Flowerbed of State

by Dorothy St. James

“I know you will, Casey. I believe in you,” she said.

  President Bradley flicked a glance at his watch, which wasn’t easy considering he had to juggle the approximately twenty-pound squirming puppy in his arms to manage it. “I wish we had more time to chat, Ms. Calhoun, but I have a very busy schedule. Could you please take this little guy to Gordon?” He handed me the golden puppy. The little fluff ball gave an excited yip and started to lick my face. “I’ve been told Gordon has taken care of the White House pets for nearly thirty years.”

  “Yes, he has.” And I’d heard Gordon grumble more than once at the current administration’s lack of pets. “He’ll be thrilled to meet . . . What’s his name?”

  “Milo,” Richard supplied. “Ms. Calhoun, may I have a word with you?”

  “The two of you can talk out in the Rose Garden,” the President suggested. “I’ve got a phone call to make before Margaret steals me away for lunch.”

  “Are you sure you won’t be able to make it to the golf course with the rest of us this afternoon?”

  President Bradley shook his head. “Regretfully, no. My schedule is packed all week.”

  I led Richard out to the Rose Garden. The garden was tucked in between the White House and the Oval Office in the West Wing. Bordering the grassy space in the center, where Presidents liked to give press conferences, were wide flowerbeds planted in the French style of mixing a profusion of colors, textures, and heights in a single space. Edged with a low boxwood hedge, the four corners of the garden were marked with showy saucer magnolias that were in full bloom with their large waxy pink-and-white flowers.

  Crabapples and littleleaf lindens stood as silent sentinels down the center of the flowerbed. The crabapples had recently been replaced with younger, smaller specimens. Since it was spring, the bed was filled with jonquils, daffodils, grape hyacinths, tulips, and several other flowering bulbs.

  And of course, there were the rosebushes. The hybrid tea rose and grandiflora rosebushes looked lush and healthy, too healthy for this early in the season. They looked that way because they’d been grown in a greenhouse and planted once the blooms had set.

  I’d been surprised to learn that the roses were treated like annuals in the garden, pulled out and replaced with new plants the White House purchased every spring. Part of my proposal, a definite cost-saving measure, was to plant antique rosebushes, hardier varieties that weren’t chemically dependent or quite so short-lived.

  With the President’s trust in me to help quiet the controversy swirling around the garden’s plans, I knew I needed to rethink my approach for convincing the Grounds Committee and the press to accept the proposed changes.

  Milo wiggled and whimpered in my arms, insisting I pay attention to him. He was making so much of a fuss that I set him down. As soon as the pup’s feet hit the grass, he trotted over to the nearest flowerbed, hopped over a low boxwood hedge, and immediately started to dig up a meticulously trimmed geometric hedge of thyme that bordered the flowering crabapples with their explosion of white blooms.

  “Stop that.” I clapped my hands. Milo glanced up at me and then returned to his digging.

  “You’d better get him to start listening to you now,” Richard warned. He chuckled as I chased after the naughty puppy. “We think he’s a goldendoodle and will grow up to be about seventy pounds or so. Look at the size of his paws. I had him sent over from a rescue organization I support. John took one look at him and fell in love. I don’t remember a time when John didn’t have a dog. I think it makes him tense not to have a dog around.”

  “Dogs can be stress relievers,” I agreed as I hopped over the boxwood hedge into the flowerbed. I reached down to pick up the muddy little scamp. Before I could grab him, he darted between my legs and was off and running, dirt and bits of thyme flying into the air with each bouncy leap. I’d never met a puppy I didn’t like, but I was beginning to wonder about this one. He ran over to Richard and patted his pants leg with his paw.

  “That’s a good boy.” Richard scooped the puppy up for me. As he straightened, his gaze met mine. “Well, then.”

  Richard and I stood in the middle of the Rose Garden not saying anything, just staring at each other.

  “I’m glad John sent for you,” Richard admitted finally. “I don’t know what to do to get your attention. I don’t usually have to work this hard with women.” He shook his head with dismay. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “You don’t have to say anything. I need to apologize about yesterday. I wanted to call to explain, but I didn’t have your number.”

  “I had wondered why you didn’t show up.”

  “I did show up! Just not on time. You see, I met Pauline’s roommate.”

  “You did? Why?”

  “It wasn’t on purpose.” I explained how Isabella had come to Lafayette Square, what she’d told me, and why I thought the killer had stolen Pauline’s laptop.

  “What do you think it all means?”

  “I think . . .” I rubbed my bruised temple. “I don’t know. Perhaps she held back a vital piece of information from the audit report she’d submitted, but had kept it on her laptop?”

  “That doesn’t make sense. Why would she do that?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps she wanted to surprise everyone when she presented her findings to Congress?”

  “That doesn’t seem very professional.”

  “No, it doesn’t. But there has to be a reason why the killer stole her laptop. There simply has to be.”

  Richard nodded thoughtfully. “You know, I wish the police would find the laptop to prove that Pauline wasn’t holding back anything. If you’re wondering about it, I’m sure members of Congress are wondering about it, too, which makes my job of protecting my bank that much more difficult.”

  “I didn’t realize. So why else would someone want her laptop gone? What do you know about Brooks Keller?” I asked, thinking about the news report. “Do you know if he was involved with Pauline?”

  “You have to remember I never actually met her. I didn’t even know she’d been conducting an off-cycle regulatory review of my bank until after her death.”

  “Oh, right.”

  “But I do know Brooks has a reputation for . . . um . . . fooling around with employees and the like. I seem to remember a scandal erupting a few weeks ago when he got involved with his sister’s legal counsel. I don’t know the details.”

  “Hmm . . . I wonder if that’s why the press is asking about Brooks Keller in relationship with Pauline Bonde’s death.”

  “They are?”

  “I just saw part of a news report. They mentioned him.”

  “That’s interesting. Perhaps they’ve found something important.” He handed me the puppy. “I’m sorry, Casey, I’ve got a tee time I can’t miss. Lots of important deals happen on the links. But I’d really like to talk about this more.”

  “I would, too. If you’re brave enough, we could meet for coffee again.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Oh. I understand.”

  “I was thinking more along the lines of taking you out for dinner. Tonight? At eight?”

  I practically had to stand on my own foot to keep from dancing a jig. “You have my word I won’t be late this time.”

  “How about I make sure of that and send a car to pick you up?”

  Milo barked.

  “I would like that,” I said, and gave Richard my address.

  “Until tonight then.”

  “Until tonight.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “THERE’S no time to wait, Ms. Calhoun. It’s imperative that the grounds crew paint the snow fencing green.” Seth Donahue, the First Lady’s social secretary, had the gall to smile at me.

  I zipped up my backpack and slung it over my shoulder as I rose from my desk. “I thought they finished painting it green yesterday.”

  “Dark green,” Seth said. He sniffed as if he’d caught whiff of a horrible scent. “The Easter Egg Roll is suppos
ed to be a celebration. The color is too bleak.”

  “But I thought you’d selected it?”

  “I did.” He waved his hands as if the change meant nothing. “It needs to be a lighter shade. I’m picturing a festive apple green.”

  “You’ll need to talk with Gordon. I’m sure he can work out something for tomorrow. If you’ll excuse me, I need to get going.” I tried to sidestep Seth, but he blocked me.

  “Perhaps you didn’t understand. You need to get them started on the project today.”

  “No,” I said, and squeezed between him and the doorframe. “Sal Martin and the other available members from the National Park Service grounds crew are coming with me to the greenhouse facilities. We’re going to be working on the flower containers for the Easter Egg Roll.”

  “They can work on that later,” Seth said. Tension crinkled the skin around his eyes. “I need them to paint the fencing.”

  “You do, do you?” Considering the day I’d been having—despite Richard’s unexpected dinner invitation—I was in no mood to let some upstart steal my grounds crew away from me for some frivolous task. The dark green fencing would serve its purpose just fine. The gardeners didn’t need to spend hours repainting it because Seth, on a whim, had changed his mind. If he wanted a battle, I was more than prepared to give him one. “Now see here, Mr. Donahue—”

  “Um, Casey,” Gordon called from the hallway. He’d been taking Milo around to introduce the pup to the other staff members. The puppy yipped a greeting as he bounded up to me. “Seth,” Gordon said coolly, “I’ll send the crew out to work on the fencing this afternoon, but we’ll need them working on our projects exclusively after that.”

  “See?” Seth said with a broad gesture in Gordon’s direction. “I don’t understand why you were making this so difficult, Ms. Calhoun.” He hurried down the hallway but paused. He spun back around. “Don’t forget, when you get around to making the flower containers, I’ll need fifty extra for the displays.”

  “Fifty!”

  He smiled again and, nodding happily, rounded the corner to no doubt terrorize some other hardworking White House staff member.

  “Gordon, how can you let him get away with that?”

  “How could I not? He’s got it bad,” Gordon said, sounding as if he felt bad for the social secretary.

  “Got what?” I asked.

  “White House-itis. Poor guy has all the symptoms—a swelled sense of self-importance and a burning need for more and more assistants.”

  “That doesn’t mean he can swoop in and conscript our staff.”

  “Let it go for now, Casey. You’ve got enough going on. You don’t need to add a war with Mr. Donahue.”

  “But I need to get the containers planted. I was hoping to get started on them this afternoon.”

  “You still can. Have Lorenzo help you.”

  “Help Casey with what?” Lorenzo grumbled as he returned from lunch. “You know I have a lot of work to do.”

  “I want you to go to the greenhouses with Casey. She needs help planting the flower containers for Monday. Seth has asked for fifty more.”

  “But I—” Lorenzo took one look at Milo and pinched his nose. “Whad—whad is dhat doing in here?”

  As if the pup knew it was being talked about, Milo loped over and, while wagging his tail like a helicopter blade, untied Lorenzo’s shoelaces with his sharp puppy teeth.

  “Stop dhat!” Lorenzo pushed Milo away.

  “Milo is the new First Dog,” Gordon said, puffing out his chest like a proud papa. “Isn’t he a handsome fellow? The members of the press are going to fall all over themselves, fighting over who can get the best pictures of him.”

  “I’m.” Sneeze. “Allergic.” Sneeze. “To.” Sneeze. “Dogs.” Lorenzo turned to me. “I’m.” Sneeze. “Going.” Sneeze. “Wid.” Sneeze. “You.”

  I had held up my hands in protest. “No. No. No. I would never dream of taking you away from your work. I can handle the containers on my own. I’ll do as much as I can today and get the crew to finish them in the morning.”

  “No.” Gordon stood his ground. Milo picked up on the older man’s stern tone and started to bark at me. “You will not be going anywhere by yourself. Not after . . .” He huffed. “Quiet, Milo.”

  Although Gordon hadn’t even raised his voice, the floppy puppy stopped barking and plopped down at Gordon’s feet.

  And that had been that. Lorenzo and I left Gordon to manage the unruly Milo, who had already gnawed shallow grooves in the legs of Gordon’s desk. The way Gordon was grinning at the pup, you’d think I’d handed him a baby to love, not a destructive garden gnome. I drove to the greenhouses with Lorenzo sitting beside me in the nondescript white van, sniffling unhappily.

  The greenhouses, seven in all, were located on the outskirts of D.C. Within these long, domed structures, we grew out many of our plants for the gardens and various special projects, such as creating a hundred and fifty Easter planters to mark the boundaries of the various activity areas on the South Lawn and to act as friendly Jersey barriers during the Easter Egg Roll.

  “You’re humming again,” Lorenzo complained about an hour later. He dropped his trowel onto the workbench inside the greenhouse with a clatter. “I can’t work with all this humming.”

  “Sorry,” I said, biting back a grin.

  Into each of the concrete Grecian urn−shaped containers, we planted two dozen egg-yolk yellow tulips surrounded by a bed of bright pink English daisies.

  It was hot and humid inside the building, which would have been fine if I didn’t have to also deal with Lorenzo’s heated mood. I wiped a rivulet of sweat from my eyes with my sleeve just as the large fans on the far wall turned on. The metal vents slammed as they opened.

  “What do you have to be so happy about?” Lorenzo demanded, raising his voice above the fans. “I’d think you’d be crying in the potting soil, what with the way the press is skewering your organic gardening plans and how your position is in jeopardy of being cut along with the rest of the government waste.”

  “Yes, I suppose I should be crying.” I pressed a flowering tulip bulb into the container’s black soil. “But right now I can’t help feeling happy, deliriously happy. I have a date tonight. An honest to God, he’s picking me up at the door, date. Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve been on a date? No, don’t try to guess. You’ll just depress me. Let’s just say it’s been a very long time. So long, in fact, I’m afraid I’m going to be rusty.”

  “Is that so?” Lorenzo’s jaw tightened, a sure sign his patience was just about gone. “Aren’t you the lucky one? So pretty and so alive.”

  “And I’m grateful for it.” Many people dealt with their grief through anger. Some more forcefully than others. “I’m sorry about Pauline.”

  “Not sorry enough to remember what the killer looks like. You promised to help me, Casey. But you haven’t done anything.”

  “That’s not true.” I carefully placed a large red-leaf lettuce, the next plant to go into the pot, back on the workbench. Losing my temper would serve no purpose. What Lorenzo needed was my compassion . . . and space. “I’m going to fetch another wheelbarrow of potting soil.”

  “Sure, run off. Pretend no one got killed the other day. Live your life as if nothing happened. Because it didn’t, did it? Not to you. You survived. And now you’re the center of attention, being all coy. ‘Oh heavens to Betsy, I can’t remember what I saw,’ ” he said, raising his voice several octaves while feigning a ridiculous Southern accent. “ ‘But I’m sure I will remember, so you’d better keep your attention on me, sugar pie.’ And it’s working. You were called to the Oval Office to meet with the President. All I want is a few answers about what the hell happened out there. And here you are showboating all over the place, making this tragedy all about you. Poor helpless Casey. I think I’m going to vomit.”

  “That’s enough.”

  I firmly told myself not to sink to his level. He was hurting and vulnerable
. Ignore his anger, I told myself. But hell, he’d been needling me and needling me all day. No, that wasn’t quite right. Ever since the day Gordon had introduced us, Lorenzo would slip in a snide comment here and there about my abilities or my role at the White House.

  I’d made apologies for him time and again, overlooking his addiction to chemical fertilizers and herbicides, telling myself that he’d come around. He was a holdover from another time, I’d told myself, even though we were the same age. But enough was enough.

  I went straight for the jugular.

  “I’ll have you know I’ve put my career on the line to find answers about this murder. I’ve been asking questions even though I’ve been warned not to. And you know what? You won’t like what I’ve learned, because I know Pauline would have never stayed with you. She’d moved on.”

  “That’s a lie.”

  “It’s not. She was having an affair with a man in New York, quite probably with the rich and powerful Brooks Keller, who is everything you’re not,” I said, and immediately regretted it.

  Lorenzo ripped off his gardening gloves. “I’m out of here.”

  “Wait,” I called after him.

  The muscles in his tense back twitched, but he didn’t stop. With an unimaginative curse, he yanked open the greenhouse door with enough force that it slammed against the metal framed wall.

  I dropped my head against the worktable. I should have handled that better. I should have been more sensitive to his feelings and realized my good mood would bother him.

  Hopefully, after blowing off some steam, Lorenzo would return ready to work and put his anger to good use in finishing planting these pots. We still had over a hundred to complete.

  Outside the van’s engine roared to life.

  He wouldn’t.

  I sprinted toward the greenhouse exit, hoping to stop him. The metal door crashed against the greenhouse’s metal frame when I tossed it aside. “Lorenzo!”

  A chilly wind slapped my face as I emerged from the greenhouse’s steamy interior. Taking off at a hard run, I made it to the front of the property in record time.