The Scarlet Pepper

by Dorothy St. James

  “Especially if he killed himself?” Annie added.

  “Exactly. I don’t see how anyone could live with himself as long as he did while knowingly going out of his way to destroy so many careers and lives.” Manny shrugged unapologetically.

  Coincidences happened every day. Just because Francesca and I had been talking about how to stage a murder, it didn’t necessarily mean that Francesca had anything to do with Parker’s death.

  “So there was a note?” I asked.

  “I can’t talk about the details of the investigation,” Manny said. “I’m sorry.”

  Undaunted, I pressed on. “I saw the pill bottle beside Parker. Do you think he took an overdose of pills?”

  “We won’t know what killed him until after the autopsy. But as I said, it looks like suicide.”

  “Then no poison in his tea or anything as grim as that?” I said as a wave of relief washed over me. Perhaps Parker hadn’t been able to face losing his position as a White House correspondent.

  It wasn’t murder.

  Thank goodness.

  “We did find a travel mug. There was a bit of stinky tea left in it,” Manny said, forgetting his earlier promise to keep quiet about the details. “How did you know that?”

  “Good guess?” I suddenly had a difficult time catching my breath. Francesca had mentioned that she planned to put poison in his tea. Well, not Parker’s tea specifically, but…

  Oh, hell, if I were to be honest about it, the poison in the tea had been my idea.

  I knew I needed to say something to Manny, but I didn’t want to get Francesca in trouble before I had all the facts.

  It still could be suicide.

  I needed to step back and think.

  “What was he doing drinking hot tea on a day like today?” Annie asked. “It’s hot enough to blister the paint off a roof.”

  “Don’t ask me.” Manny started to watch me intently. “Casey,” he said, his voice low and cautious, “is there anything you want to tell me?”

  I pressed my lips tightly together and shook my head. As much as I wanted to say something to him, I couldn’t. I wouldn’t get Francesca into trouble. Not until I gathered more information about what had happened.

  If what Manny said was true and Parker had killed himself, the rest was just coincidence.

  That had to be it.

  Manny began to return to the work waiting for him at the crime scene when Annie whirled toward me. “My God, Casey. How could you?” She pressed both hands to her mouth. “The tea! I should have remembered right away. Francesca told me all about it. You said you’d put something—oh, yes, an extract from the yew leaves—into his tea. And here he’s been found with tea and a pill bottle. The murder is set up exactly how you said it should be done.”

  “I didn’t—” I started to say.

  Detective Hernandez had stopped to listen.

  “I didn’t plan to kill anyone. I didn’t kill anyone,” I protested, but the seeds of doubt had already been planted.

  Detective Hernandez’s gaze hardened.

  Annie finally noticed him watching us. “I’m so sorry, Casey! I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s just that…” She waved her hands nervously in the air. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  “What’s going on?” he demanded.

  “Nothing. Really. Nothing,” I said firmly.

  “Are you sure?”

  Swallowing hard, I nodded.

  A news van with Media Today’s distinctive logo emblazoned on its side careened around the corner and squealed to a stop in the middle of the road next to the park. Kelly Montague, dressed in a tan business suit and light blue blouse, vaulted out of the van followed by a cameraman.

  Manny swore a colorful oath. “How did she find out so quickly? If she’s here, I’m sure the other vultures can’t be far behind. I need to get over there and deal with her questions.” His authoritative gait carried him over to where the news van had parked and the cameraman was setting up. As he walked past one of the uniformed officers, I heard him say in a low voice, “Make sure the ME includes a search for yew extract in the tox screen.”

  “Yew, sir?” the younger officer asked.

  Manny glanced back in my direction. The muscles in his jaw tensed. “You heard me. Yew. As in the plant. Now don’t waste my time. I have work to do.”

  Alyssa rushed over to Annie and me, her keys dangling from her hands, her sundress swishing around her legs. “You wouldn’t believe what it took to park. I’m four blocks away. What’s going on? What did I miss?”

  Chapter Six

  What kills a skunk is the publicity it gives itself.

  —ABRAHAM LINCOLN, THE 16TH PRESIDENT OF

  THE UNITED STATES

  “PLAIN and simple. A suicide,” Alyssa declared after hearing the details of Parker’s death. She pried the tray of petunias from my hands. “It’s shocking and tragic. And by tomorrow, the news cycle will have moved on to something else. Parker will be forgotten.”

  “You think so?” I asked.

  “I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.” Alyssa introduced herself to Annie. The two women discussed their clothes and where they shopped while I watched Kelly Montague stand calmly in front of the camera and from under the shade of a towering oak tree report on her co-worker’s death. Before Kelly had finished, three additional news vans had pulled up to the curb.

  “I suppose Imogene’s not around?” Alyssa asked, her gaze scanning the dispersing crowd for the senator’s wife. Griffon’s body had been taken away and the police seemed to be winding down their investigation. With the excitement over, the onlookers had started to return home.

  “She’s not,” I said. “Annie warned the volunteers not to come. That reminds me.” I reached into my purse, scribbled my cell phone number on a scrap of paper I found in there, and handed the paper to Annie. “Use this number if you need to contact me in the future. I hope we’ll be able to reschedule the planting soon.”

  “I do, too.” Annie folded the paper over and tucked it into her purse.

  “Well, since there’s nothing left for any of us to do,” Alyssa said, “let’s get out of here. I’m taking you to my favorite restaurant for breakfast. You rushed me out the door so quickly this morning I didn’t get a chance to eat even a crumb.”

  “I’ll see you Monday at the garden,” I said to Annie, bidding her a hasty farewell as Alyssa herded me away from the park.

  On the way to the restaurant, Alyssa canceled all of her afternoon plans. For the rest of the day, she stuck close by, keeping me distracted and away from the television news long into the evening. We were like a pair of college kids, ordering in pizza, eating ice cream from the carton, and watching old movies until we fell asleep on the sofa in the small hours of the night.

  Griffon Parker’s death made the front page in the Sunday edition of the national newspaper Media Today. The television reporter and the reason Parker’s job had been in jeopardy, Kelly Montague, had written the front page’s short article. It started out flatly stating that Parker had taken his own life, citing the pending loss of his White House correspondent position. Tucked near the end—if I’d blinked I might have missed it—was Detective Manny Hernandez’s standard statement, “The investigation is ongoing.”

  “So that’s it,” Alyssa said as she read the article over my shoulder. “It’s over.”

  “I suppose so.”

  Coincidences did happen.

  But what was Parker doing in Burberry Park?

  And why would he take his own life before publishing the damaging article against Francesca and Bruce Dearing? It might have saved his job.

  He didn’t even hang around long enough to publish the article he’d threatened to write against the First Lady’s kitchen garden.

  I could understand how someone as proud as Parker would be devastated over losing his prestigious White House assignment, but he hadn’t lost the assignment yet. And I couldn’t believe he’d take his own life without tr
ying to take one or two people down with him. That was the miserable kind of guy he was, the kind who enjoyed spreading his misery around.

  Not my business.

  Griffon Parker was dead. The world believed he’d killed himself. Who was I to say otherwise?

  STAY OUT OF THE PICTURE. THIS CARDINAL WHITE House rule had been drilled into my head from day one.

  Like the insects and worms silently toiling deep in the soil to keep the garden healthy, the White House staff worked behind the scenes to keep the President of the United States well fed, on time, and looking perfect as he worked to keep the country safe and the government running. Very few citizens cared to watch the ushers, maids, and gardening staff shuffling about any more than they’d wish to see those wiggly insects and worms living below ground come flopping up to the surface.

  It was the colorful floribunda and tea roses blooming in the Rose Garden that the press and the public wanted to see; it was the President, First Family, VIP visitors, and the First Dog they wanted to see. There was no room on the staff for publicity seekers or showboating. It simply wasn’t done.

  I didn’t need the reminder, thank you very much.

  Seth Donahue, the First Lady’s social secretary, however, apparently disagreed, if his frantic gestures were any indication. His lanky body moved like an undulating fish as he tried to push me from a great distance. Even his bleached blond hair, so light that it looked colorless, gleamed in the morning light like fish scales.

  I didn’t know why he was so adamant. Perhaps he thought I was planning to dive into the picture as the First Lady’s photographer snapped pictures of Margaret Bradley surrounded by the volunteers who’d spent the last several months helping out in the vegetable garden.

  To placate him, I took a half step to the left.

  Honestly, after the harrowing morning I’d had, I was more than ready to stand back and let someone else—anyone else—take over.

  That Monday morning I’d arrived at the White House bright and early with Fredrick’s thank-you violets to find the back stairs and hallways abuzz with rumors and speculations about Griffon Parker’s death. Not surprising, really. The staff—while adapt at keeping a lid on White House affairs when speaking with outsiders—loved to gossip with each other.

  Parker had been a fixture in the White House press room for more than a quarter decade. Everyone was keenly aware of his absence.

  Had he really killed himself? many of the staff were asking. Others wondered if someone from the White House, someone who benefited from his death, had killed the crusty old reporter.

  It wasn’t my business, I reminded myself—a sentiment with which I prayed Detective Hernandez would agree.

  What I needed to do was immerse myself in the tasks of the day. Only then would my nerves settle down. The devil never bothers with busy hands, Grandmother Faye had told me time and again. Well, I don’t know about the devil, but busy hands are adept at scaring away unproductive thoughts.

  The First Lady’s first harvest was in two days. Advanced publicity photos were planned for today. And with all the last-minute changes to be worked out, there’d be no shortage of tasks demanding my attention.

  I’d hoped no one would notice me or want to talk with me as I kept my head down and headed straight for grounds office underneath the North Portico.

  “Casey.” Steve Sallis, a Secret Service agent from the President’s protective detail, dressed in a nondescript black suit, stood like an unmovable pillar blocking the door to the office.

  Everyone at the White House knew Steve. Whenever he had a free moment, he’d stop and chat with the gardening staff. Steve was a handsome man with blond hair and an easygoing smile. This morning, however, his friendly smile was nowhere in sight.

  He crossed his arms over his chest and frowned.

  “There’s nothing to see here. Move it along,” I wanted to tell him. But instead I said with a hopeful lilt, “Morning, Steve. If you don’t mind stepping to one side or the other, I’ve got a busy day.” I tried to ease around him and get inside my office.

  “Casey”—Steve put his hand on my shoulder—“we’ve got a problem.”

  “A problem?”

  As in Parker’s death?

  As in Francesca’s murder mystery dinner that might have turned real?

  My anxiety level notched up by only, oh, one hundred and ten percent. I tried to act like I had no idea why the Secret Service might want to talk with me, but my voice squeaked when I asked, “What problem?”

  “In the garden, I’m afraid.”

  “The garden.” Thank goodness. My tense shoulders dropped at least two inches. He wasn’t here to grill me about Parker or attempted murder.

  Wait a minute. Did he say the garden? “Which garden?”

  He rubbed the back of his neck and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Um…I’m afraid the problem is with the First Lady’s kitchen garden.”

  “You’re afraid? Then that would make me freaking terrified. What’s happened?”

  “I’m not sure. Sometime over the weekend Milo must have gotten to the vegetables. I noticed it last night. Several of the plants have been dug up.”

  “I thought we’d trained him to leave the plants alone.” I sighed. “No problem. We should be able to fix it.” Even if I needed to remove a few plants, there should still be plenty left in the vegetable bed for today’s pictures and Wednesday’s harvest.

  The main problem would be if the First Lady’s social secretary got hold of the news and decided to use the opportunity to make me look incompetent. Or worse, he might panic and give everyone on the White House staff a blazing headache.

  “Does Seth know?” I asked.

  “No. I was directed to tell either you or Gordon, and no one else.”

  “Good.” It was still early. I could fix the garden before Seth found out. “Wait a minute. You were directed to come tell me?”

  “Or Gordon,” Steve said.

  I wondered why Jack Turner hadn’t volunteered to come tell me about this. He’d sought me out on Friday to tell me something, not that he’d stuck around long enough to tell me what. I wondered what it could have been.

  Perhaps Jack had been ordered to stay away from me because of what had happened this past spring. I hoped that wasn’t the case. Because if it was, I’d never find out what he was going to say to me last Friday. Not that I cared.

  He’d shown no faith in my ability to pass the Secret Service’s training session, a training session everyone else had passed without any trouble. Sure, he’d been right. I had failed. Miserably.

  Forget Jack. Yes, he’d saved my life this past spring. But he’d simply been following orders. And yes, he did make my heart race, and not in a scary I’m-having-a-heart-attack sort of way, but with a tingly, warm, fuzzy I’m-running-through-a-summer-rain kind of thumping heartbeat. But none of that mattered.

  I needed to focus on what was important—the garden.

  I nudged Steve aside and unlocked the grounds office door.

  “We’re really sorry about this, Casey,” he said as I turned on the lights and dropped my backpack on my desk. “None of the agents know how this could have happened. We’ve been watching Milo.”

  “And Gordon and I have been working with him on his garden manners. Not to mention the extensive work the dog trainer’s done with him. But he’s still a puppy, and puppies are notorious for doing naughty things.”

  As if on cue, Milo trotted into the office and plopped down beside my desk. Although not yet fully grown, he already weighed more than fifty pounds. He had shaggy golden fur with one white leg and a wide white stripe running down his chest.

  “Well, Milo, what do you have to say for yourself?”

  At the sound of his name he started to wag his tail so vigorously his entire bottom half wiggled. His bright pink tongue lolled out the side of his mouth.

  As much as I wanted to be upset with him, I couldn’t. He was too darn cute.

  “You’
re stuffed full of puppy energy, aren’t you, my sweet boy?” I tousled the long curling fur on the overgrown pup’s head, earning myself a sloppy kiss on the hand.

  “I’d say he’s mostly dog slobber.” Steve chuckled as I searched for something to wipe off my dripping hand. I ended up wiping the back of my hand on my khakis.

  I tossed a couple of trowels and several pairs of gloves into my large sweetgrass basket, tucked my well-oiled gardening shears into a leather holster on my belt, and grabbed my wide-brimmed garden hat. “Let’s go have a look.”

  Wednesday was Harvest Day on the White House’s South Lawn.

  Seth Donahue had added the capital letters. I think he was on the verge of making them bold and golden after I’d called him at home over the weekend to tell him about how Francesca had booked us Gillis Farquhar as our guest celebrity. Not to be outdone, Seth had spent the weekend inviting several other celebrities, political power brokers, and all the major television and cable news networks to take part in what I’d initially intended to be a small affair designed for local schoolchildren.

  In advance of Wednesday’s big-top circus, the First Lady was scheduled to pose for pictures with the volunteers at nine this morning followed by a brief preview of the garden for the press at ten. On the way out of the office, I checked the large industrial clock hanging over the door. It was nearly seven o’clock.

  Thank goodness I liked to come in early.

  Despite the troubles Milo had caused and the headache it would no doubt give me, as I walked with Steve down the hill, past the President’s putting green, around the flat portion of the lawn where Marine One landed, and toward the vegetable garden, my step felt lighter. Plants, I understood and could handle. They were what I loved.

  Milo loped alongside us. With a happy bark he dashed off to chase a squirrel up a linden tree, but soon returned wagging his tail.

  “Oh, Milo,” I cried when I saw the mess he’d made of the garden.

  This was much worse than the time he’d pulled most of the pea plants from their ladder trellis. Heads of lettuce the size of basketballs had been pulled out by their roots. I wandered through the rows. As I inspected the damage, I stepped over a small head of red oak-leaf lettuce, a pile of ripped-up kale large enough to have fed a family of four, and a long, uprooted cucumber vine teeming with yellow flowers.