The Scarlet Pepper

by Dorothy St. James

  With a violent yank, I flipped open the cell phone. The readout said “Unavailable.”

  Francesca’s calls had been coming from a blocked number so I didn’t hesitate to answer.

  “Stay out of the garden,” a gruff voice warned. I couldn’t tell if the strange voice was that of a man or a woman.

  “What? What garden? Who is this? Francesca?”

  “Stay out of the garden or else you might turn up at the bottom of the compost pile.”

  “Who is this?” I demanded.

  The line went dead.

  I lowered the phone from my ear and stared at it.

  “Who was that?” Alyssa asked.

  I shook my head.

  Alyssa grabbed my shoulders and guided me to the nearest kitchen chair and sat me down.

  “Who was that?” she asked again.

  “I don’t know. I didn’t recognize the voice and the call information had been blocked.”

  “Well? What did this mystery person say that has you looking so pale?”

  I drew a slow, deep breath. And another. “Just someone trying to scare me.”

  “What exactly did the caller say?”

  “That I needed to stay out of the garden.” I started to dial a number on my cell phone. “Manny needs to know about this. It could be the killer trying to discourage me from asking questions tomorrow.”

  “You need to call Jack.”

  “No. Not Jack. He’ll worry.”

  “Of course he’ll worry. He’s in love with you. I think it’s romantic. Call him.”

  “No! I can’t. It’s not romantic. It’s sad. I can’t count on Jack—or any man, for that matter. He’ll find a flaw or a prettier, younger woman or simply get bored. And then”—I snapped my fingers—“he’ll abandon me.”

  And there it was, no matter how hard I fought it, at the root of everything that was wrong in my life.

  My father.

  THE NEXT MORNING I WOKE UP AN HOUR EARLIER than necessary. My nerves felt raw and prickly as if a flock of starlings had been pecking at them all night.

  Manny was still working on tracking down who had threatened me the night before. I’d told him to check Frank Lispon’s phones, but Manny informed me that it wouldn’t matter. The cell phone the caller had used was a prepaid throwaway phone.

  He could tell me the general area where the call had been made—somewhere worryingly close to my brownstone apartment—but not who had made the call. Not something I wanted to hear.

  I snapped at Alyssa when she asked if there was any coffee left in the French press, and then after getting dressed for the day I stomped out of the house itching for a fight. I wanted the killer to jump out at me so I could unleash the full force of my ornery self. No one, not some cowardly killer and certainly not a crank caller, had the power to keep me from my garden, not while I still breathed.

  I was no longer the frightened little girl my father had practically handed over to a gang of assassins back in Phoenix, Arizona, so many years ago, and I refused to let the echoes of those little-girl fears drive my life.

  With my homemade pepper spray—from potent habanero peppers cultivated on my kitchen windowsill—readily accessible in my front pocket, and an arsenal of gardening supplies along with my tattered copy of Agatha Christie’s Murder at the Vicarage tucked inside my backpack, I marched through the early morning D.C. streets with such a determined stride that even the panhandlers avoided eye contact.

  It was one thing to put yew branches in my yard. It was quite another to try to scare me out of my garden. The slug responsible for Griffon Parker’s death had better watch out.

  Halfway to the White House, I turned down a street that ran past Burberry Park. A young mother sat bouncing a toddler on her lap on the same statue’s marble stone base where Parker’s body had been found. Although the police had removed all signs that anything sinister had happened there, I shivered.

  Parker, even from beyond the grave, wouldn’t welcome my attempts to help him.

  “I don’t care what you think, buster. Whether you want me to or not, I’m going to help you find your peace,” I said with an edge to my voice.

  Across the street, I spotted Annie Campbell emerging from one of the more modest brownstone town houses. She locked the door behind her and hurried down the steps. I hadn’t realized she lived so close to the scene of the crime. Had she seen something that morning? Was she covering up to protect her best friend’s husband? I needed to talk with her about so many things.

  I called out to her, but she didn’t hear me. She scurried down the street with just as much determination in her step as I had in mine. Naturally, I followed.

  Annie, wherever she was heading, seemed to be in quite a hurry. She pushed aside an old homeless woman who’d stepped in her way.

  The poor woman stumbled. Her green and white carpet bag—which probably held all her worldly possessions—went flying. I caught the older woman before her knees hit the concrete sidewalk. After making sure she was steady on her feet again, I gathered up the few belongings that had spilled from her bag and handed it back to her.

  “For you,” the woman said with a hacking cough. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a shiny copper penny.

  I tried to refuse, but she pushed it into my palm and closed my fingers around it. “For luck,” she said as she continued on her way down the street. “For luck.”

  By that time, Annie had gotten far ahead of me and had turned a corner. I jogged to the corner, hoping to catch up, but she had disappeared again. Thankfully, she hadn’t gone too far. At the next cross street I caught sight of her as she ascended a set of brick stairs that led up to an elegant clapboard-sided town house. We were still only a few blocks from Burberry Park.

  Annie banged on the door until it flew open.

  Frank Lispon, looking as angry as a rabid hound, emerged from the town house. I gasped at the sight of him.

  Did Annie realize the danger she’d put herself in?

  Instead of grabbing her and dragging her into his home, the press secretary stepped onto the front stoop and closed the door behind him.

  He was dressed in gray suit pants and a white “John Bradley for President” T-shirt that looked as if he’d hastily pulled it on over his well-developed chest. His feet were bare.

  I moved in closer. Annie turned her head, searching up and down the street. I stepped behind an oak growing in the planting strip along the sidewalk before she could see me.

  Frank, his mouth set in a grim line, crossed his arms over his chest and leaned forward. He towered over Annie’s petite frame.

  She did all the talking and poked him in the chest several times until he caught her hand and pushed it away.

  She then reached into her pocket and pulled out something. I squinted. It looked like a sheet of paper.

  Whatever it was, Frank hadn’t expected to see it. He tried to snatch it out of her hands, but she danced down the steps and took off running.

  Frank followed down to the bottom of the steps. With his running ability, I was sure he could have caught her if he’d really wanted to. I had my hand on my cell phone, ready to call for help if he tried to hurt her. But he spotted me and pushed his hands into his pockets and watched her run away.

  Once she was out of sight, he shrugged and turned to head back up to his town house.

  “Frank!” I called out.

  He stopped midway and turned back around. “What do you want?” he asked, narrowing his gaze as I approached. “What are you doing here?”

  “Walking to work,” I said, amazed at how well I hid my jangling nerves.

  “Oh. Have a good morning.” He started back up to the house again.

  “I didn’t know you lived so close by. I should call for a ride when it’s raining.” Presumptuous, I know. But I couldn’t think of anything else to say until I blurted out what I really wanted to find out: “I didn’t know you and Annie Campbell were acquainted.”

  “We’re not.”
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  “But I just saw her leaving here.”

  He glanced down the road as if he expected her to return. “Yeah, I was surprised she knew where I lived. We’ve met here and there, usually at parties at the Dearings’ house. The last time I saw her was shortly after the inauguration.”

  “Huh, that’s odd. She’s one of my volunteers. I expect to see her tomorrow afternoon at the harvest. Would you like me to talk to her to find out what she wants? She’s a widower. Perhaps she’s lonely.”

  “Annie definitely isn’t looking for that kind of companionship from me.”

  “Then what did she want?” I pressed.

  “She seemed to be upset that the rumors surrounding the Dearings are persisting and wanted me to do something about it.”

  “I’ve heard they’ve been friends since childhood.”

  “Well, I guess that explains it.” He shrugged again. “I’d better get inside before the neighbors start to talk. I’ll see you around, Casey.” He took the steps up to his brownstone two at a time. I waited until he disappeared inside and the door closed behind him.

  Frank had lied to me about why Annie had popped up at his door. She had something—evidence?—that Frank desperately wanted to get away from her.

  Would he now feel compelled to “handle” her like he’d promised to “handle” me and had already “handled” Griffon Parker? If that was his plan, he’d have to go through me first.

  Unlike my father, I’d never abandon someone in need.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Labor disgraces no man; unfortunately, you occasionally find men who disgrace labor.

  —ULYSSES S. GRANT, THE 18TH PRESIDENT OF

  THE UNITED STATES

  I hurried to the White House feeling hopeful that I could quickly knock my to-do list down to a reasonable size so I could take some time off to find Annie and figure out how I could help her. But at the grounds office door I found Janie Partners, one of the female members of the Secret Service’s Presidential Protection Detail, waiting for me.

  Even though she always dressed in a conservative black suit with a white blouse as seemingly required by Secret Service, Janie let her personality shine through in little ways. She dyed her hair a stark white blond and wore it in a short pixie cut. Tiny embroidered yellow squashes dotted the dark green scarf she wore around her neck.

  “We have a problem,” she said before I even had the chance to greet her.

  “Not the First Lady’s garden again.” I groaned.

  She nodded.

  “But Steve promised that Milo would be watched.”

  “Milo’s been locked up all night. I noticed when the First Lady took him on his morning romp around the grounds this morning that something had ripped apart several of the plants in her vegetable garden.”

  “Again?”

  Janie nodded.

  “How did the First Lady take it?”

  “She wasn’t pleased but handled herself with her signature grace. She appeared confident that you’d be able to fix it.”

  “Well, in that case,” I said as I slid my gardening shears into the leather holster I wore on my hip and scooped up my basket and wide-brim straw hat, “I’d better get to work.”

  The garden looked as chaotic as it had the day before. The only difference was that this time when I made it down to the garden, I found several staffers from the West Wing and the White House kitchen, including the top toque herself, with their sleeves rolled up and starting to repair the damage.

  “We’re here to support you,” Penny from the press office said with a smile. “And look, none of the First Lady’s favorite peppers were damaged.”

  “It’s not much, but I’ll take that as good news.” I pulled on a pair of gloves and joined the others in repairing the garden.

  Perhaps a raccoon was sneaking into the garden in the middle of the night. But, oddly, although the plants had been pulled from the ground and trampled—some beyond repair—none of the vegetables had been eaten. Wouldn’t a raccoon or squirrel or rat have feasted on the bounty it found?

  Just to be safe, with the assistance of Jerry and Bower, the two troublesome members of the grounds crew, I installed netting designed to keep garden pests away from the plants we intended to harvest the next day.

  I also took the opportunity to talk with Jerry and Bower about their past work habits and what was expected of employees at the White House.

  “No one told us that they weren’t happy with our work,” Jerry argued.

  “Didn’t Lorenzo talk with you?” He’d volunteered to do it.

  Both men shook their heads. “We joked around with Lorenzo for a bit,” Bower said. “He’s got a twisted sense of humor.” Both men laughed. “Didn’t say nothing about our work.”

  Well, I did. I told them they needed to worry about doing their work and not go wandering around the grounds. Jerry shrugged and walked away. Bower gathered up the rest of the tools. “Lorenzo was right,” I heard him mutter as he headed to the storage shed. “Bitch.”

  “What did you say?” I asked sharply. My temper was already sparking, and those two layabouts with molasses in their britches weren’t helping.

  “I said ‘peach.’ It’s just peachy. Everything is peachy,” he called over his shoulder without breaking his stride. “Got work to do.”

  “Yes, you do.” And so did I.

  Lazy. Lazy. Lazy. My aunt Alba would say of men like them—and she said it often—that even dead fleas wouldn’t fall off those boys. And she’d be right.

  Once my work in the garden was done, I tried to call Annie’s number. Her voice mail picked up so I left her a message to call me back.

  I then called Jack’s number to tell him about Annie’s confrontation with Frank. His phone also went to voice mail. I left him a short message and asked him to call me back.

  I had a bad feeling about Annie. Perhaps I needed to go check on her. I was heading that way when Lorenzo grabbed my arm.

  “You have to help me, Casey,” he said. “Jerry and Bower were going to help with the Fourth of July plantings, but I can’t find them.”

  “I just spoke with them. They were heading toward the storage shed.” I gestured in that direction. “I thought you were going to talk to them about their work habits. They said—”

  “I tried to talk with them.” Lorenzo huffed. “They’re worthless. Those two need to be fired, but we don’t have time for that right now. Can you help me? The plantings can’t be put off any longer. Please, Casey. I shouldn’t have let it go this long. I need your help.”

  What could I do? If the planters didn’t get done on time, it would put yet another negative spotlight on the grounds office. I couldn’t let that happen to Gordon.

  Lorenzo and I drove the grounds office’s nondescript white van over to the White House greenhouses, located on the outskirts of D.C., to make holiday planters.

  We grew many of our plants for the gardens and various special projects within the greenhouse facility’s long, domed structures. Today, using the same thirty-gallon concrete Grecian urn–shaped containers used for the Easter Egg Roll, Lorenzo and I designed two dozen Fourth of July displays to be placed around the exterior of the White House.

  Because of the summer heat, all the vents in the greenhouse were open and the large fans on the far wall ran constantly. Even so, it was hot and humid and ear-splittingly loud inside the building.

  I wiped sweat from my brow before checking my cell phone. Annie still hadn’t called. Neither had Jack.

  Even though my ability to concentrate was nonexistent, I pulled on my gardening gloves and tried to work. Each planter would get a red, white, and blue display. The tallest plant—sweetgrass that I’d brought from my grandmother’s backyard in Charleston—went in the back of the container. The tall grass with its light purple flower stalks mimicked a spray of fireworks blasting into the air. In front of the sweetgrass we planted dwarf blueberries that were heavy with the bright blue fruit. Then came bachelor’s buttons (
or cornflowers) thick with white blooms, and at the front of the container we planted calibrachoa (or million bells). These looked like tiny petunias, blooming like crazy with a profusion of deep red flowers that cascaded down the front of the container. The end result produced festive red, white, and blue layers.

  Lorenzo hummed tunelessly as his hands moved with a smooth motion. He finished one planter and started another before I could finish one. He added a few ornamental onions from the species Allium schubertii to his pots. A brilliant choice. The pale pink flowers looked like miniature exploding fireworks blasting out of the pots.

  That tiny detail transformed the plantings into something extraordinary.

  Lorenzo shrugged when I told him that.

  “Did you do anything fun over the weekend with your new girlfriend?” I asked, trying to strike up a friendly conversation with him.

  “Not really,” he mumbled, and he started to hum again. Although he wasn’t the most personable gardener I’d ever worked with, I respected his skill and his eye for design. He placed the plants in the potting soil with the same care a father would take tucking his son into bed.

  He gently patted the soil around a blueberry plant. “I heard that Organic World Magazine will have an article about your kitchen garden in its next issue.”“

  “It’s not my garden. It belongs to the First Lady.” I picked up a pot with a sweetgrass plant. “I’m glad to hear that the garden will finally get some good press.”

  “I didn’t say that,” Lorenzo said. “They faxed a copy of the article to the East Wing this morning, and the office made a copy for Gordon.”

  “And?” My heart started pounding. Hard. I respected Organic World Magazine, read every issue from cover to cover.

  “According to them, the garden is contaminated with lead, and you—yes, they named you specifically—were putting the First Family’s lives in jeopardy. It also mentioned that you were doing a shoddy job going organic and gave some suggestions on how you could improve.”

  The trowel in my hand clattered as it dropped to the wooden potting table. “They said there were dangerous levels of lead in the soil? That’s…that’s crazy.”