Oak and Dagger

by Dorothy St. James

  “So you’ll believe me when I say that I was researching the lost treasure because I wanted to find the killer as badly as you did?” Nadeem asked. When neither Jack nor I answered right away, he quietly added, “Frida was my friend. Why wouldn’t I want to find the bastard who killed her?”

  “So if you’re working toward the same goal as us, what have you learned that we don’t already know?” Jack inquired.

  “I found something before Frida’s death. If you have a computer, I can pull up the copy I made.”

  “My laptop is in my office,” Jack said, “unless you smashed it. In that case, you’re buying me a new one.”

  We had to climb over the piles of laundry still in the hallway on our way back to his office.

  “What did my brothers say to you?” Jack couldn’t stop himself from asking as we entered his office.

  “Dan tried to get me into your bedroom,” I said, which caused his dark brows to disappear into his hairline. “You know, you could pick up after your brothers.”

  “I used to, but I was curious to see how long it would take before they started cleaning up after themselves.”

  “I wouldn’t have done that,” Nadeem said as he stepped over the spilled paperwork in Jack’s office. “This isn’t a healthy living environment.”

  “I didn’t ask for your opinion,” Jack snapped. He pushed Nadeem out of his way and powered up his laptop computer.

  Nadeem righted the office chair and set it at the desk in front of the laptop. Once the computer was up and running, he sat down and navigated through several secure networks with the ease of a hacker. “Here it is.”

  He offered me his place at the desk chair so I could see what he’d found without having to crane my neck over his shoulder. An image of a crinkled newspaper article that was very similar to the one I’d been carrying in my pocket flashed onto the screen. Instead of a tragic tale of murder and loss, the article detailed how the treasure hunter, Cowboy Baker, found the sunken HMS Fantome and how he had been fighting the English government for the right to the treasure he planned to bring up from the ship’s watery grave.

  In the margin had been scribbled, “Jefferson. It exists! It’s still here. It never left the grounds.”

  “Still here?” I looked up to find Nadeem watching me closely. “You mean Thomas Jefferson’s missing treasure? Frida thought it was still hidden somewhere on the grounds?”

  Nadeem grinned like a kid at Christmas. His eyes sparkled with excitement. “That’s Frida’s handwriting. I told you her notes were more valuable than the documents. I believe she’d been on the verge of finding Thomas Jefferson’s lost treasure. That was why she was being so cautious with her research. She wanted to make sure she got all the credit for the discovery. I have a feeling that there’s something in Frida’s missing files, something that isn’t in Gordon’s copy, something Frida added that was helping lead her to the missing treasure. It must also be the same something that got her killed.”

  “If Frida knew where the treasure was hidden,” I said, “then why haven’t we seen evidence she was searching for it? And why hasn’t her killer been actively looking for it, too? Why the wait?”

  It seemed as if only Milo—the overgrown puppy with a sudden obsession for digging up the South Lawn—was searching for the treasure.

  And then it hit me.

  Oh, Milo . . .

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Well, Warren Harding, I have got you the presidency. What are you going to do with it?

  —FLORENCE HARDING, FIRST LADY OF THE UNITED STATES (1921–1923)

  DIE. The text message from Jack’s jealous ex-girlfriend glared up from my cell phone’s readout early the next morning. I deleted it and stuffed the phone back into my pocket. I didn’t have time to play her childish games.

  Still, the threatening message did give me pause. I stopped my work in the kitchen garden long enough to scan the empty Ellipse Park beyond the White House’s iron fence. Was Simone out there somewhere watching me?

  Was my father?

  No, don’t think about either of them. I couldn’t let myself be distracted by what my father was doing in the area. Or why Jack hadn’t called off Simone yet.

  We had one day to clear Gordon’s name before the DA accused him of killing Frida. Which meant we had one day to find Jefferson’s lost treasure in an effort to force the killer’s hand.

  On top of that, the garden projects couldn’t be ignored.

  I didn’t have time to fall apart just because my father, a father I hadn’t seen in decades, decided to pop up at this inopportune time of my life.

  If not for Nadeem, I wouldn’t be worrying about dear old dad. But if not for Nadeem and yesterday’s late-night confrontation, I wouldn’t have figured some things out. Thanks to him, I now had plan.

  As long as I stayed focused.

  “I’m going to turn her in,” Lorenzo announced out of the blue. I didn’t even know he’d come down to the kitchen garden.

  “Turn who in?” I asked from where I was crouched down next to a raised bed filled with broccoli plants.

  “Lettie, that’s who,” Lorenzo said.

  “For what?” I grabbed the base of the closest broccoli plant. The plant had grown so big during the fall months that it now resembled a small tree. But the season was coming to an end, and the plant’s leaves already had large yellow splotches. With a quick twist, I tugged the broccoli from its bed.

  After giving it a good shake to dislodge the dark, nutrient-rich soil from its thick roots, I inhaled the rich scent of earth and tossed the plant into the pile of other plants that were coming out of the garden.

  Milo woofed and chased after the plant. He picked it up, gave it a shake just like I had, and trotted back over to me with the broccoli in his mouth. His tail wagged like a flag on a battleship returning home from war. He dropped his prize at my feet.

  In all the time he’d been out here helping me, he hadn’t tried to dig a hole in the yard. Not once.

  And I was pretty sure I knew why.

  “How can you not know what I’m talking about?” Lorenzo demanded. “Haven’t you been paying attention? Lettie. Killed. Frida.”

  “She may have,” I agreed. I picked up the plant Milo had dropped and tossed it into the pile again.

  “May have? You heard Marcel in the park yesterday. Lettie has focused all her energies on getting her hands on Jefferson’s treasure. She needs it to solve whatever money troubles she’s gotten herself into. She’s obviously willing to kill to do it. And frame Gordon for her crime.”

  “That might be true.” I pulled out another large broccoli plant by the roots and gave it a toss into the pile. Milo promptly grabbed it and carried it back.

  “I overheard her talking in the hallway. She’s setting up an interview with a reporter,” Lorenzo said.

  I lifted the rim of my sweetgrass gardening hat and turned my head in Lorenzo’s direction. “A reporter? What does the East Wing think about that?”

  Milo dropped the plant I was trying to put in the discard pile at my feet again and woofed.

  “I don’t think they know. But from what I heard, she’s going to meet with a reporter. I bet she wants to make a public case against Gordon.” Lorenzo started pacing. “She’s going to go to the press to make sure he’s convicted in the court of public opinion even before the DA makes a move.”

  Lorenzo stomped through my pile of discarded plants. Dirt and bits of stems stained the upturned cuffs of his expensive suit pants. He didn’t seem to notice, which only proved how upset he was. “Casey, we need to stop her.”

  “I agree.” I picked up the broccoli plant Milo had carried back to me and sat back on my heels. “Her going to the press does complicate things.”

  With a violent twist, Lorenzo snatched the broccoli plant from my grasp before I could toss it back onto the pile. “What’s wrong with you? Gordon’s life hangs in the balance, and you’re playing fetch with the dog.” He shook the plant at me.
<
br />   “I’m not playing with the dog, I’m testing a theory.”

  Lorenzo glared.

  “Look at him.” I pulled out yet another spent plant and tossed it. Milo bounded into action and carried the broccoli back to me. “He’s always trying to help in the garden. Not that he’s ever that much help. But he’s always been interested in what we’re doing and has always tried to turn our work into a game.”

  “What a smart dog,” Lorenzo said dryly. “So what are you planning? Train Milo to copy you with the hopes he’ll have better luck sniffing out the killer?”

  “No. I don’t think we can get him to point his paw to our culprit, although that would be an interesting idea . . . No, it wouldn’t work.”

  “Then what are you planning?” It was obvious Lorenzo was losing his patience, if he’d had any to begin with.

  “Look at the holes Milo has dug. He digs in just a couple of areas. Why?”

  Lorenzo shrugged. “Those are his favorite spots. Dogs have favorite spots. Perhaps the ground there smells like a squirrel. Who knows what goes through that mutt’s mind.”

  “I don’t think that’s it. Watch.” I retrieved a trowel from the sweetgrass basket I’d carried down to the garden with me and dug a small hole. Milo woofed excitedly and started to dig as well. His front paws scraped at the ground, sending soil flying everywhere.

  “So? How does that help Gordon? The DA is going to press charges tomorrow.”

  “I know.”

  Lorenzo pulled at his hair. “If he does, Gordon’s career will be over. O. V. E. R. I don’t know why I’m surprised that you’re not helping him. You never help. You go off on these tangents and just end up getting in the way. I bet you couldn’t investigate your way through an open door if your life depended upon it.”

  “You might be right about that last part,” I grumbled. I should have connected Milo’s strange behavior with the murder (and the robberies) sooner. But I now knew what was happening. I simply needed to figure out how to prove it.

  Lorenzo stomped back up the hill toward the White House. “I’m going to report Lettie.”

  Milo must have thought Lorenzo’s quick movements looked like an invitation to play. He gave an excited woof and loped after him.

  I stood up and pulled off my gardening gloves. “Lorenzo, wait. Don’t you see? Our treasure hunter has been searching for the treasure all along and has been using Milo to cover up the evidence.”

  “I’m going to stop Lettie!” Lorenzo yelled back as he continued up the hill. “I’m taking over. If not for you and your carelessness, Gordon wouldn’t be in this position in the first place. Frida might even still be alive!”

  My mouth dropped open. Lorenzo really believed that? He really blamed me for Frida’s death?

  Of course he did. He was constantly finding fault with my work. He cheered my mistakes. And he would be happy to see me gone.

  So why should I run after him? Why should I stop him from accusing the First Lady’s sister of murder? After all, he might be right. Now that Nadeem had made a strong case for his innocence, Lettie was the only suspect left.

  But Lorenzo didn’t have iron-clad evidence to back up his accusation. He didn’t have any evidence.

  Not my problem.

  He’d said it himself. He didn’t want my help.

  Child, doing the right thing only when it’s easy won’t win you a seat on the bus to Heaven, my grandmother Faye had scolded many, many times. And she was right.

  If I didn’t stop Lorenzo, he’d unwittingly destroy his White House career. I knew that. And it would be wrong not to try and stop him.

  “Lorenzo!” I ran to catch up with him.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  I’ve always felt that a person’s intelligence is directly reflected by the number of conflicting points of view he can entertain simultaneously on the same topic.

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

  “CASEY!” Marcel exclaimed as I hurried into the Diplomatic Reception Room from the outside. I bounced off the designer’s round chest.

  “So sorry,” I said. “I’m in a hurry. Did you see Lorenzo come through the center hallway?”

  “Non, he is not here.”

  “He must have gone another way. But where is he headed?” I wondered aloud.

  “I cannot tell you.” Marcel latched on to my arm. “But I must go outside. And as you remember, the Secret Service requires you to escort me.”

  I tried to wiggle out of his hold. “The Secret Service said you need an escort. They didn’t say it had to be me. You need to find someone in the East Wing who can help you.”

  The Diplomatic Reception Room, located on the ground floor under the iconic half-round South Portico, was one of the many oval rooms in the residence. Its walls were covered with a modern reproduction of an 1830s wallpaper depicting dramatic, larger-than-life landscapes such as the Natural Bridge in Virginia, Niagara Falls, and Boston Harbor. I barely saw the beautiful walls before Marcel pushed me back outside.

  “We are in a hurry, non?”

  I was about to break away from him and charge back into the Diplomatic Reception Room to search for Lorenzo when I spotted him outside. He was with Special Agent in Charge of the Counter Assault Team, Mike Thatch. Milo did a little dance as he followed along with the men.

  As luck would have it, the two men and dog were heading the same direction in which Marcel was dragging me . . . right into the Rose Garden.

  The Rose Garden, tucked between the West Wing and the main residence, was in full fall bloom, with baskets of bronze-colored “Denise” chrysanthemums hanging from the Jackson magnolia tree. The garden consisted of a central lawn bordered by flowerbeds. Saucer magnolias and crabapples provided height. Geometric boxwood hedges provided visual rhythm. And grandiflora and tea roses stood alongside annuals such as chrysanthemums, asters, salvias, and flowering kale, providing a range of textures and bright colors to the space.

  I watched with dismay as Lorenzo and Thatch, several yards ahead of me, traversed the garden and took a direct path to the colonnade that led to the West Wing. There, they met up with several other Secret Service agents . . . and Manny.

  Well, doesn’t that just take the biscuit. I’d been bending myself into a pretzel just to get a few minutes, conversation with Manny, and all Lorenzo had to do was walk up to him.

  Pulling Marcel along with me, I followed the same path Lorenzo had taken, but was sidetracked by Seth Donahue, the First Lady’s high-strung social secretary. Unfortunately, no matter how I tried, there was no sidestepping a determined Seth.

  “You’ve been ignoring my texts,” Seth said.

  “I’ve been busy,” I replied.

  He pointed to the grassy area in the center of the garden where three White House workers dressed in navy blue jumpsuits were positioning a familiar-looking sofa.

  Nadeem scurried behind the workers, placing little plastic discs under the sofa’s legs so that the antique wouldn’t be sitting directly on the grass.

  “Oh!” Marcel exclaimed and lumbered over to chat with Nadeem and study the sofa’s blue silk upholstery with a decorative eagle medallion motif stitched in golden thread.

  “What is that?” Seth demanded as he pointed toward them.

  “A sofa?” I guessed. “I’m in a hurry. I need to talk to—”

  “No!” Seth marched over to a small patch of crabgrass in the fescue lawn and stomped on it. “This is what I don’t understand.”

  “It’s a sprig of crabgrass. As I said, I’m in a hurry.”

  “Crabgrass?” The way his voice squeaked, you’d think I’d identified a nuclear warhead instead of a common weed.

  “They pop up occasionally,” I said.

  “It can’t be there. I have a photo shoot scheduled to start in ten minutes. And I need per-fect-tion. That—that thing is ugly. It’ll ruin everything.”

  “Okay.” I reached down and plucked the sprig of grass from the ground. “See you
around.”

  “Wait.” He blocked my path again. “Aren’t you going to check for more weeds? This is an important photo shoot.” He lowered his voice. “The President, First Lady, and her twins will be having an official portrait made this afternoon. The First Lady insisted on staging the photos in the garden. Brilliant idea. If only the gardens weren’t in shambles. I miss Gordon. He knew how to keep the grounds in tip-top shape.”

  “I miss Gordon, too.” More than Seth could imagine. I also missed how Gordon could handle Seth with more tact than I ever could. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to stop Lorenzo from—”

  “Don’t forget about the commemorative tree planting,” Seth said and dodged in front of me again. “I need those revised planting plans from you.”

  “Honestly, with everything that’s been going on, I haven’t had a chance to work on it.”

  “Well, start working on it. I’ve rescheduled the tree planting for Monday.”

  “Monday?”

  He nodded. “And as I’ve already told you, I need to approve the planting location. I need the new planting site in my hands today.”

  I suspected Seth was the only one who felt a burning need to reschedule the commemorative tree planting, but since he’d put himself in charge of coordinating the details for the grounds office, I didn’t have much choice but to agree.

  “I’ll get right on it,” I said.

  “No, Casey, you’ll work on it now. I want it on my desk in an hour.”

  Since I didn’t have time to argue, I gritted my teeth and nodded.

  “Seth, this is not right,” Nadeem called from the grassy area of the garden. “Frida would never have approved of us taking a Bellangé sofa out of the Blue Room.”

  “She’s not here,” Seth said coldly.

  “This sofa is one of the oldest in the collection. It’s part of the original pieces the Monroe administration had purchased after the 1814 fire,” Nadeem pointed out to no effect.

  “It is most lovely.” Marcel nodded as he ran his hand over the silk fabric.