I’d jotted his name and phone number in the margin of my yellow notepad, but I hadn’t called him. The thought of bringing in a defense attorney made my stomach churn. Hiding behind a lawyer felt too much like an admission of guilt.
“I’d much rather focus on gardening and getting ready for Wednesday,” I muttered to myself.
“What’s that?” Gordon asked, but then continued without waiting for me to answer. “It’s not that I’m worried about your guilt or innocence. I know you could never harm anyone.”
“Thank you.” I appreciated his vote of confidence.
“You do realize, however, that if the press learns that the police are digging into your affairs, they might start calling you a murder suspect, which would be a disaster. The President needs to protect his own reputation. Even the illusion of wrongdoing could spell the end of your White House career.”
“I hadn’t thought about it that way,” I said. “I’m sure several reporters are already trying to retrace Parker’s steps in hopes of uncovering the scandal Parker almost published about Bruce Dearing. That’s going to cause trouble enough for the President.”
Considering the number of mystery novels I’d read over the years, you’d think I’d know exactly what to do if the spotlight of suspicion ever shone in my direction.
“I love the work I’ve been doing at the White House. I don’t want to leave.”
“I don’t want you to leave, either,” Gordon said. “No one does. Before I forget, one of us needs to have a talk with those two new guys on the grounds crew.”
“Jerry and Bower?” I asked. The two new National Park Service crew members assigned to work in the gardens did seem to need a lot of supervision.
“Sal said he saw both Jerry and Bower wandering off toward the Children’s Garden when the rest of the crew was working in the Rose Garden,” Gordon said. Sal Martin, who acted and dressed as if he still lived in the groovy seventies, had worked on the grounds crew for more years than I’d been alive. If he thought the two new guys were doing something they shouldn’t, then it was the truth.
“I’ll talk with them,” Lorenzo offered.
“Really?” I nearly fell out of my chair. Lorenzo almost never volunteered to interact with the grounds crew. He almost never volunteered to do anything. He shrugged and slurped his diet soda. His gaze glided over to the clock over the door. “Aren’t you supposed to be at another meeting, Casey?”
“I don’t have anything on my schedule…” I glanced at the day planner on my desk.
“You don’t?” He pulled his straw up and down so that it squealed against the plastic lid. “That must be why Seth phoned. You were with that detective, I think. Seth said something about a meeting with Francesca Dearing and Gillis in his office at one o’clock to discuss the harvest. He wants you to be there.”
“Why are you only telling me about this now?” It was ten minutes after one. I dumped all my harvest organizational paperwork into a file folder and started for the door. “We’re supposed to be a team.”
His dark Mediterranean eyes widened as if he had no idea why I was upset. “What? I thought you knew about the meeting.”
A frustrated growl escaped my throat as I dashed out the door.
“Lorenzo…” I heard Gordon’s low voice echo down the hallway. “That’s not what I expect from you.”
I HURRIED THROUGH THE HALLWAY TOWARD the East Wing and Seth Donahue’s corner office on the second floor. The overstuffed file folder flopped against my arm with each step.
At least I’d gotten my wish. I had no time to worry about murder investigations or mysterious notes.
Although I was late for the meeting, the bright sunny day tugged at me as I passed a line of windows overlooking the Jacqueline Kennedy Garden. I’d rather be outside in the garden watching out for signs of aphids or a wilting disease than stuck in yet another meeting. My step slowed as I took in how the afternoon light made the colorful blooms on the beds of geraniums, impatiens, ageratums, and lilies glow with life.
When I was stressed, I gardened. I’d plunge my hands into the cool earth to feel the natural world pulsing all around me. It was almost July, almost time to prune the impatiens back to about an inch above the ground to encourage a new burst of color that would last until late fall. But under the heat of the intense afternoon sun, I’d do more harm than good if I were to poke or prod or prune my green darlings in their beds right now.
One of the necessary duties at the White House included participating in life-draining organizational meetings. Okay, perhaps not life draining. But close.
Gordon called them colossal wastes of time. He always found an excuse to miss them, sending either Lorenzo or me in his place. Being the new girl in the garden, I usually pulled the short straw.
This particular meeting promised to be more interesting than the rest because it was actually necessary. Without it, the harvest festivities might succumb to chaos.
The main thing that worried me about the meeting was Seth Donahue. The First Lady’s social secretary seemed particularly fond of meetings. I suspected it was because he enjoyed the sound of his own voice. He rarely let anyone else talk.
Before devoting his time to public service at the White House, Seth had owned a party planning company that catered to the rich and glamorous. High-strung and short-tempered, he often acted as if he were the only qualified employee at the White House.
Other staff members scattered whenever they spotted him storming down the hallway. He was a walking, talking headache.
Unfortunately no one could deny that he had a gift for pulling together impressive events. Most of us simply wished he would make the effort to work with the rest of us instead of fighting us every step of the way. It’d also be nice if he could let down his guard and smile.
As I reached the top of the stairs in the East Wing, laughter filled the hall. More laughter followed.
The happy sounds were coming from Seth’s office.
I stopped outside his door and double-checked the nameplate.
“Casey,” Seth called out from where he was sitting with his feet propped up on his desk. I don’t think he’d ever looked at me without a scowl before. “Come in. Come in. We have a lot of ground to cover.”
Francesca Dearing rose as I entered and she grabbed both my hands. “Casey, dear, I’m so glad to see you,” she purred, with none of the cold shoulder she’d given me earlier in the morning.
“Francesca.” I pried my hands from her grasp. How could she act so friendly after coldly brushing me off this morning? I wondered if her abrupt mood swings were a sign that she’d suffered a mental collapse. Or was that how she covered her guilt? “Do you have time to talk after the meeting?”
“Of course, my dear,” she said, smoothing out a nonexistent wrinkle on her jacket’s linen sleeve. “I’d hoped you’d have time for me.”
“Och, it’s my favorite bonny fan.” Gillis, dressed in a sedate black kilt and dark purple button-up shirt, rose from his chair in the corner to brush his lips against my cheeks. “Seth moved mountains to fetch the necessary security credentials so I could come inside the White House instead of being tucked away in that old musty building next door.”
“Actually, I filled out the paperwork Friday night,” I said, but I realized immediately how petty that made me sound. “Francesca helped,” I added.
“Och,” he said, his brown eyes twinkling. “My warmest thanks to the both of ye, then. I look forward to helping out with your kailyard.”
“Kailyard?” I asked.
“Your wee vegetable patch.”
“Ah.”
I apologized for arriving late and then suggested we get started with the meeting.
“I should scold you, Casey,” Seth said once we all were settled. His smile was still there. I hadn’t imagined it. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought the man had been drinking. “You should have told me that you’d attracted the finest gems of D.C. society to volunteer in the kitchen
garden.”
I glanced at Francesca and then said quietly, “It was Mrs. Bradley’s idea.”
From the moment she’d moved in to the White House, Margaret Bradley had surrounded herself with her trusted friends and family from New York City. As a result, she’d neglected the social elite of Washington.
The unintentional snub had driven a wedge between the White House and D.C. power brokers. Angry wives of congressmen, diplomats, and high-paid lobbyists had convinced their better halves to return the favor and snub John Bradley. Individuals the President had counted on to provide enthusiastic support for his programs and policies in the past had started disappearing.
Margaret Bradley, a keen power broker in her own right, had recently started to take aggressive steps to remedy her mistake. One of those steps had included personally inviting the Washington society ladies to help fill all East Wing volunteer positions—including working in the vegetable garden.
“I should have known. The plan has Margaret’s sharp style written all over it,” Seth said. “I would have taken a more active role if I’d known about the illustrious names you forced to work in the dirt.” He tsked. “I never would have allowed that to happen.”
“Almost all of them are accomplished gardeners. They are happy to get their hands in the soil. And their help has been invaluable,” I pointed out.
Francesca nodded. “We are glad to do the work.”
“Will there be many volunteers on hand Wednesday?” Gillis asked, leaning back in his chair. “I’ll have to bring signed copies of my book to hand out. On that subject, I was thinking I should give a speech detailing my organic gardening methods and how they should be utilized in the kitchen garden.”
“The First Lady is planning to give a short talk to the schoolchildren. This is her project. The focus should be on her,” I pointed out.
“Gillis, your speech could follow Mrs. Bradley’s,” Seth said. “I think that’s a splendid idea. The press will love it.”
“I hope my speech will inspire the First Lady as well. I’d love to see her garden converted into an organic garden.”
“We’re already following organic practices,” I said. “If you have the time, I’d be happy to go over them with you.”
Gillis waved off the offer. “I’ve read accounts about your little projects here and there. But, lass, one or two little changes won’t turn a midden into an organic garden.”
“We’re following all recommended organic practices,” I repeated. “I assure you the changes have been quite extensive.”
“Is the garden certified organic?”
“No, and because of past fertilizer practices, we’d have to dig up and replace all existing soil in order to gain certification, but—”
“If the garden’s not organic,” Seth broke in, “perhaps you should listen to Gillis. He’s an expert in these things. His book on the topic moved up to the number three spot on the New York Times bestseller list last week.”
I narrowed my gaze as Gillis raised his brows with smug satisfaction. Was Gillis the unnamed source who told Parker that the First Lady’s kitchen garden wasn’t actually organic? “You didn’t happen to contact a certain reporter, Griffon Parker, about your thoughts on the White House’s gardening practices, did you?”
“That crusty old goat?” Gillis asked. “Gave him a copy of my book to review. Suppose that won’t happen now.”
“Did he even do book reviews?” I asked.
“You’re talking about the dead reporter?” Seth sat up. He leaned toward me, propping his elbows on his desk. “Considering the police’s interest in your involvement in the man’s murder, Casey, I don’t think you should be talking about him. Don’t look so surprised. Everyone’s heard about how you were interrogated this morning.”
I glanced at Francesca. Her self-satisfied smile remained eerily fixed. She had to realize the difficult position she’d created for me by telling Detective Hernandez I’d planned Parker’s murder.
“Perhaps we should move on.” I flipped open my file folder and began going over the events.
I hate to sound bitter or ungrateful. Francesca did us a great favor by getting a popular celebrity like Gillis to the White House, but the more time I spent with him—someone I thoroughly enjoyed watching on TV—the more I started to dislike the famous gardener.
He dominated the meeting even worse than Seth.
Whenever I would explain what we already had planned or suggest an idea from my fat file folder, a folder I’d spent weeks developing, Gillis would roll his eyes and interrupt. “Och, we can do better than that, lass,” he said more than once. Often he added, “On my television show we’d…”
Both Francesca and Seth lapped up his ideas as if they were kittens at a saucer of milk.
“This is wonderful, Gillis,” Francesca cooed after the schedule of harvest festivities had been completely reworked. She reached over and squeezed his arm. “You’re wonderful.”
“I don’t know what we would have done without your input,” Seth said.
The three of them then turned to me. I supposed they expected me to add my praise to the chorus. I couldn’t. By that time my jaw was clenched so tightly I could barely speak.
“You may want to check with the chef. Several of these changes will affect her programs,” I managed.
“Good point,” Seth said. “Actually, I have a meeting scheduled with her in an hour. She seemed most accommodating when we spoke earlier.” He paused. Three pairs of eyes turned toward me again.
I didn’t doubt the chef was accommodating. She had a reputation for being a superwoman. She could think on her feet, whip up a masterpiece even with the meanest of ingredients, and with a soft-spoken word keep Seth happy. I quite admired her.
“Well, then, if that’s all…” I rose and, hugging my file folder of hard work to my chest, headed toward the door.
“Wait a minute, Casey,” Seth called. “You’ll want to hear this. Gillis is interested in lending his expertise to the gardens, like a regular member of the White House staff.”
“He is?” The news hit me like a two-by-four to the gut.
Gillis struck the pose he used at the end of his television shows. His hands on his hips, his chin up, his eyes staring straight forward. “That I am, lass.”
“I wish you luck,” I mumbled.
“I hope this will be the start of a long relationship between you and our gardens.” Seth vigorously shook Gillis’s hand. “We can use some celebrity talent around here.”
“And I can bring it, mate,” Gillis agreed. He looked over at me and smiled. “Talk with Mrs. Bradley, Seth. Tell her how invaluable I’d be to her.”
“We have plenty of gardeners on staff right now,” I cautioned.
“Och, dinna mean to stomp on your toes, lass. It’s just that…well…you never know when circumstances might change. Opportunities might open up. Have you read my book?” He picked up a copy from a stack he’d left on Seth’s desk and handed it to me. “My brand of organic gardening, which is the only way, promises to grow into a nationwide movement. The White House should lead the way, not follow.”
I tucked the book in with the file folder, even though what I really wanted to do was toss it right back at his smug face. “Francesca? You said you had a moment to talk?”
“Hmm?” She tore her adoring gaze away from Gillis just long enough to answer me. “Oh. Of course, Casey. Gillis, you are a wonder,” she added and kissed his cheek. “I’ll see you this evening for dinner?”
The meeting had taken too long, and I still had several things I needed to accomplish before Wednesday. This workday and the next promised to stretch long into the night.
Francesca walked with me as I headed down the East Wing stairs.
“He is a wonder, isn’t he?” she repeated, still beaming.
“I suppose.”
“The First Lady is going to love him. He has that effect on people, you know. Everyone loves Gillis.”
“So I’ve not
iced. He also seems very interested in taking over my job.”
I wondered if he and Francesca were working together and spreading stories.
Chapter Eleven
I have tried so hard to do right.
—GROVER CLEVELAND, THE 22ND PRESIDENT OF
THE UNITED STATES
“DON’T you think you’re being overly sensitive?” Francesca laughed. Her twittering echoed down the stairwell. “Why would Gillis want your job?”
“I don’t know. He has his television and radio shows, book deals, and hordes of fans.” It did sound rather silly. “I suppose he wants to act as a consultant. Is he campaigning for a spot on the Grounds Committee?”
“Honey, what else would he have time for?”
The White House Grounds Committee was made up of horticultural professionals from the American Association of Nurserymen. The committee oversaw design and implementation decisions. When I’d proposed the White House grounds go all organic, the Grounds Committee had balked at the plan until I modified it to take place over several years in a slow, phased process. “Gillis, with his passion for organic gardening, might actually be an asset on the committee,” I had to admit. “But to hear him speak about his working with the gardens, it does sound like he’s trying to push me out of a job.”
That peacock sure knows how to strut. My aunt Willow’s colorful way of describing some of our Charleston neighbors seemed to fit Gillis. He’s been strutting around so much he hasn’t noticed that he’s all feather and no brain.
Okay, that last part might have been an unfair characterization of Gillis. I hadn’t yet read his book. He might have some new ideas. Good ideas.
At the moment, however, I was more interested in asking Francesca about Griffon Parker and her murder mystery dinner that someone had served up weeks before the charity event than in learning a new approach to organic gardening.
Oh, good gracious, if Francesca had killed the crusty reporter, would that also mean she’d slept with him?
The Scarlet Pepper Page 11