“I’ll make damn sure she does,” Lorenzo added.
Chapter Three
I’ve liked lots of people ’til I went on a picnic jaunt with them.
—BESS TRUMAN, FIRST LADY OF THE UNITED STATES (1945–1953)
FEELING lower than a snake’s belly, I vowed to myself I’d protect Gordon at all costs. He was not going to take the blame for my mistake.
If not for that darn missing schematic, I would have chosen a better location for the commemorative trees. The irrigation line wouldn’t have broken. The envoy from Turbekistan wouldn’t have canceled his meeting with the President. And Gordon wouldn’t have looked so disappointed in me.
After a solid hour of sorting, filing, and tossing, the towers of mismatched paperwork on my desk were gone. Not only that, the stack of phone messages had also been handled. And as I’d suspected, there was still no sign of the missing schematic.
I called Special Agent Janie Partners to inform her that I’d cleaned my desk and the area around it. The plans weren’t there.
She told me to keep looking.
“Wait,” I said before she could hang up. “Has the Turbekistan envoy rescheduled his meeting with the President?”
There was a long pause before she said, “He hasn’t.”
Which meant Gordon’s neck was still on the chopping block.
“Casey, are you willing to take some advice?” she asked.
“Of course. Always.”
“I like you,” she said. “And I don’t want to see you get into more trouble. So please don’t ask about Turbekistan again.”
“Why?” I asked.
But she’d hung up.
Since the phone receiver was still in my hand, I dialed Jack’s number.
As I waited for him to pick up, I practiced in my head what I would say. I’d be causal. I’d not say anything about the date he’d almost made, but canceled just this morning. Instead, I’d explain what happened with the schematic. Perhaps ask him if he could talk with Steve and Janie and convince them that I wasn’t a nut. Someone had to have taken it.
I’d tell Jack about the threatening text message, too.
Jack’s cell phone flipped over to voice mail. I sighed. He was rarely able to take personal calls when on duty. I shouldn’t have expected him to break the rules and take my call. But still, I was disappointed.
“Hi, Jack. It’s Casey,” I said after the beep. “I, um, I just wanted to talk through a few things and, you know, have you use some of your sidekick superpowers to help me put together the pieces of a puzzle in the grounds office.”
I smiled to myself as I disconnected the call. Jack—a take-the-lead kind of guy—hated it when I called him my sidekick.
My gaze shifted to the to-do list sitting on the corner of my newly organized desk. As always, there were pages of tasks. Most would take me out into the gardens. And since I did my best thinking in the garden, I grabbed my wide-brim sweetgrass hat and gardening gloves. I dropped my clippers into the leather holster attached to my belt and headed outside to the gardens.
As I passed through the wide, arching hallways on the White House’s ground floor, I noticed (not for the first time) how the arrival of tiny, twin baby boys had lightened the atmosphere. Despite the morning’s fiasco, the butlers and maids had an extra spring in their step. I even heard the very proper chief usher making silly goo-goo noises.
Everyone moved with a new, happy purpose. We all wanted to make life as easy for the First Lady and her tiny new babies as we possibly could so they would grow strong and healthy.
I was doing my part by promoting organic, commonsense practices in the gardens. Much of my work was very similar to what happened in home gardens all across the country. The White House was, after all, a family household.
In the visitors’ foyer near the East Wing, I pushed open the glass door that led out into the Jacqueline Kennedy Garden and hurried through. The geometrically planted garden was neatly tucked in a niche between the White House and the East Wing. In the past hour, more clouds had rolled in. The fall breeze stung my cheeks with its cool, damp slap.
I shivered as I surveyed the showy mix of deep orange chrysanthemums and flowering kale that needed to be tended and trimmed. Soon, we’d be pulling out all the annuals in these beds in preparation of the winter season. But until that happened, it was my responsibility to keep the fading plants looking as lush as possible.
I crouched down at the corner of the garden closest to the East Wing’s entrance and started snipping off one spent chrysanthemum bloom after another. I dropped them into neat piles on the brick garden path.
I’d worked my way around one of the garden’s many lollipop-shaped holly topiaries and had moved to the next one when the door leading out to the garden swung open.
I raised the brim of my hat to find the White House curator adjusting her thick glasses. She looked stouter, more wrinkled, as she stood there glaring down at me.
“Can I help you?” I asked, making no effort to hide my impatience with her.
“Tell your supervisor I’ve canceled the meeting with Ambrose,” Frida Collingsworth said.
“You have? Does that mean you found your missing research?”
“I . . . I may have. And while you’re at it, you can tell Gordon that my new assistant”—she turned to the handsome Arabic man who was hurrying to catch up with her—“Nadeem Barr, will be the liaison between my office and yours. I want nothing to do with any of you.”
With a sigh, I rose from my crouched position beside a perfectly rounded chrysanthemum. Nadeem, her assistant, reached out a hand to help me. “Thanks,” I said.
His cheeks darkened as he fought a smile. “I . . . um . . . It’s nothing.”
Nadeem was taller than my five feet six and looked considerably older than the last twenty-something assistant who had worked for Frida. Actually, he looked older than me, which wasn’t very old at all. I wasn’t forty. Not yet. I had a few months to go before my birthday. So on second thought, he didn’t look that old at all.
And he was handsome, too, with dark brows that cloaked his deep chocolate eyes, and broad shoulders. He would make a convincing exotic prince, the kind who lounged with a beautiful woman on the cover of a romance novel. Not that I noticed things like broad shoulders or dark expressive gazes anymore. I only had eyes for Jack.
“It’s good to meet you.” I pulled off my gloves and wiped my hand on my pants before shaking his hand. “I’m sure we’ll get along just fine. And forgive me, but Frida, you need to get that bee out of your bonnet. I don’t know why you’d think Gordon would take anything from your office in the first place. And what were you saying earlier about a treasure?”
“Treasure?” She flashed a nervous glance at Nadeem and then back at me. “I—I—I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she sputtered. “Come along, Nadeem. I’ll warn you now that the grounds office is famous for poking their noses where they don’t belong.”
I gritted my teeth and pulled my gardening gloves on again.
“It—It was, um, nice meeting you.” Nadeem’s voice was soft, halting, as if he carefully considered each word. “If, um, you know, if there’s anything I can do to help—”
“Come along, Nadeem.” Frida nearly ripped her shy assistant’s arm out of his socket as she pulled him away from me. “There’s no helping the grounds office. And don’t get too used to any of them. I have a feeling there’s going to be some major personnel changes coming down the pipeline soon.”
Frida walked straight through my neat pile of dead flowers, scattering them.
“I, um, look forward to getting to know you better, Casey,” Nadeem called as he let himself be dragged away.
I crouched down and swept the spent flowers back into their tidy piles before returning to work on the plants. As I snipped, I wondered about Frida’s prediction that the grounds office was about to have personnel changes. She was obviously talking about Gordon.
And Gordon had said Frida was
trying to ruin him.
But why?
And if she was trying to ruin Gordon’s reputation, I couldn’t help wondering if she would go as far as to sneak into our office to steal the South Lawn schematic.
It seemed like a stretch. I was still trying to piece together a plausible theory for what could have happened to the schematic when two ladies, both staffers from the East Wing, headed my way.
“Ever since she’s come home with those babies, the First Lady has been unreasonable when it comes to her schedule,” the older of the two ladies complained to her companion as they passed by on the garden path as if I were invisible.
“It’s only been a little more than a month,” her companion pointed out. “And the babies were born premature. Give it time. I’m sure things will improve.”
I glanced up and watched the staffer, who I recognized as the First Lady’s Chief of Staff, make an ugly face. That was interesting. This was the first I’d heard of unhappiness with the babies. Most of the East Wing staffers I’d spoken with were ecstatic with all the positive press the two bundles of joy were bringing to the White House.
“Things had better improve.” The First Lady’s Chief of Staff bit off the words as she yanked open the door to the East Wing. “I can’t keep canceling events, especially those heavily attended by campaign donors. And Bradley needs help with that crazy Mr. Aziz. We need Margaret to play host.”
“Who is Mr. Aziz anyhow? Is he a donor?”
“Oh, no. He’s an envoy from some Eastern Bloc country. It’s all hush-hush about why he’s here. But from the briefing I was given, I got the distinct impression the President needs this visit to be a success or else we can forget about four more years of job security.”
“But do you really think—”
The glass door closed behind them as they entered the enclosed breezeway that connected the East Wing with the main residence.
Not a moment later the same door the staffers had just passed through flew open. Lettie Shaw, the First Lady’s sister, charged into the garden and hurried down the bricked garden path. Dressed in a smart pair of black pants and a black sweater, Lettie looked like an older, slightly chunkier copy of her famous younger sister. There was a bit of gray in her brown hair she kept slightly longer than Margaret’s trademark pageboy cut.
She stopped a few feet away from me and, after adjusting the pea green raincoat she had draped over her arm, retrieved her buzzing cell phone from her pocket. A wide smile lit up her elegant features as she read the phone’s caller ID. “Finally,” she breathed.
I felt rather like Miss Marple hunched in the planting bed with my straw hat shading my face, quietly observing without anyone caring to notice.
Lettie answered the call with a brisk, “Hello.” She then appeared to hold her breath as the person on the other line spoke.
The blush of pleasure drained from her cheeks as she listened. “Surely there is something I can do?”
Her smile completely faded away. “I’ve already lost my house and my car. I’m desperate. There has to be some way—”
After listening to whoever was on the other end of the call, she exploded with a violent burst of emotion. “No!” she shouted. “No, I can’t ask her for help. She would never—” There was another long pause as she listened. “I see. Yes, yes. I know. I’ll . . . I’ll just have to . . . Yes, there is another way. Oh, I hate to do it, but . . . No, I can’t talk about it now. Good-bye.”
She glanced nervously around—her gaze floating over me as if I were invisible—before rushing down toward the South Lawn.
I raised my brow at that and made a note to work in this garden around lunchtime more often.
My hands barely had time to find a smooth rhythm again when Marcel Beauchamp, the well-respected interior designer who was busy redecorating the First Family’s living quarters to accommodate the twins, lumbered out of the South Lawn and up the path toward the East Wing. Although he stood at least a foot taller than me, he had a wide barrel chest that swayed and heavy jowls that jiggled with each step. He passed by just as a fat raindrop hit the ground next to me.
Everyone called him a brilliant artist, and I’m sure he was. Yet he’d taken more time than I thought necessary to design the upstairs living space for the First Family. But what did I know about the temperament of an artist?
Because the First Lady was a lover of the outdoors, Marcel often visited the gardens for inspiration. Perhaps he got inspiration by rolling in the grass. At least it appeared that way as he brushed at a stain on the knee of his khaki trousers before he hurried inside.
A few minutes later Frida’s assistant, Nadeem Barr, jogged up the bricked path from the South Lawn, his long legs covering quite a distance with each stride.
“Is everything okay?” I asked him.
He paused a moment. “Ms. Collinsworth, um, she sent me to get ready for our meeting with the garden historian from the National Arboretum. She was headed toward, you know, the Children’s Garden. She—she was grumbling to herself about thievery and treachery. Is it always like this?”
“No, of course not,” I answered, probably too quickly. In the short time I’d worked at the White House, there hadn’t been a dull day. “Well,” I amended, “we don’t usually argue with each other so much, but I’ve noticed that one should expect the unexpected around here.”
“Given your past experience, you should be well used to that.”
My past? I drew back as if he’d struck me. “What do you mean by that?”
What did he know?
My past had been something I kept hidden from public view. And I certainly didn’t appreciate hearing a near-stranger remark about a past that had torn my family to shreds and had nearly killed me.
“I—I just meant . . . um . . . in your line of work. Gardeners can’t control Mother Nature and all.” He held up his hands to the coming rain and flashed that disarming smile of his again. He did have a nice smile.
And he’d done a nice job of backtracking, but if he’d simply been talking about gardening, why did he say, Given your past . . . And why was he suddenly looking at me like that? Like I was a cracked porcelain figurine about to crumble at his feet?
What did he really know about my past? Who would have told him? Naturally, the Secret Service knew all about the tragedy, but they were professionals at keeping secrets. At least one member of the press knew about my family’s history, but she’d promised not to report on it.
My heart started to beat an uneven tattoo. I usually did a good job of keeping my past locked up, but on stressful days like today, it sometimes exploded in a blinding burst of emotions.
I had to fight to catch my breath if I was to have any hope of keeping the budding panic attack from hitting me with full force.
Breathe slowly.
In.
Out.
“Are . . . are you okay, Casey?” Nadeem lowered his voice and leaned in so close I could smell his sandalwood-scented aftershave. He lifted my hand into his.
I nodded as I concentrated on making sure a slow, steady stream of air filled my lungs. “I just need to breathe,” I wheezed.
Focus on something safe. Like how there was an expertly trained Secret Service agent stationed in a tiny white hut at the edge of this garden.
“Nadeem.” It was a struggle to catch my breath. If I could find out more about him, I might be able to calm the fear pulsing through my body as if I’d swallowed a sparking live wire. “That’s an interesting name. Where are you from?”
“East Lansing,” he said without blinking.
“Michigan?” I’d expected Pakistan or Iran.
“Yeah, Michigan. I know. That’s not what anyone expects. My childhood . . . it wasn’t anything exotic or exciting,” he said with a shrug. “A simple, um, ranch house in the middle of the burbs.”
The burbs. A normal guy. “So you really were just talking about gardening?”
“What—What did you think I was talking about?”
&n
bsp; “Casey? Casey, there you are. You left a message you needed to talk with me?” Jack, my warrior in black, surged into the garden like an avenging angel.
He quickly zeroed in on Nadeem and how the new assistant was holding my hand. He moved in with the same efficiency the agents had used when rescuing President Bradley from the broken irrigation line and got my hand out of Nadeem’s grasp without even appearing he’d done it on purpose. But I knew better. Nearly every move Jack made was done with precision and forethought.
“Casey?” Jack’s dark brows furrowed with concern. “Is everything okay here?”
“I . . .” I took a couple of deep breaths and was able to find my mental footing again. “Mm-hm, I’m good.” I bit my lip to keep the anxiety out of my voice.
I briefly made introductions. The two men didn’t look pleased to meet one another.
“You’re new here,” Jack said to Nadeem.
“Yes. This, um, past spring I graduated from the University of Washington’s museology program.”
“You just graduated?” Jack rubbed his jaw thoughtfully.
“It’s, um, a second career.” Nadeem tried out his disarming smile on Jack. It had no effect.
“And your first career?” Jack pressed.
“I was a fact-checker.”
“A fact-checker?” Jack crossed his arms over his chest. “That’s not a career.”
“I, you know, worked for the federal government.” Nadeem’s smile never wavered. “I occasionally pushed papers around, too.”
Jack kept his mouth pressed in a grim line as his gaze stayed locked with Nadeem’s.
“My . . . my landlord”—Nadeem turned away from Jack—“told me that a young, beautiful gardener from the White House lived in the townhouse above me. And well, do you think he, um, meant you, Casey?”
We compared addresses while Jack’s tough-guy grimace turned into a very real snarl.
“I’m glad someone from the White House rented that place,” I said. “It’s been vacant for as long as I’ve lived there.”
“I’m glad I rented it, too. Well, um, I’d better go get ready for this afternoon’s meeting. I’m already running late. I look forward to working closely with you, Casey, and getting to know you better,” he said. “Special Agent Turner,” he added with a frosty nod.
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