Flowerbed of State (28 page)

“Not really. I heard you’ve come up with yet another theory about what happened out in Lafayette Square.” She lowered her voice. “You might want to think twice before throwing around accusations that involve friends of the First Lady like Brooks Keller.”

“Do you Secret Service types have nothing better to do than to sit down in your basement lair and gossip?”

“We don’t have to go to our lair.” She pointed to her earpiece. “Radio chatter.”

“I’ll have to remember that. What evidence do y’all have on the banking protesters? Do you have any idea which one of them is the prime suspect in Pauline’s murder?”

“I’m not sure I can talk about that.”

“Don’t you think I deserve to know who I should be worried about?”

Janie thought about that for a moment. “Yeah, you’re right. I’d want to know when I needed to watch my back.
Reader’s Digest
version is this: We don’t know who it is, but we’ve picked up some intel that there’s a person or persons involved with the banking reform protests who is so angry with the President’s ties to Wall Street that he or she is plotting an attack.”

“So I’ve heard. But if that’s the case, why not cancel the permit and send them away?”

“We can’t punish everyone in a group just because we suspect—but have no proof, mind you—that one of them might, and I stress the word
might
, be planning something.”

“And you also believe this is the same guy who killed Pauline and then attacked me in the park and again at the greenhouse?”

Janie nodded. “That’s the working theory. Uh-oh, don’t look now. Seth Donahue is heading this way.” She pushed Milo over to me. I grabbed his collar before he could take off again. “I’m out of here.”

“You’re not going to leave me, an unarmed woman, alone with him?”

Janie didn’t seem to care. She trotted off through the trees toward the south gates without a backward glance.

“Looks like it’s just you and me, Milo.”

“Ms. Calhoun.” Seth’s crisp voice cut through morning air. “The Rose Garden is in shambles, and the President and First Lady are scheduled to hold their press conference there in less than two hours.”

“Have you talked with Gordon about this?”

“I’m talking to you.”

“Yes, I see that. Here, you can give me a hand.” I picked up Milo and dropped the muddy puppy into Seth’s arms. He gave a startled yelp. Milo yipped.

I ignored both of them and started to walk up the sloping lawn toward the White House.

“Ms. Calhoun! You have to do something. When I contacted you last evening—”

“At three in the morning.”

“You promised to have the crabgrass out of the gardens. And yet, the crabgrass is still there and several of the plants have been dug up.”

“I’ll get the crew working on it right away.”

“You do that. When I took this position, I’d expected a higher degree of professionalism. No one seems to understand how to do anything around here.” He practically threw Milo back at me and stalked off.

“No, Seth, you’re the one who doesn’t seem to understand. You’re making everyone change how they’ve operated for years,” I said even though he’d already disappeared through the entrance at the South Portico. “You should be listening to how things are done and then suggest gradual adjustments.”

Child, what do they say about pots calling out kettles?
my inner voice chided.

Gracious, I could have slapped myself in my forehead for not heeding my own advice. No wonder Gordon had refused to support my gardening plans the other day. I’d stood in front of a room of his peers and declared that everything he’d been doing for the past quarter century was wrong.

Milo whined as I tucked him, all mud-coated and everything, under my arm.

“You look as if you’ve been out rolling in the marsh, little gnome.” He was going to need a bath before his debut in front of the world press, but that would have to wait. With the rosebush in one hand and the puppy in the other, I set out to find Gordon and make things right.

 

“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO MY SWEET PUPPY?”
Gordon exclaimed the moment he spotted us coming through the Diplomatic Reception Room.

“What about your helpless rosebush?” The plant’s small green leaves rattled as I shook it for emphasis. A mistake. Clumps of mud landed on my once pristine white blouse and on the robin’s-egg blue and gold rug under my feet. Emblems representing all fifty states encircled the one-of-a-kind rug’s border. I planned to apologize profusely to the maid charged with cleaning up the clumps of mud now staining it.

Thanks to muddy puppy paws, my blouse already looked as if I’d been rolling in the mud along with Milo.

“The rosebush doesn’t have a press conference in a few hours.” Gordon grabbed Milo and started cooing over the pup that had been entrusted to his care. He didn’t seem to mind that his forest green polo shirt was getting just about as muddy as my blouse.

The oval Diplomatic Reception Room, which had once served as a boiler and furnace room and later as the site of FDR’s Fireside Chats, was elegantly furnished in the Federal style. It was not a place for an unruly puppy.

Jacqueline Kennedy had installed a fanciful mural wallpaper called “Views of North America,” featuring vignettes of American landscapes. Although the original wallpaper had been printed in 1834, the images had a colorful and timeless feel to them.

“I found Milo running through the North Lawn with the rosebush in his mouth. No one was watching him,” I explained to Gordon as we headed out into the vaulted Center Hall.

“What! That’s unforgivable.” He glanced at a group of primary school children taking the White House tour heading our way and pursed his lips. We quickly crossed into the basement hall that led to the grounds office and, thankfully, was not part of the White House tour.

“He could have gotten lost,” Gordon continued more softly, though not with any less passion. “Or even killed. I’m going to have to have some sharp words with the Secret Service about this. They need to keep as close an eye on this little fellow as they would any other member of the First Family.”

“I agree,” I said, relieved to hear that Gordon planned to take charge and speak to the Secret Service. Keeping out of their way appeared to be necessary for my own job preservation now more than ever. “And give them hell,” I whispered.

“There you are.” Margaret Bradley hurried toward us. The fabric of her lavender silk dress swished around her legs with each step.

I was surprised to see her coming from the direction of the offices and shops located underneath the North Portico. Members from those offices would go to
her
, not the other way around.

Milo wiggled happily the moment he saw her.

“Mrs. Bradley,” Gordon said as he jogged over to her. “As you can see, he’s been found.”

“Thank goodness.” She gave my disheveled state a once-over. Her warm smile grew wider. “You found him, then?”

“He’s been digging up the Rose Garden, I’m afraid.” I held up the damaged rosebush as evidence.

“What a mess. He’s quite coated in mud, too,” she observed, and patted Milo’s head. “There’s not much time to get him cleaned up, either.”

“We’ll see to it,” Gordon offered.

We would? I supposed we could use the hoses outside to give him a quick bath. But would we be able to get him dried off in time for the press conference?

“No, I wouldn’t hear of it. The two of you have enough to do. Give him to me.” She held out her arms.

“He’ll ruin your dress,” Gordon protested.

“I can put on another one. Now, hand him to me. I’ll see to him. You look after the Rose Garden. Our social secretary is on the brink of a nervous breakdown already. I don’t want him to find out that the puppy has been digging up—”

“Seth already knows,” I told her.

“Oh, dear.” Her impeccable poise slipped for a second, causing her lower lip to tremble. She swiftly bit down on it and forced a smile. “Well, it can’t be helped. We’ll simply have to deal with this as it comes. Two of the upstairs maids are a whiz with hair. I’m sure they’ll be able to wash and fluff this little guy back into shape.”

She hugged Milo to her chest, his huge puppy paws smearing mud on yet another outfit that morning.

“Don’t worry about the Rose Garden,” Gordon told her. “The grounds crew is out there already.”

“They are?” I asked. Gordon never ceased to amaze me with his efficiency.

“Sprucing up the area is standard procedure before a press conference, even last-minute press conferences,” Gordon explained. “It’ll look perfect.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Thank you again,” Mrs. Bradley said as she hurried off.

Back at the grounds office, I was surprised to find Lorenzo at his desk filling out a stack of paperwork that rivaled the pile Fisher had left for me. A large white bandage stood out in stark contrast to his dark brown hair. Other than that, he looked like the freshly pressed, perfectly groomed gardening assistant I’d grown used to seeing every day.

I couldn’t be happier.

“Lorenzo! You’re okay!” The muscles in his shoulders tightened as I gave him a great big hug. After questioning him on how he was feeling—his head throbbed—and Gordon had a chance to scold him for not taking the day to rest and recover, I finally got the chance to ask the question that had been burning on my mind since the attack.

“Do you remember what happened? Did you see the guy who did this?”

“Or was it a lady?” Gordon put in.

“As I told both the police and the FBI, I barely remember being attacked.” Lorenzo pressed his hands against the sides of his head and pinched his eyes closed. “I didn’t see anyone.”

“Not even a pair of shoes?” Gordon asked with a glance in my direction.

Lorenzo opened his eyes and stared intently at me. “No. I’m sorry, Casey. I shouldn’t have blamed you for not getting a good look at your attacker. I didn’t understand that something like this”—he rubbed the back of his neck—“could happen so unexpectedly or so quickly. I didn’t see a damned thing. I didn’t really understand what had happened until it was explained to me at the hospital.”

“I’m still convinced I can help identify Pauline’s killer. I haven’t given up, Lorenzo.” A promise was a promise.

“Thanks, Casey, I appreciate that.” Lorenzo said.

After this morning’s revelations, my mind whirled with scenarios and possibilities. Pauline had been intimately involved with Brooks. So had Joanna.

Joanna had expressed regret at introducing the pair.

Did she regret it because Pauline had been murdered? Or did she regret introducing Pauline to Brooks because Pauline had caught her lover’s roving eye?

Joanna had been present in the park the morning Pauline had been murdered.

Brooks and Lillian may have ruined Joanna, but Pauline had betrayed their friendship by taking Joanna’s lover to her own bed. Perhaps the murder didn’t have anything to do with the banking reform legislation after all. Perhaps I was completely wrong about everything.

“Have you seen this?” Lorenzo handed me the newspaper.

The headline stopped me cold: SENATOR PENDERGAST’S BRUSH WITH DISASTER. I quickly scanned the article. Last night, while I enjoyed dinner with Richard, a car had swerved onto the sidewalk and nearly run down Edith Pendergast as she walked her dog near her house in the Dupont Circle neighborhood. Both she and her small white dog, Churchill, were shaken but had sustained only minor cuts and bruises. The FBI was investigating.

“No, not that.” Lorenzo snatched the paper away, flipped to the last page of the first section, and slapped it down on the desk in front of me. He tapped his finger on the corner of an editorial cartoon at the top of the page.

Gordon leaned over my shoulder to look. “This could prove problematic.”

Building on the scathing article Griffon Parker had written, the national newspaper,
Media Today
, had run an editorial cartoon envisioning an overgrown White House grounds that resembled an abandoned city lot with weedy flowerbeds and an unkempt lawn littered with kitchen waste, including banana peels and rotting tomatoes. A cartoon depiction of me, complete with floppy straw hat, stood at the center of the drawing with her hands on her freakishly wide hips. The caption at the bottom of the cartoon read
Organic Gardener Runs Amok
.

“About that,” I said, looking up at Gordon. My heart pounded in my chest. I wasn’t used to eating crow. And boy, did I have a lot of stringy bird to eat this morning. “I am so sorry about the presentation the other day. I got totally carried away and, well, I didn’t mean to make it sound as if I was criticizing the way things have been done around here. I have nothing but the utmost respect for both you and Lorenzo. I honestly didn’t mean to steamroll over either of you.” I sighed and pulled a hand through my hair. “I messed up.”

“You sure did,” Lorenzo agreed.

Gordon crossed his arms over his chest. “What do you plan to do about it?”

I closed my eyes and sighed deeply. If I wanted their forgiveness, I needed to prove that I wasn’t going to act like Seth Donahue anymore. “I suggest that we take things more slowly. Change doesn’t have to happen overnight. The implementation of the program should be gradual. Take the lawn, for instance. The tall fescue grass is well suited to the climate and use. There’s no reason to change it. But perhaps we could raise the mower height from two and a half inches to three. The taller the leaf blade, the stronger the roots, which means it’ll need less water and be less susceptible to weeds, insects, and disease. I also suggest that we should water deeply and less frequently and always in the morning, when there’s no wind, to give the grass roots the best chance to absorb the water.”

“There’s nothing controversial about raising the mowing height an inch or altering the watering schedule,” Gordon agreed. “We don’t even need committee approval for something like that.”