The Scarlet Pepper

by Dorothy St. James

  Speaking of each of us playing our parts, I felt as if the murderer had designed a part for me to play, which I’d played brilliantly. And a part had also been designed for Gillis Farquhar.

  “Any word on Gillis?” I asked Gordon.

  “Nothing in this morning’s paper. I still can’t believe it.”

  “I can’t, either. I don’t think he’s guilty of anything besides a bloated ego.”

  Gillis had been charged with damaging the White House gardens. Whispers in the White House hallways were that he would soon face both attempted murder and murder charges.

  In my opinion Manny was making a huge mistake in taking his investigation in that direction, but after I’d left him several messages saying just that, he was no longer taking my calls. I don’t suppose I blamed him. It wasn’t as if I had any alternative theories.

  According to newspaper reports, the more Manny dug into the case, the more evidence piled up against Gillis. Bank records showed several withdrawals from Gillis’s account that exactly matched the amount of money that Jerry and Bower received. But who had tipped over the shelving units in the shed? Gillis had already been taken into custody.

  Did Gillis have an accomplice besides Jerry and Bower?

  Did someone simply not like me?

  Or had the murderer done an impenetrable job of framing an innocent man?

  I simply didn’t know.

  Later that morning when I was deadheading the roses that surrounded the South Fountain, someone standing behind me cleared his throat. Expecting Jack, I started to jump up to greet him and was sharply reminded about my cracked ribs. Cupping my hand over my eyes, I turned and smiled in his direction.

  “Hello, Casey.” Not Jack.

  I tried not to let my disappointment show.

  “Good morning, Frank. How’s your head?”

  He touched his forehead as if remembering. “It’s good.”

  He continued to tower over me with apparently no real purpose, all suit and long legs.

  “Yes?” I said.

  “You said the other day you knew my secret.”

  “I—I—” I’d thought he’d figured out by now that I was wrong about him…apparently about everything. “I’m sorry about that,” I was quick to say.

  “Sorry?” His expression darkened.

  Where was the genial press secretary that everyone loved? And trusted?

  “I have spent nearly all of my adult life covering for others, putting a good spin even on the worst story.” He heaved a sigh. “I never thought I’d have to face my own mistakes. I thought I’d done a good job of making certain I’d never have to do this. But thanks to Parker’s death, every skeleton out there is about to tumble out of the White House’s closets, including mine.”

  “I am sorry to hear that,” I said.

  “Sorry?” he repeated. “You can’t imagine.”

  “No, I don’t suppose I can.”

  Frank watched me. His jaw twitched. “I’m going to release a statement to the press today. It’s better that I come out with it before some reporter pens an article or films a segment designed to shock.”

  “Today?” My brows shot up in surprise. “Isn’t that large press conference with President Bradley and leaders of Congress scheduled to take place in the Rose Garden this afternoon to announce the big budget agreement?” Just as the oppressive heat wave that had gripped the city finally broke, both sides of the aisle had finally found a tiny strip of common ground to stand on. “You don’t mean to—”

  “I do. It’s the best strategy. The big news of the day will be the budget agreement. My story will get buried.” He paused. “I hope.”

  “I hope it works out for you.” I mentally patted myself on the back for not asking him for the details of his scandal. Okay, truth be told, I didn’t ask because I assumed he’d finally decided to admit to the press (and himself) that he was Kelly Montague’s birth father.

  I pulled off my gloves and slid my gardening shears into my belt’s leather holster. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “You said you knew what I’d been up to and you knew why Annie had come to my house that morning.”

  “I did say that.”

  “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t go to the press with your own version of my story. It’s bad enough that my mother’s still alive. You don’t understand how difficult this will be on her and me. Although attitudes about homosexuality have grown more accepting over the years, many in the black community, like my mother, still view it as a grave sin.”

  “Homosexuality?” Jack had mentioned the rumors of a long-term illicit relationship between Frank and Bruce. Was this the scandal Parker had been so keen on uncovering? But what did that have to do with Kelly’s search for her parents?

  “It’s not a lifestyle choice, at least not for me. I tried for over half my life to deny who I am, to pretend I was someone else. It was hell.”

  I nodded. Truly, that was all I could do.

  My silence only further darkened his mood. “I hope I can count on you not to go to the press about this.”

  “Of course—of course you can.” I stumbled over my words as I struggled to catch up. “I’m sorry you had to hide for this long.”

  “I wasn’t exactly hiding. I was living my life on my terms, just not publicly. I would have been happy to continue that way for the rest of my life…or at least the rest of my mother’s life. My private life is no one’s damn business. I hate to think what Annie Campbell is going to say to the press about me.”

  “What does she have to do with this?”

  “I thought you said you knew. Annie came to my house that morning—she had pictures of me on a date.” He turned away. “I was kissing the man. She threatened to take the picture to the press unless I protected Francesca and Bruce.”

  “She’s blackmailing you? Is that why you feel pressured to go public?”

  “It’s part of the reason. I’ve been doing all I can to protect those two. I don’t know why that crazy friend of Francesca’s doesn’t understand that. The way she was acting, you would have thought the scandal Parker was investigating was about her. Like that’s possible. No one even knows who she is.”

  “Wow.” Annie was acting like a mamma grizzly protecting her babies. She may have gone too far with Frank, but I respected how fiercely she fought for her friend.

  I wished Frank would show some similar parental interest in Kelly Montague. “Kelly’s still in the hospital. Have you visited her yet?”

  “Not that again. She’s not my daughter.”

  “But what if she is?”

  “Don’t you have a volunteer tea you need to get to?”

  “Shoot! I do.” I started to rush away, but stopped and turned back to Frank. “I hope you’re doing the right thing. You’re an asset around here.”

  “Thank you, Casey.”

  His shoulders weighed heavy. He looked like a man heading for the gallows.

  Perhaps he was. His press announcement, even buried within the larger news of the day, still could spell the death of his lifelong career.

  Chapter Thirty

  Leadership: the art of getting someone else to do something you want done because he wants to do it.

  —DWIGHT D. EISENHOWER, THE 34TH PRESIDENT OF

  THE UNITED STATES

  “CASEY! Casey! You have to help me. It’s a disaster,” Annie cried as she fluttered her hands in front of her. She did look rather like she was falling apart.

  Her dark purple sundress was stained with mud. One tan sandal had broken a strap and flopped as she walked. Her bright red hair, usually styled to pageboy perfection, had completely lost its bounce.

  She’d intercepted me in the Rose Garden, just outside the Palm Room, as I was returning to the White House. A harried staffer trailed alongside her, wringing his hands.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked. “The First Lady’s tea is being held in the Jacqueline Kennedy Garden. You should have come in the East Wing entranc
e.”

  “I—I wanted to see the Rose Garden before the press conference to see how they set things up for the President. I didn’t mean to do anything wrong. Francesca was supposed to be here with me, but she’s running late. She had Bruce arrange for me to be escorted to the Rose Garden before the tea.” Annie gestured to the skinny, pale-faced intern standing behind her. The young man looked as if he might cry.

  “I was just walking along. I didn’t see it. I swear. I don’t know why I didn’t notice where I was going. Then I tripped. It broke. It’s a terrible mess, and so am I.”

  She was talking so quickly, I couldn’t keep up. I raised my hands. “Slow down,” I said. “Why are you covered in dirt?”

  “Clumsy, I know. I tripped over a planter.” She pointed to one of the large urns that Lorenzo and I had planted for the upcoming Fourth of July holiday. “And it broke!” she wailed.

  The urn closest to the podium where the President would stand was cracked down the middle. The plants and dirt had spilled out everywhere.

  “It’s nothing to worry about,” I assured Annie. “We’ll get it cleaned up.”

  “Please”—she grabbed my arm; her fingers felt cold—“let me help.”

  “All I need to do is get someone to sweep up the mess. There’s really nothing to do. While I do that, you go home and get changed. Really, it’s not a problem.”

  Annie’s grip on my arm tightened. “But there’ll be an odd number of planters. There will be a hole.”

  “It’s not a problem. We can rearrange to make it work.”

  “I feel awful about this. This is such an important day with the President’s press conference to announce the budget agreement. Please, let me help fix it. I saw an extra urn in the gardening shed. If we gathered up the plants, with your help, we could make it look as if nothing happened.”

  “I assure you, Annie, that’s not necessary.”

  “Please.” She refused to let go of my arm.

  It wouldn’t take very long to transfer the plants to a new urn, and it seemed to mean the world to Annie.

  “Very well,” I said.

  “Wonderful! I can prepare the urn in the shed while you bring the plants down. I saw the potting soil on the shelf. It’ll be done in no time.”

  I asked the West Wing intern if he’d be willing to escort Annie down to the gardening shed. While they headed down to the shed to get the pot ready, I found a handcart. I gathered up the plants from the broken urn and carefully placed them on the cart.

  A couple of ushers volunteered to clean up the rest of the mess. I would have hugged them, but Ambrose didn’t approve of displays of gratitude beyond a modest nod of the head.

  By the time I had rolled the handcart down the path to the gardening shed, Annie had the urn filled with potting soil and ready for the plants. I was impressed. This was the first time I’d seen her take the initiative.

  “Did someone spill gasoline?” I asked. The scent was strong. The West Wing intern glanced up from his iPhone just long enough to shrug.

  Annie blushed to the tips of her red hair. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’ve been so clumsy lately.” She pointed to a red plastic fuel container sitting on a shelf and the small black spot on the concrete below it.

  The shed had been put back into order with one improvement. One of the carpenters had bolted the shelves to the floor. Not even an earthquake would tip those puppies over.

  “Accidents happen.”

  “I’m so upset today. Did you hear? Frank is going to give the press a statement after the President is done, to air his dirty laundry. I wish someone, like that handsome homicide detective, would take Frank up and stop him.”

  “You shouldn’t let Frank’s decision to tell the truth upset you,” I warned. “Secrets need to come out.”

  Her eyes grew wide. “Not all of them.”

  ANNIE GOT HER HANDS DIRTY AS I DIRECTED where each plant was to go in the urn. The West Wing intern assigned to escort her on the short tour that had turned into a long sojourn shifted impatiently from foot to foot.

  Finally we were done. We loaded the urn onto the handcart. Together Annie and I pulled it up the hill to the Rose Garden. I’d made it halfway there when a sharp pain stabbed me. I hugged an arm to my bruised chest and kept going. I should have never let Annie talk me into doing this.

  If she hadn’t looked so forlorn, I wouldn’t have given in. According to everyone I’d spoken with, she’d lived a rough life. Growing up poor in a West Virginia mining town had to have been difficult. And then just a few years ago, she lost her husband of thirty years and discovered that he’d left her with a pile of debts.

  Pearle had said that Annie now lived off the generosity of Francesca and others. No wonder the poor woman always reminded me of an overwatered houseplant, all yellowed and drooping. The least I could do for her was to forget about my cracked ribs and pull this damn planter up the hill.

  “I’m sorry, you can’t go this way.” The uniformed division Secret Service guard manning the hut at the Rose Garden’s entrance stopped us. “The press conference is getting ready to start.”

  Annie gave me a panicked look.

  I wasn’t worried. “This urn needs to go next to the podium to replace the one that broke earlier. We’ll be in and out.”

  Only the press secretary and his assistant were in the garden, making last-minute adjustments to the seating. The press hadn’t even been allowed out yet, which I pointed out to the guard.

  “Just a minute,” he said and stepped into the white guard hut to consult with someone on his radio. “Go on. Hurry up,” he said when he returned.

  “Thank you,” Annie gushed.

  I nodded as we passed.

  The Rose Garden, located adjacent to the West Wing and steps from the Oval Office, often played host to ceremonies and important press announcements. With the Oval Office as the backdrop and flanked on both sides by flowerbeds of roses in full bloom along with colorful foxglove, fragrant hedges of thyme, boxwood borders, crab apples, little-leaf lindens, and saucer magnolias for height, it made for a stunning setting.

  The steps leading up to the West Wing doubled as a podium and raised platform large enough for the President, House majority and minority leaders, and Senate majority and minority leaders to announce their success in the budget negotiations.

  Soon, the neat rows of chairs in the garden’s broad center lawn would be filled with reporters searching for kinks in the plan and dramatic angles to take when writing the story.

  With Annie’s assistance, I maneuvered the handcart across the garden’s lawn to the now gleaming spot where the other urn had once sat.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be at the First Lady’s tea?” Jack hurried across the lawn. Even after everything he’d done for me, the sight of him in his full dress uniform made me nervous and excited and…happy.

  “I’m heading that way. Just doing a little fix-up in the garden here.”

  Without prompting he slung his rifle over his shoulder and lifted the urn from the handcart. “You shouldn’t be lifting anything heavier than a pencil. Where do you want this?”

  I showed him.

  After setting the urn down, he brushed off his hands and smiled at me.

  “Just fixing up the garden? Not snooping?” he asked.

  “Me? Snoop? I won’t dignify that with an answer.” I found his smile infectious.

  For the last four days, Jack had been traveling with the President as he drummed up support for the budget deal across the country. Even though Jack had called every chance he got, I’d missed him.

  After the great shelf topple, Jack had stuck close to me night and day for two days, going as far as to take personal leave from work so he could manage it. He’d been worried that whoever had pushed the shelves over would come after me again. That single-minded concern for my safety had ended after he and Manny had talked at length.

  The security cameras didn’t focus on the gardening shed’s door, so while
they couldn’t reveal directly who came and left from the shed, they could show who went up the path that led to it. From the videos, the men determined that no one had traversed the path until Francesca and Bruce came looking for me.

  Both Manny and Jack had started to suspect I’d done something to knock the shelving over. By accident, of course.

  Gillis, for reasons still unknown, was the villain in this mystery. Or so everyone was telling me even though the DA still hadn’t pressed murder charges.

  I wanted to stay irritated at Jack for following Manny’s line of thinking instead of mine, but his steady smile melted my resolve.

  “I suppose y’all are setting up for the press conference,” I said.

  “We are.” He leaned forward and whispered, “And you’re not supposed to be here.”

  “I’m leaving. I’m leaving.”

  The West Wing intern could take care of Annie. She was wandering around, surveying the garden and the other urns. I hoped she’d watch where she was walking this time.

  I had to get cleaned up, change into my dress, and hurry to the tea. Aunt Willow would be proud. I was going to be fashionably late to a White House event.

  On leaving the garden, I stopped at the podium to wish Frank luck.

  “It’s all planned,” he said. His entire body seemed to sag. “I’ll be handing out my statement right after the press conference.”

  I patted his shoulder. “You have my support.”

  “Frank Lispon!” Francesca burst from the West Wing with a red-faced Bruce following closely behind.

  “Fran, I’m warning you. Don’t do this,” Bruce’s gruff voice caused everyone in the garden to turn their heads.

  Francesca made a beeline for Frank. She gripped her hands in front of her bosom. “You have no right,” she whispered.

  “No right?” Frank pulled back. “What are you talking about?”

  “Bruce told me that you’re planning on handing out a statement after the President’s press conference, a statement that makes public the scandal Parker was threatening to uncover.”

  As she said the last part the color drained from her pink cheeks.