Oak and Dagger

by Dorothy St. James

  “I’m not sure I do either, but someone seems to. I wish Manny hadn’t been so adamant about keeping his hands on the ‘evidence’ Lettie had given him. I’m not sure how quickly we can rebuild that file. We have to get this done before Friday.”

  “And it’s already Wednesday,” Lorenzo said with a sigh. “There is someone who might be able to help us out, someone who has been studying the history of the gardens with a single-minded focus.”

  “Not Nadeem. We can’t trust him. For all we know, he could be the killer.” The more I thought about it, the more I suspected he was up to something nefarious.

  Lorenzo shook his head with disbelief. “How can you suspect Nadeem? He’s afraid of his own shadow. I thought you were good at this, at solving mysteries. But you’re not, are you? How in the world did you crack those other murder cases?”

  “Luck?” I took a towel out of my bottom drawer and started to dry Milo’s paws. Enjoying the extra attention, the puppy thumped his tail loudly against the floor as he made happy grunting sounds.

  Lorenzo huffed and grabbed his windbreaker off the coat tree behind the door. “There is someone else we can talk to. Someone almost as knowledgeable as Frida was about the gardens.”

  “Who?”

  “Dr. Wadsin, the National Arboretum’s garden historian. Remember I worked with her the other day? She’s brilliant.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  If we mean to have heroes, statesmen and philosophers, we should have learned women.

  —ABIGAIL ADAMS, FIRST LADY OF THE UNITED STATES (1797–1801)

  DR. Joan Wadsin was waiting for us at the nineteen-sixties flat-roofed, modern-designed, concrete-and pebble-sided Visitor Center of the National Arboretum.

  Seeing her standing in front of the full-glass double automatic doors, I had to blink. Twice. No matter how many times I told myself that she wasn’t, my mind still insisted I was looking at my favorite fictional sleuth: Miss Marple.

  She was dressed in a demure flowered print dress that hung to her knees. Less than an inch of her slightly saggy pantyhose was visible because she was also wearing bright yellow rubber rain boots. Boots, I must add, that were already caked with thick mud. In contrast, fresh orange and white chrysanthemum blooms were tucked in the headband of her straw sun hat.

  “I hope you don’t mind if we walk and talk,” she said after Lorenzo and I had greeted her. “A visitor has reported that one of our Franklin trees has been damaged.”

  I gave a start when I noticed she was holding a pruning saw that was identical to the one that had killed Frida. Like Miss Marple, she missed nothing. She raised her brows and tucked the pruning saw under her arm so it was practically out of sight.

  “It must be a terrible strain on your nerves,” she said as we followed her down the roadway to a dark green garden cart filled with gardening tools—shovels and trowels among the mix. I grabbed the cart’s handle before she could and pulled it across a field toward one of the arboretum’s many experimental forests. Her rubber rain boots made a soft slapping sound as she trudged across the damp grass. “Such wicked happenings.”

  Lorenzo grunted in agreement, his jaw still tense from our argument about the First Lady and who was in charge in Gordon’s absence.

  “We can’t understand why it happened,” I said. “That’s why we’re here.”

  “We’re doing what the police refuse to do,” Lorenzo grumbled. He slid me a disgruntled look. “At least one of us is.”

  “I see,” Dr. Wadsin said.

  We passed a circle of twenty-two sandstone Corinthian columns. Those columns were the same ones that had once supported the east portico of the Capitol Building. In times gone by, those stately columns had stood as silent witnesses to presidential inaugurations from Jefferson to Eisenhower. Now they watched over a small pond in the National Arboretum’s experimental forests at the outskirts of the city.

  The storm’s passage had ushered in a damp winter wind that seemed to blow straight through me. Beyond the historic columns, a forest of orange and gold-tinged trees shimmered in the afternoon light.

  The four-hundred-plus-acre Arboretum served educational, scientific, and conservation roles. If I hadn’t been so worried about Gordon and how entangled he’d become in Frida’s murder investigation, I would have happily trudged through the muddy paths to see the new cultivars of trees and shrubs the Arboretum was developing. In several years, many of their experimental varieties would show up for sale in garden centers all across the country.

  I loved how the new and old mingled in these gardens with relative ease.

  If only the same could be said about the White House gardens or the two gardeners butting heads. Gordon would know how to smooth over the prickly feelings and come to an agreement. He had a talent for bringing calm to any discussion . . . except when it came to Frida.

  There had to be a history there.

  I looked straight ahead and watched the golden leaves dance in the wind. “I want to talk with you about Gordon and Frida. I understand you worked with both of them on several projects.”

  “Casey”—Lorenzo’s voice tightened with irritation—“this isn’t why we fought heavy traffic. It’s more important to ask her about the—”

  “There’s plenty of time to discuss whatever you both need to discuss,” Dr. Wadsin said with a kind smile. “There’s no rush here.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I’m glad we can talk out here where we don’t have to worry about being overheard . . . and misunderstood.”

  “Yes.” She nodded slowly. “No one could possibly sneak up on us out here in the middle of a field. I feel like a spy. Too bad I don’t have secret information to hand to you.”

  The keen intelligence and good humor sparkling in her eyes helped to settle my nerves. “How well did you know Frida?” I asked.

  “I’ve been garden historian for the Arboretum for the past twenty years. Frida was the one who had told me about the job opening. The fact that she lived in D.C. was the main reason I took the position. I was living in Manchester at the time and knew very few Yanks.”

  “Oh, I didn’t realize you were close to Frida.”

  “We were roommates at university. But don’t misunderstand me. I also consider Gordon a good friend. What the newspapers are saying cannot be true.” She frowned as she said it. “While I cherish both of their friendships, I do know that they had trouble working together. It wasn’t always that way. It wasn’t until . . .”

  “Until what? What happened?” I pressed.

  “Oh dear, dear me.” She struggled in her haste to step across a shallow puddle and ended up splashing at the edge of it. “Looks like kids have been trying to climb the poor thing.”

  She stood in front of a small tree. Its leaves were a brilliant, almost iridescent red. Large white flowers that reminded me of camellia blooms decorated the tree like Southern Christmas ornaments. Several branches had snapped on one side of the tree. “Do you know about the Franklin tree?” she asked as she began to saw off the closest damaged branch.

  “Not well,” I said, dismayed that she had left us hanging about Gordon and Frida’s relationship. “What happened between Frida and Gordon?”

  “The Franklin is related to the camellia,” Dr. Wadsin said.

  “That would explain the flowers,” I said.

  “It’s a bear to transplant,” Lorenzo said with a scowl.

  Dr. Wadsin chuckled at that. “It is a finicky devil. Thank you,” she said when Lorenzo took the pruning saw from her and took over the task of removing the damaged branches. “Did you know that the tree has an interesting history? It was discovered in the late seventeen hundreds by the botanist John Bartram. His friendship with Benjamin Franklin is how the tree got its name. Sadly, by 1803, the tree was extinct in the wild. The only reason the tree still exists at all is because of arboretums like this one.”

  “Is that so?” I said. “It’s like the arboretum is a zoo of sorts, keeping endangered species going until they
can be reintroduced into the wild.”

  “Exactly. Climate changes over time, habitats change. If the change is too rapid, trees and other plants won’t have time to migrate or adapt. Oh! Listen to me prattle on. I do beg your pardon.”

  I was about to ask her about Frida and Gordon again when she spotted a smilax vine snaking up a slightly larger specimen of the Franklin tree. “I really ought to take care of this.” She grabbed a shovel from the garden cart.

  “Please, let me help.” I took the shovel from her. With my foot on the shovel’s rim, I thrust it into the ground.

  The soil was soft from the day and a half of heavy rain. Even so, it was work getting down to the vine’s thick tubers and wiry roots that clung to the ground with what seemed like the tensile strength of steel.

  “You had started to tell us why Frida and Gordon were so angry with each other,” I prompted.

  She’d propped her hands on her hips as she watched me work. “It was years ago, but some people have long memories.”

  “What happened?” I asked as I reached down and plucked a fat tuber from the turned-up black soil. I gave it a toss. It landed in the garden cart with a thunk.

  “Deloris happened.” One gray brow rose. “She’s Gordon’s wife.”

  “Yes, we know,” Lorenzo said.

  “Of course you know Deloris. Lovely woman, isn’t she?”

  I told her what Manny had told me, which didn’t take long since he really hadn’t told me anything at all. “Why didn’t Frida and Deloris get along? Before Monday night, I didn’t realize the two women even knew each other.”

  “So, you don’t know? I would have thought the White House would have been awash with gossip about the horrid affair. Perhaps it is, and the staff is keeping the unpleasant discussion away from the two of you. I can only imagine how painful it must be to hear people think the worst about a friend.”

  “They are all lies,” Lorenzo said as he removed a second broken branch.

  “Not all of it. Did you know that Deloris used to be the White House curator? Frida was her assistant.”

  “Really?” Lorenzo said.

  “Deloris’s career was taking off. She was writing articles for several newspapers and magazines about the trea- sures in the White House. And then a priceless silver soup tureen and mahogany card table that dated back to James Madison’s administration both went missing. Guess who reported those important items were gone?”

  “Frida?” I guessed.

  Dr. Wadsin nodded slowly. “And guess who took the blame?”

  “Deloris?” I couldn’t believe Gordon’s wife could do anything wrong. “She didn’t steal anything, though?”

  “No, the missing items were eventually located, but that was months after Deloris had been dismissed under a cloud of guilt.”

  The image of a power-hungry assistant curator didn’t mesh with the thick-glasses-wearing woman who seemed to have a singular focus on her research. “Are you sure?”

  “Sure as rain.”

  “But that had to have been ages ago. Deloris has worked as a schoolteacher for the past fifteen years. Why would anyone think Gordon would act now?”

  Lorenzo supplied the answer. “Dolley Madison’s missing papers. Frida accused Gordon of theft in the same way she’d accused Deloris. What if she was trying to get him sacked?”

  “That might explain why Deloris hadn’t been surprised or upset when we’d told her someone had murdered Frida. But why would Frida fake another theft?” I asked. “Why now?”

  Dr. Wadsin shook her head. “I don’t know. She was happy in her position as curator. Plus she was at the top of her field. What did she think she’d gain from chasing Gordon from the White House?” She tapped her chin. “I’d like to see what was in the missing file.”

  “We found it,” I said. “Well, the First Lady’s sister found it . . . well, she found a copy of it. It was in Gordon’s office.”

  “Really?” Her eyes sparkled with sudden interest. “In his office, you say? As if he had, in fact, stolen the papers? That’s interesting. Now I really want to see that research.”

  “I’d love to show it to you, but the detective took it. ‘It’s evidence,’ he said when I asked for it back.” I did a fair imitation of Manny’s deep, authoritative voice. “Of course, the First Lady’s sister is now convinced Gordon killed Frida because they were both searching for a treasure that had been lost when the British burned the White House.”

  “A treasure?” Dr. Wadsin clapped her hands. “How intriguing!”

  “Finally,” Lorenzo said. He’d finished cleaning up the damaged Franklin tree. After he’d gathered the pruned branches and dropped them in the garden cart, he wiped his hands on a pressed cotton handkerchief he’d produced from his pocket. “We’ve wasted enough time talking about ancient history and rumors. Gordon didn’t kill anyone. And we’re going to prove it. At least I am. That’s why we’re here. I know it sounds crazy”—he nodded toward me as if he thought I was the root of all crazy—“but it looks as if the killer thinks there is a treasure, so that’s where we need to start looking for clues. The police won’t. To them, believing in hidden treasure is like believing in fairies.”

  “But what you do or do not believe doesn’t matter,” Dr. Wadsin was quick to say. “What matters is what the killer believes.”

  “Exactly,” Lorenzo said. “Even if there isn’t a treasure, we need to act as if there is one. We need to follow in the killer’s footsteps.”

  “Find the treasure, find the murderer.” Dr. Wadsin tapped her chin again. “It might work.”

  “But we don’t have Dolley Madison’s garden notes,” Lorenzo said. “Or the notes that Frida made, which Nadeem seems to think are even more valuable. That’s why we need your help.”

  “Have you heard anything about a lost treasure from the time period of the Madison administration?” I asked.

  “Hm . . .” She took the shovel from me and returned it to her garden cart. I wrapped the spiny vines that I’d dug out from around the Franklin tree into a loose ball and tucked them underneath the shovel to keep them from falling out. “Rumors of treasures hidden within the White House walls or on the grounds have popped up again and again over the years. Some think the Masons hid ancient secrets and perhaps a cache of gold within the foundation walls. But even if they had, Harry Truman’s administration would have found it when they started gutting the building in the 1948 renovation. Other rumors claim there’s money buried in the Rose Garden. For what purpose? That’s for the conspiracy theorists to decide, I suppose.”

  “But what about Dolley Madison’s notes?” Lorenzo pressed. “Before the detective took them, we read a letter she’d written talking about a treasure Thomas Jefferson had left at the White House. The treasure was apparently hidden by the gardener at the time when the British stormed D.C. Have you seen that letter? Do you know what she’s talking about?”

  “Curious,” Dr. Wadsin said. “While I’m not an expert on Dolley Madison, I’ve spent nearly half my life studying Thomas Jefferson’s notes and letters. His botany notes, you must know, are atrocious. He calls plants by several names, often by the wrong names. But he loved his plants nonetheless. Did you know that Jefferson even acted as a spy for agribusiness? He smuggled premium rice varieties out of Italy at the risk of death if caught. He wanted the rice to help plantation owners in South Carolina compete in the global marketplace. Oh dear, however have I managed to stray so far from my point? What was I saying?”

  “You were talking about Thomas Jefferson and if he left a treasure at the White House,” I prompted.

  “Right. I’ve never heard or read about anything like that. I doubt he would have had a reason to keep it secret.”

  “But what about the letter we read?” Lorenzo said.

  “I’m not saying that it’s not possible,” Dr. Wadsin said, “just that its existence hasn’t shown up in any of Jefferson’s documents.”

  “We’ve hit another dead end, then?” Lorenzo
scuffed the ground with his toe and then winced when he noticed his action had caused mud to splatter on his shiny leather shoe. “Casey, I told you this was a waste of time. There is no treasure or treasure hunter. It’s a love triangle. Frida got herself caught in bed with another woman’s husband . . . or maybe even another man’s wife.”

  “Frida? In a love triangle?” Dr. Wadsin chuckled softly. “Crikey, if it wasn’t old and valuable, she wasn’t interested.”

  “That value she sought was both monetary and power, isn’t that right?” I asked.

  “I’m afraid so. Frida had very few friends. Besides me, I can count on one hand the number of people who will truly grieve her passing.”

  “Nadeem Barr seemed fond of her,” I said in a weak attempt to comfort.

  She nodded sadly and changed the subject. “Besides losing Dolley Madison’s garden notes, how is the work on the White House garden history progressing?”

  “I’ve hit a wall with the founding fathers’ vegetable garden. I can’t find a vendor that carries the varieties of plants grown in the first kitchen gardens,” I said.

  “I was afraid that would happen,” she said. “Many of our historic vegetables didn’t survive the industrialization of the farms. There are far fewer varieties available today than there were at the turn of the century.”

  “But the First Lady is expecting it to be planted this spring. The press is expecting it, too. Tuesday morning she described what we were doing in great detail at one of her breakfasts in front of her entire press pool,” I said. “This afternoon I sent a list of plants to the horticulturists out at Monticello. They’ve been helpful with providing seeds for the kitchen garden. I’m hoping they can help track down some of these plants as well.”

  “I’ll talk with the Arboretum’s directors and see if there’s anything I can do on my end. Perhaps you can use alternative varieties.”

  The three of us started our trek back to the Visitor Center. Lorenzo insisted on pulling the garden cart. He hurried on ahead of us, grumbling about how he should have never let me butt my way into his investigation and his projects—as if I would force my way into anything he was doing.