The Scarlet Pepper

by Dorothy St. James

  Could I have misunderstood what I’d overheard two days before about how he was going to “handle” me like he’d “handled” Parker? But what about the following morning and what I saw transpire between him and Annie? And why would he readily admit to wrongdoing if he was innocent?

  Frank flashed a smile that showed off his white teeth. Both Bryce and Thatch seemed to shrink back a bit.

  “Why don’t you review the security feed and let us know exactly which plants we need to avoid?” Frank said. “We’ll steer clear of those during this afternoon’s harvest. Everyone will be safe, and the First Lady won’t be embarrassed by the Secret Service’s obvious breakdown in security.”

  “Now, see here—” Thatch protested.

  “I’m not placing blame,” Frank continued smoothly. “Mistakes happen. Even breaches in security, I suppose. The Secret Service can’t be expected to be everywhere at all times. There’s bound to be occasional mistakes. It’s our job to make sure those mistakes don’t interfere with the activities of the First Family.”

  Thatch opened his mouth and then closed it again.

  “Hell,” Bryce said.

  “Well?” Frank asked, his brows raised. “What would you like me to tell the President about this breach in security?”

  “Tell him that I’ll see what we can do,” Bryce said.

  “We don’t have to cancel?” I asked, not ready to believe it.

  “No, damn it, you won’t have to cancel.” Bryce bent down and ripped a pepper plant out by its roots. “I’ll rush a random testing of the harvest through our lab. We’ll call in off-duty agents to help with the investigation. This’ll be cleared up before the kids arrive. No one gets poisoned on my watch.”

  He looked straight at me. “Give us an hour to do what we need to do in the garden and we’ll start checking the surveillance feed from last night. After that, you can do whatever you want in here. In the meantime, stay out of trouble.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Character is like a tree and reputation like a shadow. The shadow is what we think of it; the tree is the real thing.

  —ABRAHAM LINCOLN, THE 16TH PRESIDENT OF

  THE UNITED STATES

  “DON’T worry.” Isn’t it odd that those two words when put together always seem to have the opposite effect?

  I crossed my arms over my chest. Not only did I not trust those two words, I also didn’t trust the mouth that had formed them. “I’m serious, Casey,” Frank continued, his smile as easygoing as ever. “You can handle this. There’s no reason for you to worry.”

  I had just returned from the White House greenhouse facility and had climbed out of the grounds crew’s nondescript white van filled with replacement vegetable plants when Frank had grabbed my arm and pulled me aside. Gordon and Lorenzo had nodded in my direction and started directing unloading the van.

  “Let me help there, lads.” Gillis, who must have just arrived and was dressed in his flowered kilt as if he were ready to tape his show, rolled up his sleeves and grabbed a tray of plants. I didn’t have a chance to say two words to the celebrity gardener. Frank had already dragged me several yards away.

  “If you don’t get your hands off me, I’ll scream,” I warned Frank.

  Although there was little he could do on White House property, I wasn’t about to take chances with my life. Despite what Jack thought, I liked my life and intended to keep on living it. “I mean it. I’ll scream loud enough to scare the snipers on the roof.”

  Frank released my arm so quickly his movements looked like a blur. “I know you and I don’t see things eye to eye right now, Casey. I know you don’t approve of…what I’ve done, but I need your cooperation. Margaret needs you.”

  “Margaret, the First Lady?” I asked with great care. Was she involved in this?

  Perhaps if I played along with him, I could catch him making a mistake. One slipup. That was all it would take for me to prove Frank had a hand in Parker’s and Matthews’s murders.

  “This afternoon, after the schoolchildren have harvested the vegetables and are working with the chefs to prepare the lunch, I’ve scheduled a small Q&A session with the press. I want you to be the one to answer the questions.”

  Okay, I thought, here it comes. The hammer was about to fall.

  “Me? I shouldn’t be the one talking to the press. I’m an assistant. The First Lady has always been the spokeswoman for the garden. It’s her garden. And if she isn’t available, Gordon should take the lead. He’s the head gardener.”

  “True.” Even though no one was close enough to us to overhear our conversation, Frank lowered his voice. “This has to do with Griffon Parker’s death.”

  I knew it! I simply didn’t realize Frank would admit to it so readily.

  I leaned forward slightly and whispered, “Go on.”

  “As you know, Parker left your name in his notebook, not the First Lady’s, not Gordon Sims’s. Your name. I’m sure you’re well aware of the rumors making their way across the Internet, the ones insisting the garden is a fake—an elaborately staged fake. Those rumors are now connected to you and your organic gardening program. Add to that, this morning the latest issue of Organic World came out, and it claims there’s lead contamination in the soil, and it also names you.”

  “But none of that is true. The East Wing already issued a statement correcting the Organic World article. I wrote that statement last night when I was sitting in the hospital waiting room. And it’s true the garden might not be exactly like a home gardener’s. The White House has a horticultural staff along with an endless supply of off-site experts and volunteers available to answer questions and lend a helping hand. But the organic practices we’ve implemented are simple and can be used in any backyard.”

  “Great. That’s what I want you to explain at the Q&A.”

  “But why me?” I asked. “Why do I have to be the one to talk to the reporters?”

  “It’s your blood the journalists want to taste.”

  “And you’re only too glad to hand me over to them? Is that it? Is that the reason you destroyed the First Lady’s garden? To chum the water?”

  “What? You think that I—” Frank shook his head. “Why would I want to hurt Margaret or John? That garden is Margaret’s sanctuary, her quiet spot away from the rumors, partisan wars, and budding scandals. I would never take it away from her.”

  He sounded so convincing. He’d also sounded convincing two days ago in his office. “I heard you tell Bruce Dearing that you’d handle me like you handled Griffon Parker and that you’d do it by today. And what do I find this morning? The garden in shambles.”

  “You thought I was talking about hurting you? I was talking about the negative news reports popping up all over the Internet. I’m all about the message, the image this administration presents, and the positive message that we convey.” With a violent swing of his arm, he thrust his pointed finger toward the garden. “That’s not the message I would ever want to send out. Ever. Parker’s death caused more trouble for me than it could have ever solved. I could handle one pain-in-the-ass reporter. His death has caused every damn reporter in the press room to act like him and go all ‘investigative’ on me. The wild garden rumors are just one fire in a forest of fires that I’m battling. If I lose control over this one, the reporters will only be more rabid when it comes to the next big problem to hit. So I ask you, Casey, are you a team player? Are you willing to help get Margaret’s harvest back on message?”

  What could I say to that? “Of course I’ll do what I can to help the First Lady.”

  “I’ll be right next to you. If you stumble on a question I’ll jump right in. This is how the game is played. This is how we win back control of the message.” He patted my arm. “Trust me.”

  Trust him?

  That was too big a leap for me to take. “I’ll answer the reporters’ questions.” But I sure as hell wasn’t going to trust Frank to have my back. I started to walk away, but Frank called me back.

>   “What did you mean when you said earlier that Kelly Montague has been searching for her birth father?” he asked.

  “I meant just that, and you darn well know it. She believes someone in this administration is her father. Perhaps Bruce Dearing. Perhaps even President Bradley. Someone didn’t want the scandal to come out twenty-five years ago and that same person is now willing to kill to keep the story from coming out today.

  “You’re the ever-loyal friend to both Bruce and John Bradley. You’ve long been the go-to guy they could count on to keep the public image and message on target. I suspect you’ve gone to extreme measures more than once to do just that.”

  “Kelly believes either Bruce or the President is her father?” He shook his head. “Bruce can’t have children. Neither can John.”

  “But Margaret’s pregnant.”

  “Casey?” Francesca called from the garden. “Where did you want to plant the okra?”

  “Excuse me,” I said to Frank. “I have a garden to repair.”

  Why should I believe Frank? It was his job to promote the story he wanted others to hear.

  “OH, DEAR, WE SHOULDN’T SPEAK ILL OF OTHERS,” Mable Bowls protested. She waggled a replacement tomato seedling at me. “It’s wrong to gossip.”

  The entire grounds crew and all the volunteers I could find were making quick work of tearing out the leggy, unhealthy vegetables that had appeared overnight and planting the crop I’d been growing in the greenhouses across town. Revised schematics would be handed out to the press within the hour.

  Like a well-oiled machine, everyone was pulling together, even Gillis, and we were certain to accomplish what should have taken all day in just under a few hours. Standard fare for the White House staff, who regularly made major changes at the last minute for events of worldwide importance.

  “Very wrong,” Pearle Stone agreed. Her hands moved with seasoned grace as she tucked a replacement pepper plant into the soft ground.

  “Two men are dead,” I reminded them.

  “Is this about that silly murder mystery dinner you and Francesca were planning? I heard Parker’s murder followed the details you devised to the letter.”

  “You knew the details of the mystery dinner murder?” I asked.

  “Darling, we discussed it at our weekly tea. Not very clever to leave a bottle of pills,” Mable said.

  “It would have been better to keep the police guessing instead of giving them something to test for,” Pearle added.

  “The two of you frighten me.”

  They both smiled angelically.

  “I do need your help,” I told them. “Kelly Montague is in the hospital. I was talking with her right before the hit-and-run attack. She was worried that she’d uncovered a long-forgotten scandal, a scandal someone has been willing to kill to keep secret. She thought the scandal dated back about twenty-five years ago. There was a baby—does that sound familiar?”

  Both women shook their heads. “That was so long ago.”

  “How about today?” I tried. “Do you have any idea what Griffon Parker found out about Francesca and Bruce Dearing?” I asked. “Was Bruce having an affair?”

  “It couldn’t have been about Bruce’s philandering ways. Everybody knows about that,” Mable said.

  “Really? Bruce? Does Francesca know?”

  “Honey,” Pearle said, “that girl was never one to sit at home like a good wife. She has always lived an active side life as well.”

  “If it works for them, who are we to criticize?” Mable said.

  “News of an affair wouldn’t be news at all with either Bruce or Francesca. The way Parker was talking, he must have learned something truly explosive about those two,” Pearle said.

  “Like a secret baby?” I asked.

  “Bruce can’t have children.” Pearle moved down the row to plant another healthy bell pepper. “Poor Francesca. She wanted to adopt. Her friend Annie offered to help out.”

  “Poor Annie, her husband mismanaged their money,” Mable added. “When he died, all he left her with was a pile of bills.”

  “Francesca is overly generous with Annie,” Pearle said. “She pays for everything.”

  “But what about Francesca? Why didn’t she adopt?” I asked, trying to keep the two on the subject.

  “Bruce wasn’t interested in doing that.”

  “He can’t have children? Are you sure?” I followed her. I have to admit, I’d stopped working.

  “It was quite the talk back when it looked as if he might get the presidential nomination. When was that?” Pearle asked.

  “Nineteen eighty-eight,” I said.

  “Ooh…” she replied and then moved on to the next plant.

  Again, I followed.

  “What happened back then? What was everyone talking about?”

  “I suppose it really wasn’t a secret at the time, so it’s not gossip now. At Francesca’s urging, Bruce had gone to one of those fertility clinics. He was none too happy when everyone found out. He never went back. Never would talk to Francesca about children again, either,” she said.

  “Did that hurt his political aspirations?”

  “What’s that, dear?”

  “His political aspirations?” I moved closer to her and repeated. “Did that damage them?”

  “Oh, my, no. A little middling like that? Just made him red faced at some of the parties around town for a month or so.”

  That seemed to be all she’d say about that, so I had no choice but to change course.

  “Someone recently told me that President Bradley can’t have children, but the First Lady is pregnant with twins. Have you heard anything about that?” I asked, expecting to catch Frank in his lie.

  “Poor Margaret.” Mable tsked. “No wonder she didn’t have time to attend any socials or teas. Someone did tell me that she’d been going to a fertility clinic for the past year and a half. I heard her biological clock was ticking and she wasn’t willing to wait a moment longer.”

  “I heard that the babies are the President’s,” Pearle added, “but they had to work hard to make that happen.”

  “I see.” So Frank had been telling the truth about that. “What about Frank Lispon? Has he ever been the focus of a scandal?”

  “Now, Frank. What a dynamic guy. He started out all hot and heavy with the younger ladies, a real heartbreaking Casanova, and then—” Pearle interrupted herself. “Don’t look now, that handsome Gordon Sims is coming our way.” She swept off her sunhat and fluffed her hair.

  Once Gordon arrived, I couldn’t get either Mable or Pearle to leave the man alone long enough to tell me what they knew about Frank Lispon.

  SO FAR ALL OF MY QUESTIONS ONLY LED TO more questions. What dangerous game was Frank playing? Why would he sabotage the vegetable garden if his actions hurt the President and First Lady more than they hurt me? Most Americans didn’t know, or care, that I existed.

  I doubted most reporters knew my name. By parading me in front of the press, did Frank really think he could turn the tide on the negative news reports? Was that even his goal? Or was he planning something else?

  I couldn’t do this on my own.

  “Jack, do you have a moment?”

  Jack excused himself from the other uniformed Secret Service agents who’d stationed themselves around the garden’s perimeter in advance of the First Lady’s arrival for the harvest activities.

  “The garden looks…healthy,” he said as the other agents watched us. It was unnerving having so many prying eyes on me when what I wanted to say to Jack felt so damned private.

  “Um…” I tried to ignore their curious gazes. And failed. Miserably. “Must they stare?”

  He looked over at his fellow agents as if only now noticing them. “It’s their job to keep a watchful eye. That’s how assassins and mentals are stopped before the gun comes out of the coat. We have a duty to notice things before bullets can fly and lives are lost.”

  “Who wears a coat on a hot summer day like today?” />
  “Mostly mentals with guns in their pockets.”

  “Ah.”

  “Come on. Walk with me,” he said. He led us past the First Lady’s vegetable garden, which had been patched back together quite nicely. We passed the South Fountain and walked toward a shady area beneath the South Lawn’s large white oaks. The leaves rustled above our heads as a couple of squirrels chased each other through the canopy.

  “Sure, they’re cute now. Soon, though, they’ll be munching on the strawberries and raspberries,” I muttered to myself. “Netting. We’ll need to install netting next week.”

  “What’s up?” Jack asked.

  “Nothing. Jack, I want to apologize for how I’ve been acting toward you.” I grimaced. “I know the other day you told me not to count on you to be around to save me…or not save me, but…”

  Jack kept silent as he watched me struggle for words.

  I needed him to understand that I wanted him in my life. That I—this was difficult to admit even to myself—I wanted to trust him. I needed to trust him. But I couldn’t just snap my fingers and become the perfect, unbroken girlfriend Jack deserved.

  “My father—” I started to pace. I didn’t want to think about that man. I didn’t want to think about how he could coldly take another’s life. “As you already know, he left my mother. He left me. I thought it didn’t matter. I thought I didn’t need him. He left. So what? He’s a jerk. He’s most likely a dangerous criminal who I wouldn’t want in my life. But…” But what if he’d stayed? Would he have been able to fight those men and save my mother?

  It hurt too much to put voice to those thoughts.

  “I had a wonderful childhood without him. It shouldn’t matter that he wasn’t there.”

  “It does matter,” Jack said for me.

  “Stupid, but yeah, it matters. It didn’t before. But this spring all those memories of my parents came flooding back. It changed everything. Those memories killed the carefree gardener you met this spring.”

  I wondered how this most recent memory was going to affect me. Was it going to destroy me to know that my father was no better than the men who had killed my mother? That he, too, had wrecked lives before slipping past the bonds of justice?