“This spunky new romantic suspense series is an obvious pick for readers who enjoy Julie Hyzy’s White House Chef series (Buffalo West Wing) but also think of gardening mystery series such as Rosemary Harris’s (Slugfest).”
—Library Journal
One less snake
Beyond the yellow tape, police officers worked as an efficient team around the base of the park’s centerpiece bronze statue. An older man sat slumped on a marble step at the statue’s base. He seemed oblivious to the activity buzzing all around him. His head was bowed as if he’d fallen asleep.
“Even Media Today can’t get away with printing out-and-out lies,” Annie reminded me. “Before going into politics Bruce used to work as a trial lawyer. He gave my late husband his first job at his law firm. At the first whiff of libel, Bruce will sue, and the newspaper editors know it.”
“I hope so. Even though Griffon Parker is a snake, his stories seem to sell papers,” I said, feeling my face heat. “He’s won plenty of awards for his investigative reports. I hate what he does and who he hurts. He’s a weasel. A weed. A sorry excuse for a human being. And—”
“Dead,” Annie finished for me.
Berkley Prime Crime titles by Dorothy St. James
FLOWERBED OF STATE
THE SCARLET PEPPER
The Scarlet Pepper
DOROTHY ST. JAMES
BERKLEY PRIME CRIME, NEW YORK
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England • Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) • Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) • Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India • Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) • Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
THE SCARLET PEPPER
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with Tekno Books
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / April 2012
Copyright © 2012 by Tekno Books.
Cover illustration by Mary Ann Lasher.
Cover design by Olivia Andreas.
Interior text design by Kristin del Rosario.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
ISBN: 978-1-101-56161-4
BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME
Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of
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PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
ALWAYS LEARNING
PEARSON
For Jim…
the love of my life and my partner in crime.
For Martin H. Greenberg.
Marty Greenberg, the creative force behind Tekno
Books, passed away during the writing of this novel.
Without his insight and dedication to the book
world, this series would never have happened.
May he always be remembered for helping
the underdog and giving new voices a chance.
Acknowledgments
Once again as I immersed myself in the fictional world of Casey Calhoun and her White House adventures, I had the pleasure to meet, interview, and learn from so many wonderful gardeners, journalists, and dedicated bureaucrats.
My dear friend Judy Watts shared her experiences as a newspaper editor. Former Washington Post editor and fellow novelist Patricia McLinn patiently talked through Casey’s life and her neighborhood and helped me to mold my Washington gardener into a three-dimensional character. And the incredible Eddie Gehman Kohan, who reports all things food- and garden-related from the White House in her Obama Foodorama blog, offered her insights on what it’s like to report from inside the White House. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate these three talented ladies.
On the gardening front, my gratitude goes out to Amy Dabbs, the Tri-County Master Gardener Coordinator, for sharing her passion for organic gardening, and to Master Gardener and fellow writer Shannon Cavanaugh, for her enthusiasm for her garden and her writing. Keep those newsletter articles coming! And thank you, Kathy Jentz, editor of Washington Gardener, for answering my D.C. gardening questions on the fly through Twitter. What a wonderful invention. I don’t know what I would have done without it.
A special thank-you goes to Miranda Kenneally, YA novelist, for showing me the ropes at the State Department. You turned my latest D.C. research trip into an unforgettable adventure.
Of course, enormous thanks go to Brittiany Koren for offering me the chance to bring Casey Calhoun to the pages of this book. Brittiany, you’re a great friend, a hard-nosed editor, and one of the best cheerleaders in the business. A big thank-you goes to Michael Koren for his understanding and patience during all those times Brittiany locked herself away in her office in order to help me hash out all the details.
Thank you, also, to Rosalind Greenberg, Larry Segriff, John Helfers, and Chuck Wiseman at Tekno Books for your support and to the awesome staff at Berkley Prime Crime, especially Natalee Rosenstein for giving me the chance to continue Casey Calhoun’s story, and Robin Barletta for making the process of publishing a book fun.
Last but not least, I must thank the incredible authors in the Lowcountry chapter of Romance Writers of America, Sisters in Crime, and Mystery Writers of America, whose unflagging support has kept me pounding away at my keyboard, especially Nina Bruhns, Julie Hyzy, Margie Lawson, C. J. Lyons, Tracy Anne Warren, and Joanna Wayne for patiently listening and giving advice as I worked out plot problems, figured out promotional efforts, and whined like an annoying little girl while writing this book. Once again, I couldn’t have done it without you!
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Ch
apter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Epilogue
Prologue
If I am shot at, I want no man to be
in the way of the bullet.
—ANDREW JOHNSON, THE 17TH PRESIDENT OF
THE UNITED STATES
My wary gaze scanned the West Wing corridor. The creamy walls were lined with framed photos of White House events, both past and present. A smiling Richard Nixon shook hands with the Chinese premier on one side of me and John F. Kennedy stood grim faced in the Oval Office during the height of the Bay of Pigs missile crisis on the other side.
No world-changing decisions were scheduled to be made today. I kept my pace steady as I made my way past the steps that led down to the Secret Service’s offices in the West Wing’s basement and toward the Press Briefing Room. It was quiet—too quiet. My shoulders tensed.
The large potted begonia in my arms was missing about a third of its variegated leaves. Several of its canes were broken, and a large crack ran the length of its bright yellow ceramic pot.
Both the pot and the plant desperately needed attention, but I’d been instructed to take the begonia from the vice president’s office, through the twisting, surprisingly narrow hallway, and deliver it to the Press Briefing Room regardless of how awful it looked.
“Who am I but the assistant gardener?” I grumbled under my breath. The plants in the West Wing, or anywhere else in the White House, for that matter, were kept in peak condition. First Lady Margaret Bradley loved plants almost as much as I did.
At her direction every office in the West Wing had at least one potted plant. A grand idea, in my opinion, even if it did increase the gardening staff’s responsibilities.
Twice a week, a gardener traveled from office to office watering, feeding, pinching off old flowers, and replacing any plant that lacked the green perfection expected at the White House. We carried out our work with pride. This was the People’s House, a beacon of hope, a symbol of freedom.
No one on the gardening staff would willingly deliver a begonia with missing leaves and broken stems, but today wasn’t a normal day at the White House. As I rounded a corner, I passed the President’s Chief of Staff, Bruce Dearing. He leaned his rotund body toward Frank Lispon, the White House press secretary. The tall African American man looked as if he was trying to become one with the wall’s Sheetrock to avoid Bruce’s protruding belly.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if someone slipped poison into the nasty gingerroot tea he’s always drinking. The man writes wild rumors. Speculations,” Bruce said in his low, growly voice. He poked Frank in the chest with his pudgy finger. “And he calls them investigative reports?” His finger poked Frank again. “Can’t you ban him from the White House?”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Frank murmured with an embarrassed glance in my direction.
A sudden commotion rose in the hallway near the Press Briefing Room. Startled, I almost dropped the poor begonia.
President Bradley, surrounded by a bevy of staffers and a detail of Secret Service agents, passed through the double glass doors from the West Colonnade and breezed into the West Wing. Surrounded by his entourage, he hurried down the narrow hallway—which suddenly seemed to shrink—apparently on his way to the Oval Office.
Remembering the Secret Service’s admonishments to keep out of the way, I flattened myself against the cream-colored wall as he passed without even a nod in my direction.
Once he was out of sight, I balanced the large pot between my hip and the entranceway to the Press Briefing Room and reached out to grab the handle.
I’d just started to pull the door open when someone in the direction of the Oval Office shouted, “Bomb!”
Bomb?
Before I could move, breathe, or even think, the Secret Service, with the President at the center of their detail, backtracked through the hallway toward me. They moved as a single unit like an angry bull.
With the President’s safety foremost in my mind, I knew I needed to stay out of their way. If I blocked them, or even slowed them down, the bomb might go off and the President could end up injured or even killed. I couldn’t outrun them to escape out the double glass door, but I needed to get out of the hallway and to safety.
My heart started to pound. Despite the Secret Service’s explicit instructions to hurry toward the nearest exit at the first sign of trouble, I tossed open the Press Briefing Room’s door instead.
And thudded against the muscular chest of a large man clad all in black.
A black knit balaclava covered his face, leaving only his cold eyes exposed. He clutched a rifle in his hands, which he used to shove me back into the West Wing corridor.
“Gun! Gun!” I shouted. My legs got tangled with the legs of one of the Secret Service agents desperately trying to rush the President to safety. We crashed to the ground.
The President!
I’d given the gunman an opening.
Using all my strength, I tossed the potted plant at the shooter as he took aim. The large ceramic pot slammed into his chest with enough force that he fell on his backside.
A Secret Service agent leapt over me to get to the gunman. The sharp pop, pop, pop of gunfire had me instinctively covering my head. But the gunfire hadn’t been aimed at me.
The agent who’d charged fell.
Three more masked gunmen, dressed exactly like the first, stepped over the fallen agent and their masked buddy as they poured into the corridor.
One gunman grabbed the President. Another grabbed my arm and pressed the barrel of his rifle against my temple with enough force that it pinned me to the floor.
“Bang!” he shouted. He ripped off his balaclava. “You’re dead. The President’s dead.”
I glared up at the man snarling down at me and pushed the barrel of his rifle away from my face. The man had distinctive streaks of silver running through his brown hair and an unfriendly gleam in his eyes.
Mike Thatch, special agent in charge of the Secret Service’s elite military Counter Assault Team, or CAT, as its members liked to call themselves, had designed and directed these training sessions. Apparently he also took an active role in carrying them out.
Thatch reached out a hand to help me up. I refused it and sat in the corridor, cradling my head in my hands.
“You have to take this seriously, Casey. You have to follow our directions. Think about it. The bomb was obviously a diversion. The gunmen were the real threat in this one. What should you have done?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
We weren’t at the White House, but at the Secret Service’s James J. Rowley Training Center in Laurel, Maryland. Although the West Wing corridors looked like the real thing, there weren’t actually any offices behind the doors. And an agent had played the part of the President.
Training sessions such as these were commonplace for Secret Service agents and members of the President’s staff who worked within what they’d termed the “kill zone,” a small but potentially deadly area that surrounded the President at all times. If bullets were to fly, these were the people who would be in the direct line of fire. They needed to know how to react.
As White House assistant gardener, I rarely worked anywhere near the kill zone. But in response to gr
owing political unrest throughout the world and an increase in credible threats to the President—not to mention the unpleasantness we’d encountered this past spring—the Secret Service had decided to expand its training sessions to include all members of the White House staff, no matter how lowly or removed from the seat of power.
The nine other members of the White House and West Wing staff attending today’s training session, including the press secretary and the Chief of Staff, had reacted with swift resolve to the threats thrown at them. With the aid of the Secret Service agents, all had saved the President.
I’d been the only one who’d failed the test. And not just once, but three times now. What was wrong with me?
“Get up and do it again,” Thatch barked.
When I raised my head, I caught sight of CAT special agent Jack Turner watching me. Like the other CAT agents, he projected the hard-nosed image that he was a warrior from hell. Stoic, humorless, and all about the mission. With a vicious tug he tore the already pushed-up balaclava from his head and plucked a begonia leaf from his short black hair.
He’d been the unlucky rifleman to get knocked down by my flowerpot?
“Sorry,” I mouthed as he brushed off the potting soil covering his chest.
This past spring Jack had played Watson to my Sherlock. There was something about him that had gotten under my skin, something that made me feel safe. It might have been his expressive green eyes or his steady calm voice. Whatever it was, I’d shared with him intimate secrets from my past that I hadn’t even told the grandmother or two aunts who’d loved and raised me. He’d stuck by me even when doing so became hazardous to his health. I considered him a close friend.
The grim set of his mouth didn’t look too friendly now. He exchanged a look with his SAIC, Mike Thatch, which only seemed to deepen his frown.
“I’m sure I’ll get it next time,” I said to Jack, braving a smile.
“I doubt it,” he grumbled and exchanged another heated look with Thatch. He then offered me a hand up.
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