The Scarlet Pepper

by Dorothy St. James

  “Sorry about that,” I said and then stepped out of the picture.

  From a spot well outside the frame I watched Barton Bailey, the photographer, work his magic. The volunteers who’d helped repair the garden had ended up looking wilted from the summer heat and a bit muddy. I thought it added a delightful touch of authenticity to what would have been a dry, staged photo.

  Barton continued to snap away. Milo seemed happy to stay where he belonged. I leaned back on my heels and let my head fall forward.

  “Careful where you close your eyes. Barton will take a picture of you asleep on the job and post it on a wall where everyone can see it,” a deep male voice whispered in my ear.

  I opened my eyes to find a deadly handsome member of the Secret Service’s elite military arm, the Counter Assault Team, smiling at me.

  His black hair was cut short. He was dressed in a short-sleeved black battle dress uniform, which had to feel like an oven in all this heat. Although, come to think about it, he didn’t look at all sweaty.

  “Jack!” I was surprised to see him.

  His crooked smile set my heart racing.

  Pounding, actually.

  And my mouth went dry.

  “Before Friday, I hadn’t seen or heard from you in weeks.” The complaint slipped out of my mouth before I could catch it. “And then on Friday you didn’t stick around long enough to say two words to me.”

  There was no reason I should have seen him before now. CAT agents kept mainly to themselves. When they weren’t actively protecting the President, they were training.

  “Sounds like you missed me.” Jack tilted his head toward me. “I was traveling with President Bradley and then sent on another training detail.”

  “Miss you?” I snorted and tried to play it cool. “Puh-leeze. Why would I miss you? I’m just surprised to see you pop up so unexpectedly. And for a second time, at that.”

  Had the Secret Service sent Jack to spy on me to find out if I was involved in Griffon Parker’s death?

  “I mean, it’s not as if I need protecting or—”

  “I get it. I wasn’t missed.” The corners of his mouth lifted even more. “Wednesday is your big day, Casey. I wanted to be around to see it.”

  “The harvest is about Mrs. Bradley, not me. It’s her garden, not mine.”

  Still, my stomach did a huge flip-flop. He came back because of me?

  I ducked my head to hide the burning flush that rose to my cheeks under the broad brim of my floppy straw hat.

  “Alyssa,” I hissed.

  My roommate kept telling me that sparks flew every time Jack and I were together. Just this weekend, she’d slipped into the conversation that Jack and I should be doing the horizontal mambo together. I wished she’d stop saying that. She was only making me act even more self-conscious and awkward around him.

  Jack and I had become friends. That much was true.

  But the rest was nuts.

  He obviously hadn’t thought I was worth the time to call. I wasn’t even worth the time for him to wait for me to get off the phone for him to tell me whatever he’d needed to tell me.

  Whatever.

  I didn’t like guns or men with guns. End. Of. Story.

  “What are you mumbling about?” Jack tipped up the brim of my hat and asked.

  Gracious sakes. Had I said that last bit aloud? What the devil was wrong with me?

  “I wasn’t saying anything. Just muttering a list of things I need to get done today.” A fresh wave of heat scorched my cheeks.

  “Mm-hm,” he said.

  “The harvest has kept all of us busy.”

  “Not too busy. I heard you were in the park when they found Griffon Parker.”

  “I knew it! The Secret Service did send you to spy on me.”

  “You’ve got your letters confused there. I’m a member of the C-A-T, not the C-I-A. Besides which, spies don’t wear uniforms with team logos emblazoned on them…unless they’re uniforms for the other side.” He tapped a patch on his bulletproof vest with “Secret Service” embroidered below a monochrome American flag stitched all in white. “Didn’t you watch Saturday morning spy shows growing up?”

  “Grandmother Faye believed kids should be playing outside, not vegging out in front of a TV.”

  “How horrible! You missed out on an entire generation of bad TV.”

  “I know. It was horrible! Growing up, I never understood any of my friends’ references to popular shows because Granny wouldn’t turn on the TV until after I went to bed.”

  He suddenly turned serious. “Um…Casey, you aren’t planning on investigating this time, are you?”

  “Me? No, of course not. What’s there to investigate? Parker took his own life.”

  “True,” he said.

  “I don’t have a death wish or anything like that. So you don’t have to worry about me. Not that you have been. You’ve been too busy with other things, which is fine. I understand.”

  Did I understand? Then why did I sound upset?

  “Okay. Okay.” He started to walk away. “I suppose I’ll see you around, then.”

  “Wait. What did you want to tell me on Friday?” I asked.

  “Um…” He opened his mouth, but hesitated. Perhaps he wanted to ask me out for dinner after work. I’d like that.

  “Yes?” My heart hammered in my chest despite my intense desire that it not do that.

  Jack’s smile faded. He appeared to be listening to the small receiver plugged into his ear.

  Alyssa had been wrong about Jack’s feelings toward me. And even if I wanted a relationship with him, which I didn’t, Jack clearly wasn’t interested. We were as incompatible as beans growing next to onions. We’d stunt each other’s growth.

  “Oh, no,” Jack said. He grabbed my arm. “What have you done?”

  “Well, I’ve been really busy with the vegetables—have you seen the eggplants?—coordinating with the volunteers, pulling together the events for—”

  He held up his hand. “Then tell me why Detective Hernandez with the D.C. Police is here to question you about Griffon Parker’s murder.”

  “Did you say murder?”

  He nodded.

  “But yesterday’s newspaper said Parker killed himself.”

  “Ms. Calhoun is with me,” Jack reported into his radio. “Affirmative. I’ll escort her there now.”

  Chapter Eight

  If one morning I walked on top of the Potomac River, the headline that afternoon would read: “President Can’t Swim.”

  —LYNDON B. JOHNSON, THE 36TH PRESIDENT OF

  THE UNITED STATES

  I bit down on the inside of my cheek as I followed Jack up the South Lawn’s hill toward the White House.

  I had nothing to worry about, right? Detective Hernandez was just putting together a timeline of the last hours of Griffon Parker’s life and wanted to ask me about what the reporter had said to me on Friday night. That nonsense about poisoning Parker with yew leaves…certainly Detective Hernandez—Manny—didn’t believe anyone would use a hedge as a murder weapon. That was just…just…stupid.

  On the way to meet the detective, Jack detoured to a small seating area beneath the massive waxy-leafed Jackson magnolia tree.

  The bright red roses in the adjacent Rose Garden rustled in a sudden breeze as Jack took my hand. He stood in front of a white wrought-iron bench, but he didn’t sit. In the shade of the magnolia, we stood toe to toe.

  Jack’s hold on my hand tightened just a bit as our eyes met. “I don’t know what’s going on or what you’ve gotten yourself mixed up in this time,” he said.

  “I haven’t—”

  “You don’t have to explain yourself to me. I just want you to be careful, Casey. Don’t offer any information unasked. Don’t let the police lead you to say anything that could be twisted around to implicate you. If you feel at all uncertain, stop the interview and call your lawyer.”

  “But I don’t have a lawyer.” Did I need one? “Why would I have any
thing to worry about? I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “Your guilt or innocence doesn’t matter. What you tell the detective is what’s important.”

  “Detective Hernandez knows me. He’s simply gathering information. Isn’t he?”

  “I hope so.” Jack gave my hand a squeeze and then released it. “It’s just that everybody knows about that perfect murder you were planning with Francesca.”

  “Everybody?” I asked.

  “Everybody.”

  My cheeks heated. Jack hadn’t even been around, hadn’t even bothered to call me, and he knew about it? Heavens. I was in trouble. “It was for a charity dinner.”

  “Please be careful, Casey.” His voice sounded rough and husky, as if he truly did care.

  I don’t know why his show of emotion surprised me. We were friends. Friends cared about each other. It didn’t necessarily mean he wanted to take our relationship to the next level. Nor did it necessarily mean I wanted to deepen my relationship with him, either.

  I didn’t, did I?

  Still, I was touched to know that he cared enough to be worried. A lump formed in my throat. Swallowing hard, I nodded. “I’ll be careful.”

  “They’re waiting for us,” he said and cleared his throat. He nodded toward the glass-paned door that led into the Palm Room and the two grim-faced men who were standing inside the room watching us.

  The sunny Palm Room, with white latticework on the walls and colorful tropical plants in its corners, was one of my favorite places in the White House. Located on the ground floor, it served as a gateway to the West Wing. Double glass-paned doors led out to a covered colonnade. Another set of glass-paned doors led to the interior of the White House. And on the opposite end of the room was an oversized set of solid double doors that opened out to the North Drive.

  Detective Manny Hernandez, wearing a brown suit and a golden tie that looked older than my nearly forty years, stood with his hands jammed into the pockets of his rumpled suit coat. A second police officer, dressed in the D.C. Metro Police’s distinctive black uniform, stood beside Manny with a wide stance and his hands clasped behind him.

  They both wore bright red visitor’s badges around their necks.

  The White House’s very proper chief usher, Ambrose Jones, dressed in a crisp black suit, personally served as their escort. Ambrose, who followed his own code of Victorian manners, prided himself on running an efficient, elegant household. He strictly prohibited any kind of drama from those working under him.

  “Ms. Calhoun,” he said stiffly, “the police say they wish to question you. I hope there isn’t a problem.”

  He raised his brows as he put a strong emphasis on that singular word, “problem.”

  “If there is, I’m sure as heck not the source of it. The detective is merely following every lead possible to put together the last hours of Griffon Parker’s life.” I looked to Manny for confirmation.

  He nodded. “We’re leaving no stone unturned.”

  Ambrose wasn’t impressed. “He’s not questioning any other members of our staff. Only you, Ms. Calhoun. I find that…disturbing.”

  “I’m also interviewing many members of the White House press corps,” Manny said. “Is there someplace nearby and private where I can ask Ms. Calhoun a few questions?”

  “The Map Room,” Ambrose said. “Please, follow me.”

  Jack gave a wordless nod of encouragement as I followed Ambrose’s slow, steady stride and crossed through the glass-paned double doors. A blast of air-conditioning chilled my bare arms. Ambrose led us down the White House’s vaulted center hall, past the gleaming pale pink marble walls and through the heavenly scents of spicy curry and fresh vegetables emanating from the kitchen.

  “President Clinton testified before a grand jury in the Map Room regarding his relationship with that woman,” Ambrose muttered, shaking his head with each dignified step. “The presidency survived the scandal. Don’t know if it’ll survive Cassandra Calhoun. In all my days, I haven’t had this much trouble from a gardener. Good people they are. Salt of the earth.”

  Ambrose stopped at the Map Room and opened the door.

  “When you are finished, Barney will escort you to the gate,” Ambrose told Manny and his sergeant.

  A uniformed division officer emerged from the Secret Service’s satellite office located directly across the hallway. “I’m Barney, sir,” the officer said to Manny and took a position standing next to the Map Room door and folded his arms over his muscular chest.

  The shadowy Map Room, decorated in Chippendale style, had a cozy fireplace and dark mahogany furniture that dated back to the 1700s. Several presidential portraits hung on the white-paneled walls. Named for its use as a situation room by Franklin Roosevelt during World War II, the room now functioned as a private meeting room.

  Manny indicated that I should sit in a Queen Anne chair with bright red upholstery. I brushed off the seat of my pants before perching on the edge of the chair. Manny’s sergeant sat wide-legged on a matching sofa and pulled out a notebook and tape recorder.

  “I apologize for having to pull you away from your work, Casey, but some questions have cropped up that we need to have answered.” The corners of Manny’s eyes crinkled with concern as he pulled out a pen from his jacket pocket and fiddled with it in his hands. “It’s important that you answer our questions as completely as possible. Do you understand?”

  I nodded.

  Manny’s gaze latched on to my mouth. Was he looking for signs of nerves? “As you might have already heard, Parker’s suicide setup was a ruse. The full results of the tox screen won’t come back for another week or two, but we do now know from the preliminary medical exam and lab tests that Griffon Parker was poisoned.”

  I nodded again and dug my teeth into my bottom lip.

  “The poison was in his tea.” Manny continued to watch me intently for a reaction. I squeezed my hands in my lap, making damn sure I didn’t give him one.

  He sighed and started to pace the length of the Map Room’s rose-colored Oriental rug. “Here’s the problem we have, Casey. You were seen publicly arguing with Parker the night before he died. The last thing Parker scrawled in his notebook was your name.”

  “Really?” I supposed he’d jotted my name into his notebook after our confrontation.

  “Yes. And there’s more. At the crime scene your friend Annie all but accused you of putting poison in his tea. Francesca Dearing has also told us that you came up with a plan to murder Parker by putting poison in his tea.”

  “Francesca told you that?” Un-freaking-believable. A wave of heat scorched my cheeks.

  “Is it true?” Manny asked.

  I opened my mouth to deny it, but I had come up with the idea of the yew leaves in the tea. Was it time to call a lawyer? No, I needed to explain myself. “I was helping Francesca plan a charity murder mystery dinner to support her neighborhood’s garden club. She wanted to come up with what she called ‘the perfect murder.’ It was going to be a game people would pay money to play while sipping on drinks and nibbling on gourmet delicacies. It was never about Griffon Parker.”

  “And yet, Parker was poisoned,” Manny said. “Game or not, when we spoke with Annie Campbell this morning she described in great detail how you’d planned his murder.”

  “Am I a suspect?” My voice squeaked.

  “Our lab is testing specifically for yew extract,” he said instead of answering the question. “Tell me, will the results be a positive hit for the plant?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Manny stroked his mustache thoughtfully.

  “Tell me about the yew bush,” he said.

  “What yew bush? What do you mean?” I was still reeling over the shock that I might actually be a suspect in Parker’s murder. “There aren’t any on the White House property.”

  “Just in general, what do you know about yew bushes?”

  “I suppose you mean the European yew. Although it can be used as a hedge, it’s actuall
y a small conifer tree. It’s an evergreen with short, needle-like leaves.”

  “I see. And what part of the plant is poisonous?”

  “Pretty much all of it, except the red berry. Its scientific name is the Greek word for poison. The seeds have the highest level of toxin, followed by its leaves. The alkaloid taxine is a toxin specific to the yew. If you ingest enough of it, studies have shown that it can cause cardiac arrest. Actually, if that’s what killed Parker, he was lucky that he died quickly. I’ve read case studies detailing attempted suicides where yew was ingested, but death didn’t happen immediately. The patients lingered for days and in terrible pain, but the damage done to the internal organs was irreversible and fatal.”

  “You seem very knowledgeable,” Manny pointed out.

  Jack had warned me not to offer information too freely, and here I was making myself look like an expert in poisonous plants.

  “I’m a trained horticulturist. I can bore you with all sorts of information about the European yew and any number of other plants. So can Gordon and Lorenzo.”

  “You’re talking about the other two White House gardeners, Gordon Sims and Lorenzo Parisi?” Manny asked while his sergeant noisily wrote down their names in his notebook. “Are you suggesting that one of them may have had a reason to poison Parker?”

  “No. I’m not saying anything like that.”

  “Then you’re saying that you’re the only one with a motive?”

  “No! I’m not—” I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. This wasn’t going nearly the way I’d expected.

  “Casey, we’re trying to get all the facts. We need you to be completely honest with us,” Manny said. “The argument you had with Parker the night before his death, what was it about?”

  “Oh, it was stupid. He’d chased me down as I was leaving for the night. He demanded an impromptu interview even though he knew I didn’t have the authority to talk with the press.”

  “But you were seen talking with him. Why?”