Oak and Dagger (9 page)

Chapter Nine

Sometimes I feel a little worried as I think of you all alone and this press and annoyance going on but I keep myself outwardly very quiet and calm—but inwardly (sometimes) there is a burning venom and wrath . . .

—LUCY HAYES, FIRST LADY OF THE UNITED STATES (1877–1881)

I
crumpled the newspaper into a tighter and tighter ball until it wasn't going to get any smaller without altering its molecular structure.

The article was wrong.

Wrong.

Wrong.

Wrong.

Gordon was as much a victim in this as Frida.

How could anyone, especially Detective Hernandez, think otherwise? I'd always considered Manny a smart man. He knew how to read people.

The newspaper had to be exaggerating. Like the unfriendly guy had said,
Media Today
was only interested in selling papers. Not the facts.

It's not as if this was the first time the media had gotten the story wrong when it came to the grounds office, but this wasn't a story we could blithely ignore. This story could push Gordon out of a job. And for no good reason. He was
not
a murderer.

Manny and the rest of the police investigators would figure that out soon enough. But by that time, the damage may have already been done.

Since moving to D.C., I'd learned it wasn't the crime that destroyed a reputation. Just the hint of wrongdoing could sink a career. I needed to do everything in my power to protect Gordon's good name while he was unable to defend himself.

Although I could have followed the front drive up to the basement entrance located right under the North Portico and disappeared into the grounds office without passing anyone, I detoured around to the side of the building and entered through the East Wing's main entrance in order to gauge the White House staff's reaction to the newspaper's claptrap.

The first thing I noticed was that the police had relinquished their makeshift offices back to the First Lady's staff who worked there. The uniformed Secret Service agent manning the front desk nodded briskly to me and quickly turned his attention back to the security screen in front of him.

In one day's time the tone of the White House had gone from bouncing strides and bubbly baby talk to grim silences.

The few East Wing staff members I passed in the hallway avoided eye contact. I got the distinct feeling they'd all read the news article and were distancing themselves from a department of the White House in profound trouble.

Worry rumbled deep in my gut.

Rain beat on the windows lining the length of the East Colonnade like tiny fists. Tiny
angry
fists. Just yesterday I was on the other side of those windows weeding, pruning, and deadheading flowers in the Jacqueline Kennedy Garden and pretending I was the clever Miss Marple listening in on private conversations. Just yesterday, the most pressing concern had been finding the South Lawn's missing schematic. And the soaking of President Bradley had felt like the worst sort of disaster.
How foolish I'd been.

“You're late!” Seth Donahue, the First Lady's social secretary, charged toward me like a silver-haired raging bull.

Seth had left a lucrative party-planning business that catered exclusively to the rich and famous to work for the First Lady. I suspected he'd been expecting the job to be more glamorous or exciting than it really was. Many of the guests invited to the White House events were rich (but not famous) donors, Washington power players, and common citizens. Very few of the guests would ever merit mentioning on TMZ or
Access Hollywood
.

Perhaps a gnawing sense of disappointment kept him in a perpetually bad mood.

“Is
that
what you're wearing?” he said without offering me a good morning or a concerned word about Gordon's condition or Frida's death—you know, the kind of polite convention any decent human would follow.

I looked down at my khaki pants, sensible leather shoes, and colorful ladybug sweater. “What's wrong with my outfit?”

He rolled his eyes. “Don't tell me you forgot.”

“Of course I didn't forget.” What was he talking about? I scoured my memory for clues and came up with nothing. “What did I forget?”

“Breakfast with the First Lady. You're on the schedule to help host this week. The guests are already arriving.”

“I forgot.”

“Obviously. Follow me.”

In an effort to help boost her husband's favorability ratings, every other Tuesday the First Lady hosted a breakfast for various regional and occasionally national women's groups. Staff members would act as co-hosts and give a brief presentation to the assembled group about their duties at the White House. Since giving birth to her twins a month ago, Margaret had skipped the breakfasts, relegating hosting duties to the White House staff.

In light of Frida's murder yesterday, I was surprised the breakfast hadn't been canceled. And, I suspected, the questions I'd have to field from the ladies at the breakfast would be . . . difficult.

“Do I have time to check my messages and drop my backpack in the office?” I asked in an attempt to buy myself some extra time to mentally prepare for the assault.

“No. I'll find an usher to take care of your backpack. By the way, the West Wing is anxious to reschedule the tree planting,” Seth said as he hurried down the hallway as if nothing had happened yesterday. “How long will it take to relocate the planting site?”

“I, um . . .” His question caught me completely off guard when my main focus this morning had been on Gordon and how to help him. “I haven't thought about—”

He held up a finger and mouthed, “Wait,” when his cell phone buzzed. Without altering his long-legged stride, he continued up the stairs to the first floor while answering his phone with a brusque, “Go.” After listening for a minute he demanded, “What do you mean she was out all night? We can't let this happen. First there's the public anger over the skyrocketing gas prices and now this murder—we're already at a breaking point. I thought you had a handle on
this
situation.”

His gaze narrowed as he listened. “I don't care. She has to be controlled,” he said. “She will ruin us if—” He grunted as he listened.

“Yes, I know. Just—” He drew a deep breath. “Just tell me that the press didn't find her and take pictures.”

He glared at me as if I was intruding in on his one-sided conversation.

I smiled back.

This caused him to lower his voice. “Listen, you keep her behind a locked door if you have to. She will not cause a problem for the First Lady or the President, do you understand me? Well? I can't—”

He slammed his phone against his hand and muttered, “I can't believe he hung up on me,” before jamming the phone into his pocket and turning back to me. “Now then, where was I?”

“You were talking about the commemorative tree planting.”

“Right. The West Wing asked me, in Gordon's absence, to take charge of its planning. As soon as you relocate the planting site, get that information to me for verification. We can't have any more irrigation lines blowing up.”

My nails dug into the palms of my hands as I reminded myself Seth was right. The grounds office—
namely, me
—had royally messed up. I shouldn't feel as if he was stomping on my toes by stepping up and volunteering to plan the rescheduled event.

“And the lawn,” he continued. “The grass has been looking shabby lately. Yellow spots. And mole holes. I'm trying to schedule an outside photo shoot of the First Family. I can't have the lawn looking like that.”

“It's not moles. It's Milo. He's been busy,” I explained. “But don't you worry. Lorenzo and I will patch the lawn once it stops raining. Although keeping up with the gardens will be more work without Gordon, it won't be forever. Gordon will be back.”

“You really think so?” he asked, sounding genuinely surprised.

“Yes! He will!” I started to argue that we shouldn't give up on Gordon just because he was being falsely accused by a newspaper. A newspaper! But we'd reached the East Room.

Seth took my backpack, wished me luck, and pushed me into the room.

• • • 

I WASN'T EXACTLY ON MY OWN AT THE BREAK- FAST
. Staffers from the East Wing and the West Wing as well as the super-efficient household staff attended to the needs of the women enjoying a gourmet breakfast buffet. And the Secret Service had doubled the number of agents that would be present at such an event.

The beautifully dressed ladies filling the gilded East Room hailed from various regional garden clubs, which was why I'd been asked to co-host. As I crossed the large room filled with golden chairs and round tables draped in white linens to the crowded buffet table on the far wall, the normal conversations in the room died as all eyes turned toward me.

Low murmurs filled the space until the room sounded eerily like the buzzing of a thick cloud of the annoying no-see-ums that congregate in Charleston's marshes.

“That's her.” “She found the body.” “Do you think it was murder?” “That's what the news reports say.” “I wonder if it is a conspiracy. A cover-up.” “I read online that the President ordered the curator killed to divert attention away from the skyrocketing gas prices and the plummeting economy.”

“They're all idiots,” a voice murmured near my ear. While the lady who'd said it spoke quite loudly, you could tell by her inflection it had been meant as a murmur.

“Pearle!” I hugged the older woman who had spoken to me. “It's good to see you.”

“And it's good to see you, my dear Casey. Mable? Where did she go?”

“I'm right here.” Pearle's dearest friend ambled toward us. Three East Wing staffers followed in her wake carrying plates piled with eggs, bacon, and delicious pastries.

The elderly Pearle Stone and Mable Bowls were social lionesses who presided over the D.C. area. Political power players served as their royal court. And the two ladies looked like royalty in their stylish fall-colored dresses with short-sleeved sweaters.

Rumor had it the two of them determined the success or failure of many political careers. Even First Lady Margaret Bradley treated both Pearle and Mable with great care and invited them to the White House often.

The two old dears were also expert gardeners and generously volunteered their time in the First Lady's kitchen garden, which was how they knew me.

“Come.” Mable hooked her arm with mine. “Sit with us.”

Not more than a few seconds after Pearle and Mable had embraced me, the questioning murmurs faded in the room and were replaced with the rumble of normal conversations again.

“How is the First Lady faring?” Mable asked once we were seated at a table near the podium in the center of the room.

“I don't know. I haven't seen her since the birth of the twins.” I took a bite of a chocolate croissant. I smiled with delight as its rich, dark chocolate flavors teased my senses. “We are all praying for her and her sons.”

The ladies nodded gravely.

“I heard she's been feeling stronger,” Pearle said. “And that she might even make an appearance this morning.”

“I don't think that will happen,” I told my two favorite volunteers. Seth hadn't said anything about the First Lady. And he would have said something about it if she'd changed her mind about coming to the breakfast. He knew the First Lady's schedule better than anyone else in the White House. “Margaret hasn't made any public appearances.”

“Well then, we'll be honored to be her first.” Pearle patted my hand as she and Mable shared a knowing look. “Won't we?”

“Oh yes, it'll be such a thrill.” Mable then leaned toward me. “But enough about that. How are you holding up, dear?”

“I haven't had much time to process any of it,” I answered honestly. “I still can't believe what happened yesterday.”

“We don't believe a word of what was in the newspapers today. Our Gordon is a lover, not a fighter,” Pearle said.

Both Mable and Pearle treated Gordon like he was a teen rock star and they were his groupies. They pursued (and sometimes pinched) Gordon during the volunteer sessions in the kitchen garden. Gordon would grumble about it, but I could tell he loved every moment.

“And that curator,” Mable added, “may she rest in peace, had enough enemies to fill a museum.”

“Did you know Frida?” I asked.

“Hate to speak ill of the dead, but she was a nasty piece of work,” Pearle confided. Mable nodded in agreement.

“What makes you say that?” Lorenzo, Gordon, and Deloris all seemed to share that view as well. I was still in shock over how coldly Deloris had reacted when she'd learned about Frida's untimely demise.

“We had the misfortune of inviting her to one of our power teas,” Pearle said as she sipped on a cup of tea one of the staff members had brought to the table.

“She had all the right credentials,” Mable added. “A prestigious position at the White House. An Ivy League education. And the ability to talk to us about our lovely antiques. Who wouldn't want to invite someone like that into your home?”

“What did she do?” I asked.

“Oh, she had decent enough manners when it came to introducing her to everyone, but she desperately wanted to shoot up the social ladder,” Pearle said as if ambition was a grave sin.

“Did she ever!” Mable cried.

“And that was wrong because . . .” I asked.

“Honey, you don't ever want to have someone around who's so hungry for power she tears down everyone around her to the point that they're left feeling like victims on a bloody battlefield,” Pearle said.

“What do you mean? What did Frida do?” I asked again.

But before either could answer, several other women joined us at the table, bringing a swift end to that enlightening conversation.