Milo didn’t follow. Instead he stopped at the edge of the garden and dropped to the ground. With a moan he lowered his head between his front paws.
Was I imagining a guilty gleam in his eyes?
Gordon had worked with Milo to teach the naughty puppy that he needed to keep out of the First Lady’s vegetable garden. He’d done a great job. We’d gone all season with only the damaged pea plants.
What had happened this weekend to cause Milo to run amok?
“We’re awfully sorry about this, Casey.” Steve’s face darkened with embarrassment. “I don’t know how it happened. President Bradley was busy with the budget negotiations all weekend, and you know Mrs. Bradley is extremely protective of her vegetables. So it had to have happened when one of the agents was watching Milo. But…” He rubbed the back of his neck and shook his head. “I assure you the agents weren’t pulling a prank on you. We wouldn’t do this. Not on this scale.”
The Secret Service had pulled a few pranks last spring, letting Milo run wild in the Rose Garden. The puppy had dug up a few small rosebushes, so I understood why Steve might worry I’d suspect the tampering had been intentional.
“What’s done is done.” I drew on my gloves and picked up a young tomato plant that had a damaged stem but was salvageable. With quick movements I dug a shallow trench and placed the tomato into the hole, leaving only the top two rows of leaves above the ground. In time roots would sprout along the full length of the buried stem, giving the plant a solid base from which to grow.
“Could you leave a message for Gordon and Lorenzo to let them know I’ll need some help?” I asked as I picked up another damaged plant to inspect.
“Of course.” He headed back up the hill with Milo prancing alongside him. “And we’re going to find out who’s responsible for letting this happen. You can count on that.”
Although at first glance the garden looked like a disaster, with the help of two of the newer members of the National Park Service’s grounds crew, Jerry and Bower—although they weren’t really that helpful—and several volunteers who’d arrived early for the photo shoot, Gordon, Lorenzo, and I managed to save most of the plants. Pearle Stone and Mable Bowls happily dug shallow trenches for the damaged tomatoes, tucking them back into their beds while smiling like silly teens at Gordon. As they worked, the two speculated on everything from Griffon Parker’s death to Francesca and Bruce Dearing’s future.
“It’s like a scarlet letter pinned to our poor dear’s pink frock,” Mable concluded. “I know of two reporters already sniffing in that direction now. The scandal will eventually come out. There’s no stopping it now.”
Once all of the uprooted vegetables had been replanted and the damaged lettuce leaves and stems had been trimmed, the garden looked nearly as lush and healthy as it had when we’d left on Friday.
I was on my knees, studying an unsalvageable shredded head of cabbage—there didn’t seem to be any tooth marks—when I spotted three Secret Service agents heading down the hill. Several yards behind them Barton Bailey, the First Lady’s official photographer, snapped shots of Margaret Bradley as she gracefully descended the South Lawn and made her way toward the kitchen garden.
The third youngest First Lady in U.S. history, edging Jacqueline Kennedy from that spot of honor by just one week, Mrs. Bradley also held the distinction of being the first wife of a President to be pregnant while her husband was in office since Jacqueline Kennedy. And according to the news reports, Mrs. Bradley was the only First Lady to be pregnant with twins while in office.
Soft-spoken Margaret Bradley was elegant in everything she did, and the press enjoyed making comparisons between her and Jacqueline Kennedy.
As her belly grew, Margaret had let her dark auburn hair grow out as well. She now sported a shoulder-length cut that softened the look of the former Wall Street professional. Six months pregnant, she seemed to celebrate and welcome each change happening to her body.
The pale yellow sleeveless dress she had picked out for the photo shoot accentuated her blossoming figure and emphasized her radiant glow. A gentle smile played on her lips as she spoke briefly with one of the Secret Service agents walking alongside her.
As she approached the garden, I hastily gathered up the plants that couldn’t be saved.
“Good morning, Casey,” Mrs. Bradley called with a sunny smile. “I heard there was some excitement in the garden.”
“A bit,” I answered and discreetly dropped the plants I’d grabbed into the small compost pile tucked into the corner of the garden. “Nothing we couldn’t handle.”
“Oh! How wonderful!” She crouched down and inspected a bell pepper that was about the size of her fist. “I can’t wait for the chefs to start harvesting these. They’re my favorite. When I was a child, my mother would stuff the peppers from our garden with rice and sausage and hard-boiled eggs. The rich flavors—” She paused when Seth bent down and whispered in her ear. The First Lady’s smile faded as she listened. “Now?” she said with a sigh.
“I just received notice of it myself,” Seth said, sounding genuinely contrite. “Do you want me to text back and tell Frank to hold off until after the pictures are taken?”
“No, don’t do that.” She forced a smile as she let Seth help her stand up again. “We could use some positive press. John could use it. I’m sure the volunteers will be thrilled.” She turned to me. “Frank Lispon is bringing down some of the pool reporters to interview the volunteers while we set up for the pictures. Do you mind helping out with that, Casey?”
“I’d be glad to,” I said, thankful the garden had been put back together before Frank and the press descended.
After “Watercressgate’s” ridiculous charge that the White House had created a fake garden, I didn’t need the press speculating that instead of fixing the garden this morning, the volunteers were in fact “creating” one.
“I’m curious,” I said, “why the change in plans? And why the West Wing’s interest anyhow? I thought you were directing things.”
“You’ll have to ask Frank,” Seth said.
As soon as the White House press secretary arrived with the reporters, I did.
“Thank Griffon Parker for dying so suddenly,” Frank Lispon answered. “The reporters are having a feeding frenzy with the stories he’d been working on, including your work with the First Lady’s garden. The story is about to break wide open.”
“What story?”
“Watercressgate.”
Chapter Seven
Most men aren’t scolded out of their opinion.
—MARTIN VAN BUREN, THE 8TH PRESIDENT OF
THE UNITED STATES
“WE didn’t plant watercress,” I protested. “Does no one fact-check anymore?”
Frank leaned back as he chuckled. “Only you would latch on to that, Casey. It’s not what they’re calling the budding scandal that has me worried. What pulled me down here this morning is the fact that someone thinks a scandal exists, and others are listening.”
“Who’s listening?” I demanded. “I saw the article. It was nothing but a jumble of lies printed in a throwaway newspaper that no one reads.”
“Someone read it,” he said.
Frank Lispon towered about a foot over my five feet seven inches. A man well into his late fifties, he kept in shape. His runner’s body was extra lean and sinewy. In his youth, he’d competed in the five-hundred-meter track and field event and gone all the way to the Olympics. That same winning drive combined with his naturally friendly manner made him an effective press secretary. Most members of the press actually liked him, a rarity lately in this town. Everyone on the staff liked him, too.
“Well, for heaven’s sake, Frank, tell whoever read it that the article is wrong. And while you’re at it, tell those reporters that they should be ashamed of themselves for believing such a tall pile of stinky manure.”
The corners of his eyes wrinkled with worry as he dug his hands into his pockets. “We can’t do that, Casey. The da
mned thing’s gone viral. Hundreds of blogs have repeated the claim over the weekend. Watercressgate is trending on Twitter. It’s also in the top ten of hot search items on Google. It’ll only be a matter of hours before some crackpot is quoted on a major network claiming to have helped create the First Lady’s ‘fake’ kitchen garden.”
“But there’s no proof. Why would a reputable news organization report lies?”
“In this twenty-four/seven, breaking-news-every-half-hour news cycle, not everything gets fact-checked before it hits the air. The news media can skirt around the need to check sources by reporting what the blogs are saying. They aren’t reporting on whether it’s true. They’re just reporting what is on the Internet. It’s up to the viewer and future news reports to dig up the truth. But for the White House—especially my office—that’s too late. I’m scrambling to get the facts on the air while others are shouting about cover-ups. I don’t want that to happen here. And in order to stop that from happening, we all have to act preemptively and with care.”
“That’s why you want the press to talk with the volunteers this morning?” I asked.
He nodded. “I know it interferes with the First Lady’s tight schedule, but I believe this is necessary. The President believes it’s necessary. I can’t tell you how glad I am that Margaret invited so many well-known society mavens to volunteer in the garden. That’ll help. The general public may not know their names, but the press sure as hell knows and respects them. They have to if they ever hope to snag an invitation to one of D.C.’s power teas. No reporter with any sense will go blabbing on the news that these women haven’t been doing the work they say they’ve been doing out here.”
“They have power teas?”
“You better believe it,” he said.
“Why the heck haven’t I been invited to one yet?”
He chuckled again. “I’m glad to see you understand what’s going on. Just do what you can to help the reporters get their story. Here they come. Excuse me.”
I was surprised to see Media Today’s new hotshot TV reporter, Kelly Montague, among the journalists who’d turned out to cover the garden. Stories concerning the First Lady’s kitchen garden were generally considered too “fluffy” for serious journalists.
I would have thought she’d be more interested in covering the back-to-back budget meetings packing the President’s schedule.
As I continued to look around, I recognized several other high-profile journalists, including Simon Matthews, a young reporter with thick glasses and a round belly, who reminded me of a computer geek. Matthews and the other reporters meandered into the First Lady’s garden, stomping through—not around—the delicate garden soil.
The First Lady had noticed them as well. Together we gently guided the straying reporters back to the stone paths—freedom of the press notwithstanding, no self-respecting gardener would allow anyone to walk through extensively prepared and tended garden soil. The soil was perfect, dark and fertile and the consistency of cake batter.
We’d created it using a sheet composting method, where layers of organic matter were sandwiched between rich compost and garden soil. As the organic matter broke down, nutrients were released to the plants. It was sort of like growing a garden on the top of an active compost pile. It wasn’t something you wanted people stomping through.
Once the journalists were back on the grass at the edge of the garden, I introduced them to some of my most dedicated volunteers.
Francesca Dearing still hadn’t arrived. She had both the gardening expertise and experience dealing with negative press. Not only that, she could use this opportunity to garner some positive press for herself and her husband. I was sorry that she was missing out.
Annie Campbell, bless her dear heart, was talking with Kelly Montague over near the peppers. Annie did her best, but she had no clue what she was talking about as she answered questions about the many varieties of vegetables planted in the garden.
“That doesn’t look like spinach,” Kelly said, her brows furrowed with disbelief after Annie had incorrectly identified a plot of lettuce.
“I think what Annie meant to say is that this lettuce is an heirloom variety from Monticello’s gardens,” I offered as I rushed over to stop Annie from embarrassing herself. “Thomas Jefferson praised this variety, ‘tennis-ball’ lettuce, as being easy to grow. It doesn’t need too much care or attention. And it actually tastes like something, unlike the watery iceberg lettuce commonly sold at grocery stores.”
“So it’s not spinach,” Kelly said. Her gaze remained fixed on Annie. Poor Annie’s cheeks began to flare red. “You’d think your volunteers, if they were actually involved with the garden, would know—”
“Although we have volunteers of all experience levels,” I cut in, “every single one of them has done his or her part in the garden. Even the press secretary has had his hands in the dirt a few times. But don’t ask Frank about the plants. The last time he was down here, he weeded out every pea seedling while leaving clumps of henbit and chickweed untouched.”
“Is that so?” Kelly asked as she wrote furiously in a small notebook. Her astute gaze latched on to me. “And what else has gone wrong? Have you had problems with any of the other volunteers? Were they picked for you by the First Lady’s staff, or did you get some say over who worked in the garden?”
Why, oh, why did I always seem to put my foot in my mouth around the press? “Please stop writing this down. I didn’t mean to criticize the press secretary or any of the volunteers. It was a joke. We have all had a great time working out here in the garden, haven’t we, Annie?”
“Oh, yes,” Annie agreed with a sigh of relief.
“But, Mrs. Campbell, didn’t you say”—Kelly pressed her pen to the notebook, ready to capture whatever embarrassing bit of information might pop out of either Annie’s mouth or mine—“that the garden practically appeared overnight?”
“I—I didn’t actually mean—” Annie stuttered while Kelly diligently wrote down every word. “I mean, we worked… we had so many volunteers…I’d say it was as if the garden grew over a weekend…well, perhaps not that fast…”
“Kelly, have you had the pleasure of talking with Mable Bowls?” I interrupted to save Annie from herself. It was easy to get flustered. I’ve rambled on and on when I should have kept my mouth shut around the press far too many times. “Mable is one of the matrons of D.C. society and a past president of the garden club.” I glanced around and found that the grand old lady had attracted quite a crowd of reporters already. “She’s been invaluable to us in the garden. Please, let me introduce you.”
After getting Kelly settled with Mable, who preened with pleasure over the well-deserved attention she was receiving, I led Annie away from the reporters and gave her the task of rolling up the hoses we’d used that morning to water the vegetables. The grounds crew had installed an inconspicuous water spigot under a nearby stand of linden trees for keeping the garden watered.
The South Lawn had several water spigots concealed in boxes buried throughout the lawn and gardens. During dry periods, we’d drag out our long hoses and use the spigots to water the parts of the lawn and gardens that couldn’t be reached by the rather old irrigation system.
“Is everything ready?” Mrs. Bradley’s photographer asked after the interviews started to wind down.
“We’re still waiting for a few of the volunteers to arrive.” Most notably Francesca. “If the First Lady agrees, I’d like to give them a couple of minutes. In the meantime, we can arrange where you want the volunteers who are here.”
I peeled off my gardening gloves, dug my cell phone out of my pocket, and dialed Francesca’s cell, forgetting that she’d changed her number to one that came up as “Unavailable.”
If the press were looking for scandal in the garden, I supposed they were also putting pressure on Francesca and Bruce Dearing, considering how they’d been under the spotlight already with Griffon Parker’s investigations. Bruce might have even warned
Francesca about the impromptu press event and advised her to stay away.
I’d just about given up on Francesca when she walked past, a blur of pale pink linen.
“There you are!” I jammed the phone back into my pocket and fell in step with her. “If you have a moment after the photos are taken, we need to talk.”
“I—I don’t know,” she said and brushed past me. A bright red flush stained her cheeks and her eyes looked puffy, as if she’d been crying.
My mouth dropped open as she rushed to stand at the back of the group. I’d expected her to snag the choice spot in the photo next to the First Lady.
Once everyone was in place, the photographer started snapping pictures.
“What’s with that paper?” The photographer lowered his camera. “It’s getting into the picture.”
A small scrap of paper in the garden flipped around in the light breeze.
It really wasn’t too noticeable. But when everyone turned to watch it, Milo, who’d been bribed into posing for the picture with pieces of hot dog the First Lady held in the palm of her hand, couldn’t pass up the chance to play a game of chase.
With a puppy bounce, he broke away from Mrs. Bradley’s side and bounded into the garden. He crushed lettuce and cabbage and tomato plants underneath his large puppy paws as he chased the paper’s erratic movement. He looked like he was just fur and legs as he bounced after the paper.
“Milo, come!” I dashed after him before he could wreck even more damage.
Seth gestured wildly. “Get out of the picture! Get out of the picture!”
I grabbed Milo’s collar just as the oversized puppy snapped up the paper in his jaws. Pleased to have his prize, he let me lead him out of the garden. With his head held high and his tail wagging like a victor waving a flag at a soccer match, I returned Milo to his position beside the First Lady, pried the half-chewed paper from his mouth, and stuffed it into my pocket.
The Scarlet Pepper Page 8