Flowerbed of State

by Dorothy St. James

  “That’s not true.” I wasn’t that nosy. I’m sure lots of stuff happened that I knew nothing about. Take for instance the trouble with the protestors. The Secret Service had acted truly worried about them. But did they tell me why? No. They’d stayed stubbornly close-mouthed about the whole affair.

  I could have used that argument to make the case that I wasn’t a busybody. I didn’t need to stick my nose into everyone’s business. But I had no intention of arguing with a graduate from Yale Law School, especially not one who’d graduated at the top of her class.

  Alyssa followed me into the living room with a tiny serving of the salad on her plate, proving how much she really didn’t like the dish. She rarely skimped on meals.

  On the occasions when we were both home for dinner, like tonight, we liked to eat our meals while vegging out in front of the TV.

  I went straight for the TV’s remote. Alyssa moved a bit faster. She snatched it up and then settled on the sofa next to me. Sending me a sly glance, she set her plate of food on the coffee table in front of us and tucked the remote control under her hip—and here I’d been looking forward to catching up on my favorite game shows. I huffed.

  She snorted and turned toward me. Her wide, goofy smile did the talking for her. You know you’re going to tell me everything, so get on with it.

  I shoveled a forkful of gado-gado into my mouth. She couldn’t twist information out of me if I kept my mouth full.

  It wasn’t as if I wanted to keep secrets from my own roommate. Senator Finnegan regularly trusted Alyssa with all sorts of sensitive information, information she sometimes hinted at, but never talked about. I knew I could trust her, too.

  I also knew she’d pester me until the cows came home, fully expecting me to spill my guts.

  My stomach clenched at the thought of rehashing the events of this morning. I’d much rather spend my time working a fresh bed of warm fertile soil, letting the rhythm of the work soothe me as I helped life spring forth from a tiny seed.

  Perhaps then I wouldn’t see death when I closed my eyes, and I’d stop hearing that scream the killer must have silenced in Pauline Bonde’s throat.

  Suddenly my favorite blend of fresh vegetables soaked in my favorite spicy peanut sauce lost its appeal. I set the plate on the coffee table next to Alyssa’s. She still had that goofy grin of hers trained on me. And damn, I don’t know why, but it was persuasive. I decided to throw her a juicy tidbit to tide her over until I was ready to talk about the rest.

  “I met Tempting Templeton today,” I said, and raised my brows expectantly.

  Alyssa didn’t disappoint. “You didn’t!” She leapt to her feet. “Is he as hot in person as he is in pictures? How did he look? More importantly, how did you look?”

  This was the same Alyssa who wore only designer clothes and believed that venturing outside without makeup was as obscene as running through the streets naked.

  Just this morning she’d fervently protested my decision to walk to work in the drizzle wearing a top-of-the-line Ann Taylor suit. Not to mention the damage I’d inflicted on her eyes when I’d pulled my yellow slicker over the brand-new suit to protect it from the wet, freezing weather.

  I’d committed such a vile fashion sin that the usually dignified Alyssa had actually blocked the front door until I threatened to walk to work without the rain slicker and let my suit get soggy.

  “Well?” she asked. She’d adopted a very lawyerly stance with her hands clasped behind her back. She bounced lightly on her heels. “Tell me everything that happened, beginning with how you looked.”

  When I didn’t answer her question right away, she rolled her eyes heavenward and sighed loudly. “Don’t tell me you met him after you ended up battered and bruised.”

  “I did,” I admitted.

  Her gaze narrowed. “And what else?”

  “I was caked in mud”—my voice dropped to a dramatic whisper—“from head to toe.”

  “Not in your brand-new Ann Taylor!”

  I nodded.

  She weaved as if on the verge of collapse. Alyssa knew how to put on a good act. With one hand pressed to her forehead, she cried, “You’re killing me, Casey. Didn’t I warn you that you shouldn’t venture out in the wilderness while wearing new clothes? You should have taken a cab to work.”

  I laughed. “The D.C. streets are hardly the wilderness. And that’s not where it happened.”

  Thanks to her overblown dramatics, the events of the day poured out of me. I told her everything, including my unfortunate assault on Special Agent Jack Turner.

  “He sounds hunky,” Alyssa said. “You should ask him out.”

  “I don’t think he’d be interested.”

  “Why not?”

  “Pepper spray. Remember? In his face? He didn’t exactly think it was cute.”

  “That’s nothing,” Alyssa scoffed. “Most men I know would consider a little pepper spray a kind of kinky foreplay.”

  “Really? Remind me not to let you arrange any blind dates for me.”

  “You’re missing out. I know some really interesting guys who would—”

  “No,” I said. “No. No. No.”

  “Okay. Let’s talk about something else, like why anyone would attack you so close to the White House. Either he’s really stupid or that gutsy.”

  “The Secret Service seems to think that he’s plotting to attack the President and that he murdered Pauline to get something. Perhaps a White House employee’s security credentials?”

  “That doesn’t make sense. It’s not like he could use them to get into the White House, right?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so,” I said.

  “Besides, there are still guards to get past. And why not steal a security pass instead of killing someone so visibly and violently?”

  “That’s true.”

  “I don’t think the Secret Service is being frank with you. There has to be a better explanation,” Alyssa said, tapping her chin.

  “I agree.” All of this seemed to point back to that curious something that none of the agents were willing to talk about.

  “I bet what happened today doesn’t have anything to do with some sinister plot to assassinate the President. You know I recently read an article that said almost ninety percent of all murders are triggered by personal motives. Spurned and angry lovers topped the list.”

  “Really?” I wasn’t sure it was true. Alyssa liked to spout “official statistics,” even if she had to make them up. “Then why was I attacked? I’m not even dating anyone.”

  “I was just thinking the same thing.” Alyssa wagged her finger in the air. “But you are a witness.”

  “Of sorts. I don’t really remember having seen anything. He knocked me on the side of my head pretty hard.” I rubbed my sore temple. “The Secret Service has asked me not to talk to anyone about what I do know. They want to keep a tight lid on the investigation.”

  “Good.” Alyssa flopped back down on the sofa next to me. The cushions jumped. “If the press finds out you exist, we’ll become prisoners in this apartment. News trucks will camp out on the street, reporters will call in the middle of the night in search of unguarded statements, and photographers will take unflattering pictures of us.” She shuddered. “There should be a law against unauthorized photographs. I’ll have to talk to Finny about that.”

  As if expecting a member of the paparazzi to pop through the window, she reached for her handbag, pulled out a small makeup case, and quickly reapplied her lipstick.

  “So only your coworkers, the investigators, and the Secret Service know you’re a witness?”

  “I did call my family this afternoon. You know how they worry about me. But I didn’t tell them about being a witness or finding the body, just that I’d been in the park around that time and that I was okay. I think Aunt Willow might have suspected I was holding back on them, but she didn’t press me for more details.”

  “And that’s it? No one else knows?” Alyssa thought
fully tapped her chin again.

  “No, there is someone else.” I suddenly wondered whether the front door was locked. “The killer would know.”

  Chapter Six

  THAT night I’d hoped to dream of Tempting Templeton. I wanted to hear his liquid smooth voice, to see his rakish smile, to pretend he’d turn a blind eye to the supermodels of the world and take notice of a plain Jane like me.

  Heck, I’d have even welcomed a dream featuring that grumpy Jack Turner. Not as polished as Tempting Templeton, but Turner possessed the kind of rugged good looks that made me think of the mighty-fine models that regularly climbed their way through the pages of outback adventurer magazines.

  Thinking about Turner that way made my heart race . . . just a bit.

  Unfortunately I’d never had much luck controlling who showed up in my nighttime world. As I slept that night, no handsome men appeared, brandishing swords in valiant efforts to protect their fair maiden—namely, me. Instead, a faceless figure lurked in the shadows of downtown D.C. wearing a pair of black-and-white leather shoes with a lightning bolt blazed down the side.

  The latest fashion for the guilty?

  I realized almost immediately I was dreaming, since all of the buildings appeared to be listing slightly to the left, as if they were slowly melting ice cream cones. It was a mental cue I’d learned shortly after Grandmother Faye took me into her home and the nighttime monsters started to come calling.

  In the dream, the bustling D.C. streets bristled with danger. The swell of pride from being part of something bigger than myself had been pushed aside by a dark presence that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

  I felt like a bug caught in ajar, unable to breathe.

  “Nerves. Nothing more than overactive nerves,” my dream-self whispered. Even so, I hugged my arms to my chest and picked up my pace. Where I was headed, I didn’t know.

  I frantically searched the faces of the people passing by. Would my memories kick in if I saw the killer’s face? For all I knew, he could be walking beside me right now.

  I hugged my chest a little tighter and pretended I didn’t notice the threatening scrape of shoes against the pavement. It had grown louder. And closer. Someone was creeping up behind me.

  I started to run.

  I ran.

  And ran.

  Suddenly, I was back at the White House. I charged screaming for help down the hallway toward my office in the shadowy basement.

  No one came to help me.

  The muffled thump of the hard leather soles against the hard floor grew closer. Steady. Unerring. There was no escaping those black-and-white shoes . . . or the man wearing them.

  He’d stolen my security pass, my identity, had nearly taken my life.

  I wasn’t safe. Nowhere was safe.

  Not even the White House.

  He grabbed me from behind. His fingers closed around my throat. I struggled helpless against his strong grip.

  His fingers tightened.

  Tighter. I couldn’t breathe.

  With a yelp, I jolted up in the bed. Gasping for air and so tangled in my blankets, I could barely move. My bruised temple throbbed with a devil’s vengeance.

  Thump. Thump. Thump.

  What the devil? I shouldn’t still be able to hear the footsteps from my dream. I pinched myself.

  “Ouch!”

  Thump. Thump. Thump.

  It was coming from downstairs.

  I unwound myself from the tangle of warm bedding and padded out into the hallway. My nervous heart crept up to my throat. The thumping sounded louder out here on the upstairs landing. Nearly as loud as the pounding in my chest.

  I braced myself with a hand on the stairway newel post’s large ball, timeworn and smooth, and listened.

  Why would someone be pounding on the door at this time of night?

  “Alyssa?” I called out. “Are you expecting anyone?”

  Nothing.

  My roommate could sleep through a nuclear war.

  I rushed back into the bedroom and pulled on a pink satin robe decorated with delicate floral swirls that matched my pajamas. My hands shook as I tied the sash. My bare feet trembled on each tread of the stairs. The man who’d attacked me had stolen my security pass. He knew who I was. He knew where I lived. Every muscle in my body begged me to go back, go back up to my bedroom and hide under my covers. Which was silly. I needed to calm down. Killers didn’t knock on front doors.

  Breathe in: one, two.

  Not even in the middle of the night.

  The ornately carved front door loomed in front of me. Geometric patterns of crystal blues and sea foam greens splashed across the hardwood floor from the porch light shining through the door’s art deco stained glass sidelights.

  Breathe out: one, two.

  The bright porch light would discourage any would-be killers lurking in the shadows of the street. Even so, by the time I’d reached the bottom of the stairs, my insides quivered like a big old bowl of muscadine jelly despite the deep-breathing exercises and pep talk.

  A large shadow moved in front of the sidelight.

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  I yelped.

  And then I cursed myself for acting like a frightened mouse.

  With a quick pull, I tore aside the heavy drape that covered the window in the top half of the door.

  “Lorenzo?”

  I quickly unlocked the door and threw it open.

  “Lorenzo, what are you doing out there?”

  He looked terrible. Worse than terrible. Dark bags sagged underneath his bloodshot eyes. His once freshly pressed suit looked as if it’d spent at least a week crumpled up into a tight ball on a floor somewhere. His tie was gone, his shirt untucked. Mud and grass stained his knees. The pocket of his coat had been ripped.

  I knew he was my age, a youthful not-quite-forty. But seeing him slumping against the doorframe with his shoulders hunched against the world, I would have added at least ten years to that number. Under the bright porch light, his sharp Italian features appeared to be even more deeply etched.

  I grabbed his arm and pulled him inside, closing and locking the door behind me.

  “Lorenzo? Are you okay? What happened to you today? Where did you go?” I demanded.

  He shook his head.

  “Where did you go?” The sharpness of my voice surprised me. It must have surprised Lorenzo as well. His gaze snapped up from the spots of color from the stained glassed window on my hardwood floors that had captured his attention. His eyes met mine.

  “I climbed a tree.”

  “A tree? You’re joking.” I shook my head. I could not—and believe me, my imagination lacked for nothing—but I couldn’t picture Lorenzo perched up in a tree. Not under any circumstances. Not ever.

  “What kind of tree?”

  “A cherry tree near the Tidal Basin. An ‘Okame,’ I believe.”

  “That’s illegal, not to mention how damaging climbing can be to those trees. Some of them are nearly a hundred years old.”

  Lorenzo shrugged. “I needed to think. It seemed like a good place.”

  We stared at each other for several minutes.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked finally.

  “I had to come.” His eyes grew wide and more than a little wild. He took a step toward me.

  I took a step back.

  “You’ve got to tell me,” he rasped. He took several more steps toward me.

  I retreated until my back hit the foyer wall.

  “What—what do I need to tell you?” I asked, desperate to sound calm. But failing miserably. My voice sounded breathless and weak. I hated that. I hated that I’d let myself get so frightened.

  This was Lorenzo, for Pete’s sake, soft-spoken, pesticide and fertilizer-misguided Lorenzo. While he often sprayed indiscriminately for insects, beneficial or not, he wouldn’t hurt me, a fellow gardener.

  “I’ll help you as long as you tell me what you need.”

  “That FBI agen
t said you were their only witness. You have to tell me. What exactly did you see?”

  “What did I see? I—I’m not supposed to—”

  “Dammit, Casey!” He slammed his fist against the wall beside my head with enough force the plaster cracked. “I’m not playing around here.”

  Good God, he’d lost his mind! I squeezed my eyes shut. Wincing, I turned my head away and braced myself, half expecting him to hit me.

  “Look at me!” he shouted.

  I looked. He must have seen the fear spiking through my body with such force that I was nearly doubling over from the pain of it. He cursed and stumbled backward as if he’d lost his balance.

  “Dammit.” He tunneled his fingers through his short dark brown hair. “I’m sorry, Casey. I don’t mean to scare you.” His head dropped to his chest. “You don’t understand.”

  I had to lean forward to hear what he whispered next.

  “The woman you found, Pauline. She was my lover.”

  Chapter Seven

  WELL, shut my mouth, that explained why Lorenzo had run off in such a state this morning. I dragged us both into the kitchen, scooped my favorite shade-grown Costa Rican ground coffee beans into Alyssa’s French press, and started to heat a kettle of water while Lorenzo paced.

  “She drove me crazy, Casey. When I was with her, I felt on top of the world one moment and as if I was losing my mind the next.” He stopped at the refrigerator and, making himself right at home, opened the door and peered inside. Finding nothing of interest in there, he turned around and shuffled back toward the pantry.

  “Are you looking for something?” I asked him.

  “No.” He seemed nervous, like he didn’t know what to do with himself. “It’s just that . . . I don’t know. My world revolved around Pauline. She was everything to me. We’d been dating for nearly a year. I was going to ask her to marry me. What am I going to do now?”

  “Why don’t you sit down, Lorenzo?” His pacing was starting to make me dizzy. I breathed in the coffee’s rich scents. It was like inhaling a thick dose of caffeine. “Tell me about Pauline.”