The Scarlet Pepper

by Dorothy St. James

“What’s in the back?”

  “There’s a small fenced area. I’ve not had an opportunity to do anything with it yet. It’s mostly exposed dirt. I think the renters before us had a dog that liked to dig.”

  After he’d taken a look around the front, I let Jack into the apartment. He immediately conducted a thorough search of the rooms on the first floor.

  “Do you think Frank or Bruce might be hiding behind the curtains?” I joked.

  “Not really,” he said with a smile, although he did peek behind the curtains in the living room once I’d mentioned it. “I’m looking for surveillance equipment…just in case. Better safe than sorry, you know? I’d like to see the backyard, too, if you don’t mind.”

  The small backyard was accessed through a door in the small laundry room/pantry off the kitchen. We were losing what was left of the waning twilight as we descended the old wooden steps that led into the backyard. A streetlamp in the alleyway behind the brownstone flickered on. Soon, moths and other flying insects started to buzz around it.

  The tiny backyard with bits of weeds popping up through the compacted soil looked as desolate as the last time I’d ventured out there. The small space didn’t get enough sun during the day to grow vegetables. When I had a free moment, I planned to create a raised-bed border along the fence where I would plant shade-loving grasses. A small wall fountain would go nicely on the brownstone wall. The trickling sound of water and the rustle of the breeze in the grasses would help transform the dreary space into a garden oasis. I planned to cover the rest of the bare ground with stone pavers where Alyssa and I could keep a couple of lounge chairs and there’d also be room for an outside dining area.

  “What’s that?” Jack pointed to an untidy pile of branches near the wooden gate that led out to the alleyway.

  “I don’t know. That wasn’t there when I took out the garbage yesterday.”

  I followed Jack to the pile of branches. They couldn’t have come from the yard. Other than the few spots of weeds, the landscape was bare.

  I picked a branch up and turned it over in my hand. The cut looked fresh—the interior of the branch still had a green tinge and felt soft when I pressed my nail against it.

  “I don’t know where these could have come from,” I said.

  “Can you tell what they are?”

  I shook my head. “Someone peeled all the leaves off.” I smelled it. “It’s got a piney scent.”

  “Like an English yew?”

  I dropped the branch as if it had stung me. “You don’t think the leaves from these branches were used to make the poison that killed Parker, do you?”

  “What I’m wondering is why these branches are here.”

  “Jack, I didn’t kill Parker!”

  He nudged one of the branches with his toe. “I never thought you did. You’re not a killer, Casey.”

  I wouldn’t go that far. Jack would change his opinion about me if he knew about the violent dreams that had haunted my sleep lately. For months now, I’d been dreaming I found the man who murdered my mother and his companions. Sometimes I’d gouge their faces with my fingernails until there was nothing left of their ungodly smirks. Other times I’d blast them so full of holes with a gun their bones would turn to jelly. And other times…

  I shut the door on those thoughts and fisted my hands to stop the trembling. The memories of my mother and that horrible night were ancient history. They had nothing to do with my life now.

  Jack flicked a glance at my fists, but didn’t say anything.

  I needed to focus. “These can’t be the branches used to poison Parker’s tea.” I picked up the branch I had dropped. “Look here. The cut is too fresh. Whoever pruned these branches did it today.”

  “Then someone is trying to make you look guilty.”

  “Perhaps. You know, Frank was in the First Lady’s kitchen garden this morning. He could have dropped that fake suicide letter. This could be his attempt to ‘handle’ me by making me look guilty of murder.”

  “How? Why would the police find these? Will he call in a tip? That seems risky.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t understand what’s going on.”

  “I don’t, either.” Jack pulled his cell phone from his pocket. “We need to tell Detective Hernandez.”

  “Why? Didn’t you just say someone would need to report the branches in order to make me look guilty?” Jack, Gordon, and Alyssa had all warned that I needed to tread carefully around the police. Their advice had finally taken root. “Besides, what are we going to tell him? ‘Hey, Manny, someone left a pile of branches in my backyard’? I say we toss them in the Dumpster at the end of the alleyway.”

  “That’s not a good idea. We need to report it.”

  I grabbed the phone from Jack.

  He sighed. “Someone is deliberately trying to make you look guilty. Is it Frank or Bruce? I don’t know. But I do know that we need to make sure Hernandez understands what’s going on here before the killer, whoever that may be, completely ruins your career.”

  “Okay. Okay, I get that. Let me make the call. It’s my yard, my word, my future.”

  MANNY HERNANDEZ ARRIVED ABOUT A HALF hour later looking rumpled. Both his shoulders and his mustache were drooping.

  “Casey said that these weren’t here yesterday,” Jack told him as we stood around the branches. Manny kept a flashlight beam shining on them.

  “The cuts are fresh. I think someone must have put them here this afternoon,” I added.

  “I wonder if it happened before or after you gave me that fake suicide note.” Manny stroked his salt-and-pepper mustache thoughtfully.

  “Have you been able to find out who dropped that note?” Jack asked.

  Manny shook his head. “The angle on the video is all wrong. We can see who walked through the garden, but we don’t see the note until you wrestle it out of the dog’s mouth.”

  “So what do we do now?” I asked.

  “I’ll test these branches for prints, but…” He sighed. “It’s still early in the investigation.”

  “I touched one of the branches,” I warned.

  “That shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “There’s something else you need to know.” Ready the net, boys, I was about to prove to him that I’d lost my mind.

  Manny clasped his hands behind his back, waiting for me to continue. Jack gave me an encouraging nod.

  I drew a deep breath. “I know this will sound far-fetched.” Not the best way to build confidence. I don’t know why, but I cared about what Manny and Jack thought about me.

  “Go on,” Manny said. “Out with it.”

  “Frank Lispon and Bruce Dearing. I think they killed Griffon Parker.”

  “Go on,” Manny said.

  I repeated the conversation I’d overheard earlier that day. Manny listened. He nodded in all the right places. He even jotted several things down in that little notebook of his.

  “Is there anything else you’d like to tell me?” he asked when I finished.

  I thought for a moment before saying, “I don’t think Francesca Dearing is involved, but she might know something. I think she tried to warn me this afternoon. And someone left a note that said ‘Lispon’s office’ on my desk. Perhaps it was a warning.”

  He flipped the notebook closed and pushed it back into his jacket pocket. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll have another talk with Francesca. If that’s all, I’ll make sure these branches get tested.”

  “You don’t believe me.”

  “I believe you overheard something,” Manny said.

  “But you don’t believe Frank and Bruce poisoned Parker and are now planning to kill me,” I said.

  “No, Casey, I don’t.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Man cannot live by bread alone; he must have peanut butter.

  —JAMES A. GARFIELD, THE 20TH PRESIDENT OF

  THE UNITED STATES

  “THOSE two men hold important positions in the government. They don’t have time to pl
ay games like this.” Manny pointed to the branches.

  “But because I’m a gardener I have time for petty games and murder, so I’m a suspect?”

  “You’re deliberately twisting my words around, Casey.”

  “And you didn’t do the same thing to me earlier today? Frank was in the First Lady’s garden right before the photo shoot. The fake suicide note could have fallen out of his pocket,” I reminded him. “Frank has just as much motive as I do. Parker has been a thorn in the administration’s side from day one. You should have heard how the staff would curse Parker and his slanted articles. That’s motive. He had tons of it. More motive to get rid of Parker than you think I have.”

  Manny shook his head. “It’s not the same thing.”

  “You’re right it’s not the same thing. I didn’t do anything wrong!”

  “Calm down. I didn’t mean to imply—”

  “You didn’t?” Jack quickly jumped to my defense. “Questioning Casey at the White House made damned sure everyone on the staff wondered whether she put the poison in Parker’s tea.”

  Manny pulled on a pair of latex gloves and stooped down to shovel the branches into a plastic bag. “I was only doing my job.”

  “You could have quietly asked her to come to the station to answer a few questions, and you know it. You made a point of singling her out.”

  “So?” Manny grunted.

  “So, your interest in Casey regarding the murder and then the bomb scare this afternoon made the top brass at the Secret Service sit up and take notice. They’re wondering if Casey is a security risk. If I hadn’t fought for her, she might have lost her security clearance this afternoon.”

  “What? I almost lost my security clearance because of this?” If that happened, I’d miss the harvest. I’d be useless to Gordon and the First Lady. My White House career would be over.

  “Yes. And if Hernandez keeps the investigation centered on you, your days at the White House will be numbered.”

  “But—” I started to say.

  “Someone wants you to look guilty of murder,” Jack said, “and is willing to use the police as a tool to ruin you.”

  “But I’m not guilty of anything!” I flapped my hands in frustration.

  “Look, Casey,” Manny said, “it’s not that I really believe you are involved in Griffon Parker’s death, but Jack’s right. Someone wants us to think you are guilty by using the details of the murder mystery dinner you and Francesca had planned as the method for murder, and then there are these branches. I put some pressure on you; these branches popped up. Makes me wonder what else the killer might do to keep the spotlight of suspicion on you.”

  “I don’t like it. You’re playing with Casey’s future and her safety,” Jack argued.

  “Manny, there has to be some other way I can help the investigation. Whoever killed Parker has access to the White House gardens, which is my territory. If nothing else, I can serve as the eyes and ears for you there.”

  The detective seemed to consider this before nodding slowly. “Maybe there is something you can do.”

  “DON’T BE A FOOL WITH YOUR LIFE, CASEY,” Jack warned as he watched the detective put the branches in the trunk of his black sedan and drive off.

  “I’m not being foolish. I only promised Manny that I’d ask a few questions around the garden.” Why not? I’d already promised the First Lady as much.

  “That’s taking too much of a risk”

  “No, it’s not. I think I’ve finally started to see things clearly. If Frank and Bruce want me to take the blame for the murder they committed, if that’s how they plan to ‘handle’ me, they won’t hurt me no matter what I do. That would ruin their plan.”

  “Wrong. The killer, whoever that is, will hurt you if you are a threat.”

  “So I’ll be careful.”

  Jack punched the wrought-iron railing in frustration, but followed me up the stairs.

  His stomach grumbled.

  “You’re hungry. Shoot. I asked you out for dinner and then didn’t feed you.” Some date this had turned out to be. By the time Manny had left it was close to ten o’clock. “We could order pizza.”

  Jack shook his head. “With all this traveling I’ve been doing with the President lately, I’m burned out on fast food and pizza. I should probably just go home.”

  I didn’t want him to leave when he was still upset. I didn’t want him to leave at all. “Wait. You promised to help me come up with a plan. I don’t have a plan yet. If you come inside, I’ll fix you something.”

  I’d fix him something?

  The offer had tumbled out of my mouth before I realized what I was doing. I knew how to bake a damn good chewy, gooey pan of brownies. But that one recipe summed up my entire culinary repertoire. If Jack wasn’t in the mood for pizza, I doubted he’d welcome a dish of brownies.

  “I image your grandmother taught you how to make all sorts of Southern dishes, like collard greens and hoppin’ John.” He smiled as he said it, probably imagining I’d whip him up some Southern fried chicken with all the fixin’s.

  “Um…yes…my grandmother is a fabulous cook.”

  Jack followed me through the apartment and to the kitchen in the back. “Would you like a beer?” I offered as I leaned against the open fridge door and peered into its frosty depths.

  Milk. Soy milk. Beer. Soda. Jar of salsa. Lettuce.

  Discouraged, I pushed the door closed, poured Jack’s bottle of beer into a glass, and handed it to him. I then peeked in the freezer. Behind several half-eaten pints of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream I found a package of chicken.

  “Chicken!”

  I grabbed the package and held it above my head as if I’d just won a gold medal at the Olympics.

  “That’ll work for me,” Jack said with a chuckle.

  But what the heck should I do with the chicken? I turned the pink foam package over in search of cooking instructions. There weren’t any.

  “Excuse me for a minute.” I sidled toward the living room. “I…um…promised my grandmother I’d call her tonight. She’ll be in bed soon, so…um…I’d better call her right now.”

  I stood in the front foyer as I dialed the phone number for Rosebrook, the stately mansion in Charleston’s South of Broad neighborhood that had served as home-sweet-home to generations of Calhouns.

  “Hello? Casey? Why are you whispering? Speak up. I can barely hear you,” Grandmother Faye said after answering the phone.

  “Is that Casey?” I heard Aunt Willow’s voice in the background.

  “Casey? Hand me the phone,” Aunt Alba shouted. “I need to tell her about an article I read on the outbreak of violence in the D.C. area. She needs to—”

  “Shush, girls. I can barely hear the child as it is. How are you doing, dear?” my grandmother asked.

  “I’m good.”

  “Speak up, Casey.”

  “I’m good, Grandmother,” I said loudly as I jogged up the stairs and sat on the top step so I could speak without worrying about Jack listening in. I mean, what self-respecting Southern girl didn’t know how to—at the very least—fry up some chicken? “You remember Jack Turner, that Secret Service agent I told you about?”

  “The nice young man who helped you this past spring? Of course I remember him.”

  “I’ve invited him for dinner, but I don’t know what to make.”

  “He’s sitting in your kitchen waiting to eat, I suppose?” Grandmother Faye knew me too well.

  “Casey has a man in the house?” Aunt Alba squealed in the background.

  “Good for her! A man will want to eat meat,” Aunt Willow called out. “A bloody steak.”

  “I had thought we could go to a restaurant,” I explained, “but it got late so quickly. I have chicken.” I listed what else I’d found in the fridge.

  “Honey child,” Grandmother Faye scolded, “you need to stock up for occasions such as these. A proper lady doesn’t let her guests go hungry.”

  “She shouldn’t have a ma
n in the house at this hour,” Aunt Alba shouted. I heard the click of a second line being picked up. “You shouldn’t have a man in the house at this hour,” Aunt Alba said. “Not only is it unseemly, it’s dangerous. Who knows what he’ll expect you to do? And what if you don’t do it? What then? Will he force—?”

  “Shush, Alba. You’ll scare the child,” Grandmother Faye said. In my loving grandmother’s eyes I’d forever be a child. Not that I minded.

  “Should I try and fry the chicken?” I asked, hoping to get back to the reason I’d called.

  “No!” both Grandmother Faye and Aunt Alba shouted.

  “Lordy, you’re liable to burn the entire house down,” Aunt Alba said.

  “Listen to me, Casey, don’t try and fry anything,” Grandmother Faye warned. “Do exactly what I tell you to do. Put the chicken in a baking dish. Cover it with the salsa.”

  She explained how to bake the chicken and suggested I toss up a light salad to accompany it. I tried to keep the directions straight in my head. Did I put the oven on broil or not? It wasn’t easy to follow Grandmother Faye’s instructions with my aunts constantly interrupting with warnings and advice.

  “Don’t use salsa, use mustard and lemon,” Aunt Willow said. She must have wrested control of the second line from Alba. “And cook it in a skillet. If you have a potato, cook that as well. Men love potatoes. They also love steak. Are you sure you don’t have time to go buy some steak?”

  “Give me that.” Aunt Alba wrested control of the phone again. “Broil the chicken. It’ll taste better that way. And if he tries anything, hit him exactly like I showed you. That’ll stop him dead in his tracks.”

  “Don’t tell her that!” Aunt Willow shouted. There was a scuffling as the two sisters fought over the phone again. “She’s going to end up a withered-up old maid like the two of us thanks to your meddling. You’ve made her terrified of men.”

  “I’m not terrified. Grandmother, tell them I’m not terrified of men. And tell them that Jack is a friend. Just a friend.”

  “I will, honey child. Enjoy your evening.”

  I can do this, I told myself after assuring my doting family that I loved them and would visit as soon as I found the time. I disconnected the call and headed back down the stairs toward the kitchen.