned escort, asked.

“I'm ready to go back to headquarters,” Manny replied.

Both men appeared content to pretend I didn't exist.

But I'd gone through too much trouble to give up now. So I dogged their heels as they headed toward the exit in the Palm Room. “You have to listen to me. I found the missing branches. They were next to the grounds shed. And Lorenzo found evidence that the papers Lettie gave you have always been in Gordon's office.”

The sunny Palm Room connected the White House residence to the West Wing. The room, with doors on each of its four walls, served as a staging area for guests and a passageway to the Rose Garden on its south side. The door opposite it, which was the door Manny was currently exiting through, opened out onto the North Lawn.

Manny's quick stride carried him past a small exterior guard hut attached to the West Wing and down the curving driveway toward the northwest gatehouse.

I sprinted to catch up to him and thrust the printout against Manny's broad chest. “This spreadsheet proves that the papers you have are only a copy of the ones Frida claimed were stolen.”

He stopped, looked at the paper, and nodded once.

“You can check its authenticity with the assistant usher. He's the one who cataloged the files this past summer,” I said, pushing the spreadsheet into his hands.

“I never thought Gordon stole from Frida,” Manny said.

“You didn't? Of course you didn't. Just like this past summer, you're working an angle. You're putting the pressure on Gordon so the real killer will make a mistake. Isn't that right?”

Manny didn't answer—not that I'd expected he would.

“So if the research Lettie gave you isn't relevant to the investigation, can we have it back? We need it for our—”

“No.” Manny folded the printout in half and stuffed it into his suit jacket pocket.

“But if you're not going to use them, why are you holding on to them?”

“They might be important.”

“But you said they weren't.”

He stopped and turned toward me. “Look, I did say that. Missing papers or missing branches or missing schematics aren't going to make or break the case I'm building against Gordon. But thank you for all those texts and photos you've been sending me the past few days.”

“Wait a minute, I'm confused. You just said you didn't think Gordon was guilty of stealing from Frida. So why are you still building a case against Gordon?”

“This is a murder I'm investigating, Casey, not some petty office theft.”

“But Gordon couldn't have killed anyone.”

His dark brown eyes met mine. “Do you think I enjoy this part of my job? Even the First Lady”—he gestured back at the White House—“is telling me to get off Gordon's back. Every single person I've met loves him. I get that, but at the same time I can't ignore the evidence.”

“Evidence? Gordon was attacked. He's lucky to be alive.”

Manny shook his head. “I've talked to his doctors. Hell, I've had my pathologist talk to his doctors. There's no sign of bruising or cuts or anything on him. No one pushed him into the pond.”

“But the blood I saw—”

“Was Frida's. He killed her in a fit of anger, attacked her from behind. That same fit of anger triggered his cardiac arrest.”

“No. That's not true. He wasn't in the garden. He left the Children's Garden. The branches—”

“Yes. We'd already found the branches. The police do have a little experience in conducting murder investigations. But branches or no branches, nothing changes. Even if Gordon left the Children's Garden, he obviously returned. You were there. You found him.”

“But if he didn't steal Frida's research, if he wasn't interested in finding some stupid treasure that probably doesn't exist in the first place, what is his motive?”

“I can't talk about the case.”

“Come on, Manny, you were talking about it just a second ago.”

“I was talking about the alleged theft, which isn't part of the murder investigation.”

“Frida's murder has nothing to do with Gordon. If you'd just open your eyes long enough, you'd see that. Gordon would never hurt anyone. And he had no reason to hurt Frida. Sure, she'd gone all nutty on him, but he could handle a little nutty.”

“Knowing that he worked with you for the past year, I believe that. You've pushed
me
to the edge often enough.”

I let the dig slide because it only strengthened my argument. “Then you agree with me. Gordon is innocent. You need to tell that to the press before they put him on trial in the court of public opinion and completely ruin his reputation and his nearly thirty-five-year White House career.”

Manny's mustache quivered as he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. “I should have all the pieces together by Friday afternoon. That's when I'll take what I have to the DA's office. I'm sorry, Casey. I really am. I hate this part of my job. The people I take into custody leave behind friends and families who grieve for them. It tears me up inside to see it. But I'm not the one who forced them to break the law. And it's still my job to arrest them. I have to do it.”

“You
can't
be serious. You're going to encourage the DA to pursue charges against Gordon even when there's clearly no motive?”

Manny started to walk away, but he stopped and turned back around. He mumbled something.

“What?” I asked.

“I said, there is a motive.”

“Impossible.”

“Talk with Deloris.”

“Gordon's wife?” My stomach clenched as I remembered how pleased she'd seemed when she'd heard Frida had been murdered. Well, perhaps
pleased
was too strong a word. No, it wasn't. She
had
been pleased. “What does Deloris have to do with anything?”

“Ask Deloris,” Manny said as he walked away. “I've got work to do.”

Chapter Seventeen

If you want a friend in Washington, get a dog.

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

A
SK
Deloris
. Manny was crazy if he believed I'd badger Gordon's wife with questions about her past when she had her hands full working with hospital staff and worrying if Gordon would even survive.

No, don't even look down that dark path
. Gordon
was
going to survive.

I gazed out over the North Lawn. This was Gordon's domain, his love for the past thirty-five years.

Fall leaves flecked in shades of dark reds and gold floated on the wind, swirling over the White House's iron gates. The leaves didn't know or care that they were entering one of the securest residences on the planet.

Given what had happened on Monday, I was starting to wonder if all this high-priced security was simply an illusion. Frida was dead. Gordon was critically ill. Because someone had figured out how to fool the system? A stab of dread grabbed my neck as I looked around me. Someone inside this iron fence was a killer.

It was a horrible thought.

So horrible, the Secret Service and the police were willing to point a finger of guilt at the first person they could find. And they weren't alone.

On the other side of Pennsylvania Avenue, news crews had set up field studios in Lafayette Square as they reported twenty-four hours a day, spinning a story about how a head gardener could lose his mind and attack a colleague. Every day, every hour, every minute that passed edged the situation ever closer to the point of no return, the point where Gordon's fate would be sealed and no amount of evidence to the contrary could stop the justice system from steamrolling over him.

What did Deloris know?

Milo gave a deep-throated bark and bounded across the North Lawn toward me. His unruly mop of yellowish-gold fur danced and waved like a rock star's long mane.

I held up both my hands. “No. Milo, no.”

His yellow eyes sparkled with wild, puppy excitement. No amount of admonishment would slow him or turn his course. With a leap, his muddy front paws hit me with a smack in the chest. I staggered backward several steps as I absorbed the impact of his nearly eighty pounds of muscle. His long tail kicked up a breeze as his pink tongue slipped out of his mouth and licked my face.

“Off,” I ordered. I twisted to the side to dislodge the oversized puppy. Black mud smeared down the front and side of my dark blue shirt and khaki pants. “What have you been doing?” As if I needed to ask.

He'd been digging.

Again.

“You should know better,” I scolded. He looked up at me with his adorable brown puppy dog eyes and wagged his tail. Gordon and I, not to mention the highly skilled dog trainer who'd been brought in, had worked long hours to train Milo to direct his boundless energy into less-destructive activities.

After wiping the dog slobber from my face, I reached for Milo's leather collar, but he took off running before I could grab hold of him.

“Milo! Come!” I clapped my hands.

The naughty puppy took off running toward “Pebble Beach,” the flagstone area alongside the western end of the curved driveway where television correspondents reported from the White House. Milo stopped when he spotted a correspondent filming what looked like a live segment on Pebble Beach. The puppy looked . . . intrigued. He crouched low to the ground as he edged his way toward the fieldstones.

Wouldn't the reporter be surprised when a large puppy with a wild gleam in his eye crashed the interview?

“
Milo
,” I called in a whispery, but commanding, voice that I hoped wouldn't be picked up by the reporter's microphone. “
Milo, come here
.”

I moved as close as possible without risk of walking into the shot or upsetting the Secret Service agents who were keeping watch over the area. Actually, I waved my hands at the agents, hoping they'd spot Milo and grab his collar, but there was a ruckus going on at the gate as a black sedan followed by a couple of SUVs entered the property.

I prayed the envoy from Turbekistan was sitting in the backseat of the sedan.

Milo didn't notice the incoming motorcade. Crouched low with his butt in the air, he flapped his tail, making it look like a loose sail in a windstorm. He inched toward the reporter who was standing with his back to us so the camera would capture a dramatic shot with the reporter in the foreground and the White House rising up behind him.

“
Milo
,” I whispered as I dropped to one knee next to a wide white oak tree. Sometimes when I got down to his level, he'd run over to me. “
Over here
.”

The pup cocked his head in my direction. He then looked back at the reporter. His ears tilted forward as he seemed to consider what he should do, although I suspected I already knew the choice he was going to make. His muscles quivered with delight.

With an excited yelp, Milo broke into a run with his ears plastered on the sides of his head. He raced past the Secret Service agents on duty, leapt over a low boxwood hedge, and landed on the fieldstones. With deliriously happy barks, he launched himself at the surprised reporter.

I had to give the man credit. After a moment of stunned silence, the reporter smiled at Milo and rubbed the pup's scruffy head. “Looks like I have a junior reporter joining me.” After introducing Milo, not that the President's famous pooch needed an introduction, the reporter—now wearing a goofy grin—continued his report.

I was now close enough to hear the sandy-haired journalist. He wasn't reporting on the sky-high gas prices or the tensions in the Middle East. It was Frida's murder that had suddenly captured the nation's attention. “Special Agent in Charge of Protective Operations Bryce Williams was called to testify before a joint committee of Congress today,” he said, his voice growing loud with excitement.

Milo, enjoying the attention, smiled for the camera with his big loopy grin and tongue hanging out the side of his mouth. He looked as if he was planning on staying put. He might as well stay. The damage had already been done.

“Security lapses have caused many to question President Bradley's safety. Is the Secret Service doing enough to secure the White House? I have to wonder myself if enough is being done. Take, for instance, the appearance of the President's dog just now. Where is his minder? Why isn't he being watched?”

I'm right here
, I felt like shouting. And I would have spoken up if not for my disastrous track record for speaking with the press. Even President Bradley's press secretary, Frank Lispon, had begged me to just keep my lips sealed around the press and let the professionals—professionals like him—do their jobs.

So I did. I leaned against a white oak and, crossing my arms over my chest, waited for the reporter to conclude Milo's interview.

Since gardeners pretty much had free rein on the grounds, the Secret Service agents jogged by without giving me a second glance once the mysterious town car had entered the property and the gates had closed.

The doors to the sedan were swept open. I held my breath, hoping that Lev Aziz would emerge . . . not that I knew what the skittish envoy looked like.

And I certainly didn't recognize the dark-haired man who stepped out of the sedan and was hurried into the West Wing.

“Was that Lev Aziz?” I asked a Secret Service agent who was heading back to the northwest gate. Getting those oil negotiations started would relieve some of the pressure Manny must be feeling to swiftly close Frida's murder investigation.

“Nope,” the agent answered. “The Turbekistan guy said he wasn't coming out of hiding until his safety could be assured. Hey, wait, you aren't supposed to know about any of that.”

“Well, I do,” I said. After all, Aziz had said he'd wanted to talk with Calhoun . . .
me
. “I'm willing to help out any way I can, but no one seems interested in letting me.”

The agent chuckled as he jogged past. “You're just a gardener. What can you do?”

“But—” I started to argue. Too late, the agent was too far away to hear me.

I'd started to inch my way back to Pebble Beach to see if I could lure Milo over to me when out of the corner of my eye I spotted Marcel, the First Lady's interior designer. He came lumbering around the corner of the West Wing. His shoulders were slightly hunched, and he was wearing his bulky dark red winter coat and matching mud boots. He appeared to be deep in thought as he kept his head down. He looked as if he was studying the ground or contemplating how to coordinate the colors in the nursery with the colors in the solarium. His thick arms swayed left-right-left-right with each step as if he needed their motion to help propel him forward.

Milo saw him, too. With his ears turned forward, a sure sign he was on high alert, his head jerked away from the camera as he tracked the interior designer's movement with the same intensity with which he watched the squirrels in the trees.

Special agents Janie Partners and Steve Sallis, both dressed in dark suits and matching dark sunglasses, moved to intercept
not
the puppy who was somewhere he shouldn't have been but the color-coordinated Marcel.

Milo, seeing that the Secret Service agents were going to get to his prey before him, gave chase as well. He jumped off Pebble Beach, over the boxwoods, barking as if it were dinnertime and the chef was bringing him a choice cut of steak.

The reporter, left alone on Pebble Beach, shook his head and chuckled before turning serious again. He reiterated that Milo's appearance only underscored why every loyal American should be concerned about White House security.

Half bent over to keep out of the camera shot, I darted after Milo before he caused even more trouble. I managed to snag hold of his collar at the same time Steve grabbed Marcel's arm.

“Where do you think you're going?” both Steve and I demanded.

“Sorry, I was talking to the dog,” I said when Marcel howled a protest.

“I wasn't,” Steve said.

Janie stepped back and hid a smirk while she let her partner handle the emotional French designer.

“Move out of the way,
monsieur
,” Marcel said with an annoyed huff. “I am doing important work for the First Lady.”

Steve stood his ground. “Sir, how did you get past the security guards posted at all the entrances?”

“I waved as I walked past.”

“Impossible,” Steve said.

“You call me a liar?” Marcel's accented voice rose with indignation. Milo barked and tugged at his collar, anxious to get to Marcel. His tail waved madly. And he was drooling. I'd never seen Milo act so excited to see anyone. Not even the First Family elicited such unbridled enthusiasm.

“It's true,” I said. An intern had followed him around, serving as an official escort the first several times he'd ventured out into the White House lawn. But recently Marcel had enjoyed free access to the grounds. “He's been out in the gardens every day.”

“
Merci
, Casey,” Marcel said, puffing out his chest. His French accent deepened. “I am here at the invitation of the First Lady. I must be allowed to do my work. I must be allowed to seek my inspiration.” He'd pressed his thumb to his forefinger and lifted his hand in the air for emphasis.

“Sir, I understand that, but you have to follow protocol,” Steve said evenly.

Marcel jerked his arm out of the agent's grasp. “Protocol? Protocol? What is this protocol to me? I am an artiste. I am—I am—” He stammered before switching to his native French. I caught a word here and there. Very few of the words I heard flow from his tongue were ones my grandmother would wish me to repeat in any shape or form.

“Cut the crap and speak English,” Steve said with a sharp edge of impatience.

“I am upset. The words . . . they come . . . difficult.”

“Yeah, right,” Steve said as if he didn't care that Marcel was having trouble with his English. The friendly agent wasn't usually so harsh. I wondered if the stress of Frida's murder and the pressure the press and members of Congress were putting on the Secret Service were getting to him.

“You—you make English come more . . . difficult . . . by your harsh . . . tone.”

“Well then, don't speak. Just listen. You do not wander the lawn without prior approval. If you do it again, you will be escorted from the premises. Do you understand?”

“
Oui, oui
.” Marcel sounded cowed like a scolded child. “I understand. May I go? I am late for a meeting with the florist.”

“Not until a proper escort arrives,” Steve said, which caused Marcel to huff and puff with annoyance again.

“I'm heading back to the grounds office. Since the florist shop is just down the hallway, I can see that he gets there,” I said.

Steve hesitated. “I don't know. We have to follow—”

“She has oodles more security clearance than an intern,” Janie stepped forward to point out. “She's more than qualified to serve as his escort.”

Steve sighed. “Okay. Go on,
Frenchie
.”

“
Merci
,” Marcel said to me as we headed across the North Lawn and down the steps to the sunken West Courtyard tucked behind the North Portico. Milo threatened to pull me over as he yanked at his collar, whining and yipping with each step.

“Calm down,” I said, but he refused to listen. It was as if the excitement of running amok on the North Lawn had made him forget all his training.

Marcel didn't seem to notice when I stumbled down the last several steps into the courtyard. “I will call you in the future when I need an escort,
non?
”

“No, I can't—” I started to explain. I had more than enough on my plate already with trying to save Gordon's reputation and keep him out of prison for a murder he didn't commit. But Marcel didn't give me a chance.