Oak and Dagger (25 page)

“And you made that announcement, why?” Jack asked.

I glanced at Lorenzo, hoping he'd speak up and take the blame. But what was I thinking? He never took the blame for anything. “I didn't—” I started to say.

“It is part of our larger plan,” Lorenzo pointed out. “Find the treasure, find the killer, remember? How will we flush out the killer if no one knows Casey is on the verge of digging up Jefferson's legacy?”

“Have the two of you lost your minds?” Jack planted his fists on the drafting table, where I was seated, and leaned dangerously close to me. So close, I could feel his heat and smell his tangy aftershave. “You've put yourself in a very dangerous place, Casey. Do I have to remind you that Frida is dead?”

“Things didn't happen exactly like I'd envisioned,” I admitted. If I turned my head, our lips would almost be touching. I resisted the temptation and instead pointed to the schematic on Lorenzo's drafting table in front of me. “Look here.”

The schematic was the new one Lorenzo had recently finished re-creating. I'd initially pulled it out to work on relocating the President's commemorative trees for Seth but had gotten sidetracked by sketching in pencil all the places where Milo had dug.

“In Dolley Madison's letter, the one that fell out of Gordon's archived files, the former First Lady mentioned how the gardener had taken the treasure for safekeeping. And then later, on the article that Nadeem found, Frida had written, ‘It's still here.' I think Frida meant the treasure was still on White House grounds.” With my pencil, I drew a circle on the schematic that encompassed everywhere we'd found Milo's holes.

“We've been busy having to fill in all the holes that Milo has dug in the lawn.”

“It's a pretty large area,” Jack noted.

I nodded, and then drew a tighter circle on the schematic that encompassed the holes Milo had dug after Frida's death. “See here. It's a pretty specific area now. I think the killer has been looking for the treasure all along, but didn't really know where to start until he—or she—got ahold of Frida's research.”

Jack leaned over the schematic to study it. “Sounds as if the two of you might be onto something, but—”

“We need to be smarter than our treasure hunter. So we still need to figure out what this part of the South Lawn was being used for in 1814. Was it a garden? Was it part of Jefferson's arbor? Or was there a structure here? We need to find a clue that will give us an edge.”

“I'm going through the archives to see what old plans from that time period show,” Lorenzo said from the other side of the room.

Jack nodded. “Other than Gordon, I suspect the two of you are the best equipped for puzzling it out. But I'm worried you'll be making yourselves prime targets. Don't forget that your treasure thief is also a killer.”

“Exactly!” I said. “We get that edge, and we'll force the killer out into the open. We'll make him—”

“
Or her
,” Lorenzo corrected.

“We'll force
whoever
killed Frida into making a mistake,” I finished.

“I don't like how that sounds,” Jack said.

“We're running out of time,” I reminded him. “The DA is getting pressure from the administration to make a move. That's why they're going to press charges tomorrow, isn't it? Once Gordon is charged, the skittish Lev Aziz will return.”

“I don't know why anyone bothers trying to keep secrets around here,” Jack grumbled.

“You already knew Aziz wouldn't return until the killer was caught?” I pushed away from the drafting table, away from Jack, and stomped over to my desk. “Of course you knew.” I flipped open the set of Dolley Madison letters Dr. Wadsin had sent over this morning. These were letters from the 1840s. Dolley Madison had been in her eighties at the time. After mounting debt had forced her to sell her property, including her husband's beloved Montpelier, she moved back to Washington, D.C.

I doubted the former First Lady would still be thinking about Jefferson's lost treasure at this point in her life, but copies of these letters were part of the research Nadeem had reported as missing from Frida's office, so I couldn't ignore them.

“I received another death threat from Simone this morning,” I said, hoping to sound as if her threats didn't bother me. But they did. Not because I was scared of her. But because it seriously ticked me off that Jack hadn't told me earlier about his crazy ex-girlfriend. What if she had tried to hurt me? He shouldn't have held back such an important part of his life.

But then again, I'd been keeping secret the information about my father from him . . . not that he didn't already know all about my dad. So it really wasn't the same thing, was it?

“I know you're angry with me, Casey, and I'm sorry. But you don't have to worry about Simone. I spoke with both her parents and Manny this afternoon. She won't be bothering you again.”

I crossed my arms over my chest and refused to look at him. No wonder jealousy was one of the deadly sins. Just thinking about beautiful, model-thin Simone kissing Jack made my insides burn as if they were on fire.

“You'd better watch out, Jack-o,” Lorenzo said. “If Casey ever ends up in the same room as Simone, you're going to have one wicked catfight on your hands.”

Tired of hearing Simone's name uttered in my presence, I said a little too loudly, “What are we going to do about Lettie?”

“Lettie?” Jack sighed. “What's she up to now?”

“What has Lettie done in the past to make you ask that?” I demanded at the same time Lorenzo said, “I overheard her on the phone. She's set up a meeting with a reporter. I think she's so anxious to prove Gordon is guilty that she wants to make sure it's the only conclusion anyone will make. She crowed about the impending DA action less than an hour ago. She's out to destroy Gordon's reputation.”

Jack scratched his chin. “Are you sure that's what she's planning?”

Lorenzo nodded. “There was no mistaking her meaning. I overheard her say she couldn't wait to meet with the reporter and that she'd bring the goods. Casey doesn't want me to say anything, but I know Lettie killed Frida.”

“Hm,” Jack grunted.

My jaw dropped open. If I'd accused Lettie of murder like Lorenzo just had, even if it was only between us, Jack would have blistered my ears from now until sundown.

“Do you know when Lettie has set up this meeting of hers?” Jack said instead.

“No, that's why we need to keep a close eye on her,” Lorenzo said, getting more excited and chummier with Jack than he'd ever been with me. “Perhaps you and I could team up.”

“We could invite Lettie to help me with tracking down seed savers,” I suggested. “It'd kill two birds with one stone. I'm having a devil of a time finding anyone who knows anything about many of the historic plant varieties we need to grow this spring.”

“And then when she leaves?” Lorenzo asked. “What do we do? Follow her?”

Jack cleared his throat. “I might have a solution.”

He started to lay out his plan, but he hadn't gotten very far when my cell phone sang the first few lines of Kelly Clarkson's hit.

“It's Deloris,” I said and swallowed hard before answering.

Deloris didn't let me say more than hello before she started talking so quickly—her voice garbled with loud sobs—I couldn't understand a word she was saying.

“Slow down.” My heart pounded out of control while Lorenzo shouted, “What's going on?” I pressed a finger against my free ear so I could better hear Deloris. “Please say that again.”

I prayed we weren't about to hear the worst.

Deloris drew a shaky breath. “It's Gordon,” she said.

My legs turned all watery.

“He's not—”

“He is,” she cried.

No
. I'd feared this could happen. But it had only been an abstract fear. While the doctors had remained cautious, warning that the worst might yet happen, I had refused to face the pain of losing Gordon.

I loved him. And he'd loved me.

How was I going continue working here day after day without him?

My knees started to buckle and I would have fallen in a heap on the hard concrete if Jack hadn't caught me. He wrapped his arms around me and held on tight.

“I'm so sorry,” I rasped into the phone.

Tears dripped from my cheeks as the world fell apart beneath me.

Chapter Twenty-eight

Clouds and darkness surround us, yet Heaven is just, and the day of triumph will surely come, when justice and truth will be vindicated.

—MARY TODD LINCOLN, FIRST LADY OF THE UNITED STATES (1861–1865)

“
S
ORRY
?” Deloris shouted into the phone. “Why on earth are you sorry? Gordon is awake!”

“
Awake?
” I whispered, afraid to believe that it could be true. “He's awake?”

“Yes, honey. And he's asking for both you and Lorenzo.”

• • • 

LESS THAN A HALF HOUR LATER, LORENZO AND
I arrived at the hospital. Jack was still on duty, so he agreed to stay behind and keep an eye on Lettie.

In the hospital lobby, Deloris and I hugged tightly.

“He's still weak,” Deloris warned. “But the doctor said he's turned the corner. He should continue to get stronger.”

“Thank God,” I said. “Thank God.”

While we were anxious to get into the room and see Gordon for ourselves, Deloris still remained curiously hesitant to let anyone other than his immediate family enter his room. “He needs to rest. He needs his family,” she insisted as she blocked the door.

“You need a break, Momma.” Junior, the older of her two sons, hooked his arm with hers. “While Dad's two favorite gardeners cheer him up, I'm taking you down to the cafeteria. No, don't argue. You're going to eat.”

He flashed us a smile. “I'm glad you're here. She has refused to leave. She barely eats. She needs this break.”

“Go, then,” I said. “We'll keep your dad entertained.”

“But he shouldn't be alone,” Deloris protested. “He doesn't know what—”

“We're going. Kevin's staying.” Junior dragged his exhausted mother down the hallway. “We'll be back in a half hour.”

Once they were gone, Kevin pushed open the hospital room's swinging door. “He's been asking for the two of you ever since he woke up.”

I rushed through the door, while Lorenzo remained in the hallway. When I glanced back to see what he was waiting for, I saw that he was wiping his damp eyes with a linen handkerchief. He snarled when he noticed I'd seen his tears and marched into the room as if nothing in this world could touch his prickly heart.

Behind a draped partition in the large, wood-paneled hospital room, we found Gordon looking like a sultan draped in sheets and surrounded by pillows in his elevated hospital bed. A blue monitor beside the bed beeped softly.

“Hel-lo.” His voice sounded muffled as if he had cotton stuffed in his mouth. He looked pale. His skin sagged as if it was too loose for his face. But his blue eyes sparked with life when he spotted Lorenzo and me. “Ca-sey,” he rasped.

“I'm here, Gordon.” I rushed to his side. “Do you need anything? Water?”

“No, no water. The allée of little-leaf lindens, Casey.”

“Yes, Gordon.” I patted his hand. His skin felt as fragile as dried leaves. “We're rescheduling the President's commemorative tree planting.”

“No. No.” He thrashed around in the bed. “Not there.”

“You don't have to worry. I've relocated it. And Lorenzo has re-created the lost schematic for the South Lawn. There won't be any problems this next time. I promise.”

He nodded and swallowed several times. “You're a good girl. Both you and Lorenzo . . . you two are like the children I never had.”

That was an odd thing for him to say.

“Your boys are here. Kevin is by the window,” I said gently, in case he was confused about the identity of the young man standing by the window. “Junior took your wife to an early dinner.”

Gordon tightened his grip on my hand. “They hate gar- dening.”

“We do,” Kevin agreed. “I'm glad he has the two of you.”

“It doesn't upset you?” I asked.

“Why should it?” Kevin said. “He's happy. And we're not constantly being pestered about raking leaves or mucking around in his backyard. It's a win-win.”

“I see.” I smiled and shook my head.

“They're good lawyers.” A weak smile tugged at Gordon's dry lips. “Always could talk their way out of their chores.”

“Don't listen to him. He never let us get away with anything,” Kevin protested as he laughed.

We laughed with him. It felt good to laugh.

“Gordon,” Lorenzo said, “do you remember anything about Monday? We've been trying to piece together what happened in the Children's Garden, but we've hit one dead end after another.”

Gordon closed his eyes. “No.” His breathing sped up. He started to pant as his head thrashed side to side. “She's dead,” he said.

Kevin shot to his feet. “I should get the doctor,” he said and left the room.

“Gordon, it's okay. You're safe now.” I held on to his hand. “Take a deep breath. You're safe.”

“Did you see anyone in the garden? Anyone other than Frida?” Lorenzo pressed.

“Frida,” he growled. “Stupid, stupid woman. The treasure. It's not there. It's not there. Frida. She started shouting. But the treasure. Her damned treasure. It wasn't there. The hole. It was empty. Of course it was empty. Frida didn't know.”

Was it me, or had the room suddenly turned to ice?

“Gordon, what . . . are . . . you saying?” I whispered.

“She needed to be silenced.” Gordon's voice grew weak. I lowered my ear to his mouth and even then could barely hear him as he repeated over and over. “She needed to be silenced.”

The doctor and a couple of nurses rushed into the room with Kevin following. The nurses nudged Lorenzo and me out of the way as the doctor checked on Gordon's vital signs.

The medical staff talked in steady, hushed voices. They reminded me of the buzzing of honeybees back in the kitchen garden.

Or was that my head that was buzzing?

I looked over at Lorenzo. He'd backed into the corner by the window. His fingers were digging deeply into the arms of his sleeves. All of the color had drained from his face.

“
Gordon?
” he mouthed to me.

• • • 

LORENZO AND I LEFT THE HOSPITAL WITHOUT
discussing what we'd heard or what either of us planned to do about it. I didn't know where Lorenzo was headed. Nor did I know where I was going until I ended up wandering through a gap in a large granite stone mountain jutting out from the eastern end of the tidal basin known as the Mountain of Despair.

The clouds had cleared. The sun hung like a bright beacon in the early November sky. A herd of schoolchildren ran past. A little girl squealed with delight as she pointed to the large structure beyond the mountain.

I hugged myself as I surveyed the tidal basin's ancient cherry trees intermixed with a new planting of crepe myrtles, liriope, English yew, and jasmine. The jasmine reminded me of my home in the Lowcountry of South Carolina.

I walked around the granite boulder that had been pushed out of the Mountain of Despair and found an empty bench to contemplate what had happened at the hospital. The police and Secret Service both felt as if they had enough evidence to prove Gordon had killed Frida. What if they were right? What if Gordon did do the awful deed?

After Frida's death the strange thefts had stopped. Neither Lorenzo nor I had been especially secretive as we searched through Dolley Madison's files for clues to the treasure's location and no one had threatened us.

Only Milo continued to dig holes in the lawn. And all in one general spot, too. I'd thought the killer had been digging the holes, and having Milo cover the tracks with his digging. But what if I'd been wrong? What if Milo had continued to dig the holes after Frida's death as a learned behavior on the overgrown puppy's part?

Had the thefts and odd happenings stopped because Gordon had been in a coma and was unable to cause any more trouble?

My phone started to sing, indicating an incoming text message. I checked its readout. Seth was looking for my site plan for Monday's commemorative tree planting. He needed it on his desk ASAP. Just as I hit Ignore, another text came in. Again, from Seth.
FLOTUS asking for full list of seeds procured for the founding fathers' garden. Wants project to move forward ASAP.

I'd been able to find a few seeds.
Too few
.

My shoulders dropped in defeat. I'd contacted seed savers, plant historians at obscure arboretums, and seed banks searching for the seeds I needed, to no avail. Most of the plants simply no longer existed, at least not in the form that the founding fathers would have served at their dinner table.

I hadn't wanted to believe Dr. Wadsin, but her dire prediction that I'd run into trouble had been spot on. I'd learned from the last seed saver I'd contacted that a staggering ninety-seven percent of the vegetable crops being grown at the turn of the twentieth century were now extinct.

I was going to have to tell the First Lady that I'd failed. There'd be no founding fathers' vegetable garden this spring. At least not like the one we'd envisioned.

I'd failed with the President's commemorative tree planting—when had a tree planting ever blown up in anyone's face? I'd failed to find the vegetable seeds. And now I'd failed to save Gordon.

What was it about the father figures in my life? Was I doomed to cling to men with murderous streaks? Or had Gordon been able to get through my iron-clad emotional defenses because he was too much like my father?

But my father wasn't a murderer.

The schoolchildren had moved on to another site, leaving me alone in the Martin Luther King Jr. Memorial to contemplate what, if anything, I was going to do with this new piece of information.

“She needed to be silenced,” Gordon had said about Frida. Not exactly a confession. But . . .

Kelly Clarkson started to sing about being stronger on my cell phone. Even though I didn't recognize the number on the caller ID, I answered.

“Casey? Where have you been?” It was Jack. He must have picked up a new phone since Simone had smashed his. “I've been trying to reach you all afternoon.”

“I—I, um . . .” I stared at the massive granite stone that had been pushed out from the Mountain of Despair. A larger-than-life figure of Martin Luther King Jr. was carved into the rock as if he was emerging from the mountain. The memorial designer called the sculpture the Stone of Hope.

I could use a healthy dose of hope right now.

“Talk to me, Casey. Lorenzo wouldn't tell me what's going on or where'd you'd gone. He's being nice. I mean, he . . . he complimented your gardening skills. Why would he do that? What's happening? How's Gordon?”

“He's . . .” What could I say? Did I tell Jack that I heard our beloved head gardener confess to murder? He'd feel duty-bound to report it to Manny, which would only strengthen the DA's case. I respected Jack too much to put him in that kind of difficult position.

“Casey? Where are you? I'm coming over.”

“No, don't do that. I need some time alone.”

There was a long pause. “What aren't you telling me?”

“Gordon's still weak. So weak. And confused.” That must be it. He must have been confused. “I just need time.”

There was another long stretch of uncomfortable silence. Jack did that sometimes when trying to get more information. The interrogation technique wasn't going to work this time. I wasn't going to be the one to condemn Gordon.

“Okay,” Jack said with a resigned sigh. After assuring me Lorenzo was keeping a close eye on Lettie and setting up a dinner date for tonight where we could have a mini-council of war, Jack reluctantly disconnected the call.

I stared at the Stone of Hope, wondering what the heck I was going to do. Things were looking blacker than a devil's heart. At times like these, my grandmother would tell me to keep my chin up because that would be the only way I could see the good things coming down the road.

My father wanted back in my life. That was something I needed to tell Grandmother Faye. Though she tried to hide her feelings from the rest of us, I could tell she fiercely missed and worried every day about her fugitive son. She deserved to know he was alive.

I reluctantly pulled my phone from my pocket again. But instead of dialing the number for Rosebrook, I punched in the number for someone I never thought I'd call.

“Hello, Nadeem?” I said.

“Casey! Have you spoken with Jack? He's been trying to get in touch with you.”

“I've talked with him.”

“What's going on? Where have you been? You've had us all worried.”

“I needed some time to think.”

“I can understand that.” He tried the long silence technique on me as well.

I closed my eyes.

“Casey? Are you still there?”

“Yes. I just . . .”

I don't know why it was so difficult to say the words. I tapped my foot on the pavement. The Calhoun women might be eccentric and even the tiniest bit foolhardy, but we weren't cowards.

My foot kept tapping a quick beat on the pavement. “I think it's time I met my father.”

• • • 

NADEEM WASTED NO TIME IN SETTING THINGS
up. Less than an hour after my phone call to him I walked up to the red brick row houses on O Street in Dupont Circle. Three of the houses had been joined together to create the Mansion on O Street, a hotel and restaurant known for its theme rooms, fancy events, and Sunday teas. In recent decades every President had stayed in the hotel's special presidential suite at least once prior to his inauguration.

A tall, attractive woman dressed all in black greeted me at the door. She lit up like a halogen lightbulb at the mention of James Calhoun. Before she left to check on whether he was in residence, she directed me into a sitting room just off the front foyer. I perched nervously on the edge of a flowered sofa that was at the center of a room crammed with artwork and collectible knickknacks available for sale, and I waited. A friendly member of the waitstaff carried in a pot of chamomile tea and a delicate bone China teacup.