Oak and Dagger
Page 1
Praise for
The Scarlet Pepper
“A potboiler of homicide, blackmail, journalism, power, and sex—but one that St. James handles with taste as well as verve. The Scarlet Pepper fulfills the promise of last year’s series debut, Flowerbed of State, and then some.”
—Richmond Times-Dispatch
“I’d been eagerly awaiting this sequel to Flowerbed of State, and am happy to report that it was well worth the wait. Casey is a smart character, and the setting of the White House and grounds is exciting. In fact, my heart was beating a little fast during the action-packed prologue; and the book got better from there.”
—MyShelf.com
“The second White House Gardener Mystery . . . is a fabulous amateur sleuth starring a likable woman with commitment issues except when it comes to her passion, plants . . . Fans will enjoy this entertaining whodunit enhanced by the eccentric people who diligently work at the White House.”
—Genre Go Round Reviews
Flowerbed of State
“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
“Credible characters, a fast-paced plot, and a light look at political life in Washington, D.C., will delight cozy fans.”
—Publishers Weekly
“[A] delightful debut mystery . . . Just the ticket for all us flustered and withered gardeners . . . Fans of cozy mysteries will adore this new series, and are sure to find themselves anxious for the next installment!”
—Fresh Fiction
Berkley Prime Crime titles by Dorothy St. James
FLOWERBED OF STATE
THE SCARLET PEPPER
OAK AND DAGGER
Oak and Dagger
DOROTHY ST. JAMES
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
USA / Canada / UK / Ireland / Australia / New Zealand / India / South Africa / China
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
For more information about the Penguin Group, visit penguin.com.
OAK AND DAGGER
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with Tekno Books
Copyright © 2013 by Tekno Books.
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.
Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group.
BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
ISBN: 978-1-101-61979-7
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / April 2013
Cover illustration by Mary Ann Lasher.
Cover design by Olivia Andreas.
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.
For Jim . . . the love of my life and my partner in crime.
Acknowledgments
One day last spring my eight-year-old niece, Katie, turned to me and asked, “Can I be a character in your book?” I told her I’d have to think about it and then asked her if she wanted to be a good character or a bad character. She said—well, I’ll let you find out how she answered that question yourself. Thank you, Katie, and the rest of my family, for your support and inspiration. If not for you, I wouldn’t spend so much time thinking about ways to kill off characters. (Kidding!)
While writing this series, I always have tons of gardening questions. Most of the time, I can find the answers in one of my many research books. But from time to time I get stuck. That happened in this book. Luckily, Amy Dabbs, the Tri-County Master Gardener Coordinator, and Master Gardener Marcia Rosenberg helped me figure out over lunch one day what the heck Casey was doing in the fall gardens and how her work could relate back to my plot.
As always, enormous thanks go to Brittiany Koren for offering me the chance to bring Casey Calhoun to the pages of this book. Brittiany kept me going and made sure I didn’t let the plot go too far astray. A big thank-you goes to Michael Koren for his understanding and patience for all those times Brittiany locked herself away in her office in order to help me hash out all the details.
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, who patiently listened to me whine, patted my head, and told me to keep writing. Once again, I couldn’t have done it without you!
Contents
Praise for The Scarlet Pepper and Flowerbed of State
Also by Dorothy St. James
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter 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
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Tips from Casey’s Fall Gardener’s Notebook
About the Author
Prologue
And now, dear sister, I must leave this house or the retreating army will make me a prisoner in it by filling up the road I am directed to take.
—DOLLEY TODD MADISON, FIRST LADY OF THE UNITED STATES (1809–1817)
August 24, 1814
THUNDER rumbled in the distance. Or had the roar of cannon fire started up again? Thomas McGraw, White House gardener, told himself it was thunder. The resumption of cannon fire would mean the British were already practically on the city’s doorstep.
His heart beat hard in his chest as he took the narrow staircase two steps at a time. He’d been told to hurry. Time had run out. Soon, the danger would be inescapable. Upon reaching the top landing, he threw open a heavy wooden door and rushed out onto the roof of the grand house.
Many in the city called this home simply the White House. But not Thomas. To him, it was the Presidential Palace, as elegant as any grand palace in Europe. Although Thomas had never traveled across the Atlantic, he knew hi
s fledgling country needed this house—an impressive mansion to stand as a symbol for the nation, to prove the American people were capable of governing and providing for themselves.
This was especially true now. An unmistakable explosion of cannon fire shook the building, knocking him off balance.
Every day the British Redcoats marched ever closer. Now they were on the verge of taking not only the city, but also the country’s seat of power. What would happen to the gardens and the grounds then? It had been difficult enough to keep the flowerbeds lush and healthy with all this heat and three weeks with no rain. Thomas had spent hours hauling buckets of water up from the Potomac just to keep the roses alive. And for what purpose? To have the President’s garden trampled under the heavy boots of British soldiers?
His jaw tightened as he charged across the roof. The acrid scent of gunpowder hung heavy in the city’s air. Its bitter flavor filled his mouth.
Through a red cloud of dust kicked up from the mass exodus from the city, Thomas spotted the lady he’d been sent to find. Dolley Madison’s pale blue silk skirts rustled in the dusty breeze. She was leaning farther over the roof’s parapet wall than Thomas thought wise.
The White House’s very proper, very French, majordomo stood silently at Mrs. Madison’s side as she peered through a copper spyglass. “French John” Sioussat ran his gloved hand along the rim of his top hat, which was nearly as shiny as his tall boots. Thomas called out to the two of them, but a sharp percussion of cannon fire completely drowned out his words.
“After you leave, I could spike a cannon at the gate,” French John’s voice boomed in the sudden silence. John’s affection showed for the Lady Presidentress in the way his sober expression softened whenever he spoke with her.
Dolley didn’t seem to notice. Her gaze remained fixed as she scanned the crowds of fleeing Washingtonians, watching for her husband’s return.
“The cannon will blow the British clear out of the city should they dare step foot into your home,” French John continued.
“Good gracious, no, Mr. Sioussat.” Dolley lowered the spyglass. “We have already spoken of this.”
“This is war,” the Frenchman pointed out.
“Even more reason we mustn’t forget that we’re a civilized people. Besides, I’m not going anywhere before James returns.”
For a second time, Thomas called out to the President’s wife and the White House’s doorkeeper. This time they heard him. He dragged his tweed cap off his head as they both turned toward him.
“M-Mrs. Madison,” Thomas stammered. He hated being the bearer of bad news, but the situation had turned dire indeed. “Mr. Madison has sent a messenger.” He swallowed another mouthful of foul air. “The British forces are on the verge of overtaking the capital. Everyone is being told to flee.”
He watched the Lady Presidentress closely for signs she would break down or, worse, argue. Throughout the day she’d ignored her friends’ and government officials’ pleadings that she needed to make her escape.
But she was determined to wait for her husband’s return.
However strongly she felt about the matter, though, Dolley must have realized for herself the time to abandon the capital city had come. She nodded and stiffened her spine as she slid the spyglass closed.
“Who brought this message?” she asked.
“James Smith,” Thomas replied. Two days ago, Mr. Smith, a free Black man whom Thomas trusted with his life, had accompanied the President to the battlefield at Bladensburg. “He is downstairs, if you wish to question him.”
With a nod, Dolley hastened toward the door that led back into the house. “We must hurry,” she said. “There is still much to be done.”
French John, with his long stride, followed closely behind her. Thomas remained on the roof wringing his hands, staring down at the lawn, and worrying about the future of his garden, and of the nation he loved.
“Come along, Thomas,” French John called as he poked his head back through the door. He clapped just as cannon fire made the building jump. “There’s no time to dawdle.”
Thomas joined Dolley in the State Dining Room just as Mr. Smith, the President’s messenger, concluded his report, “Our army has failed in Bladensburg. Washington is next to fall.”
The news reenergized Dolley’s acquaintances as they urged her to go. A carriage was already waiting outside to whisk her to safety.
Earlier in the day Dolley had emptied the government offices, packing state treasures and important documents in trunks meant for her own personal belongings. But as she’d packed, she remained steadfast in her faith that her husband would succeed. Even going as far as to push forward with preparations for a dinner to feed and entertain over forty guests that evening.
Thomas watched in amazement as the determined lady now scurried around the already set tables. She scooped up the expensive silverware and stuffed it into her large reticule. Before she’d completed the task, she paused at the portrait of George Washington and frowned. “Save that picture! Save that picture if possible. If not, destroy it!” she ordered.
French John snapped to action. “Fetch us a ladder, Thomas.”
Thomas did as he was told. The two men worked together, while Dolley watched and her husband’s friend, Charles Carroll, paced as he grew more and more impatient.
The nearby cannon fire made the walls tremble as if the building feared its grim future. The chandelier above their heads tinkled like a wind chime as plaster rained down on their heads.
Dolley needed to get as far away from this cursed place as possible. She was running out of time. They all were.
“The frame is screwed to the wall.” Thomas tugged, desperate to rip the screws from the plaster. But no matter what he did, the frame would not budge.
French John and Thomas exchanged dark glances before cracking the gilded frame open and prying the canvas free.
“Now, please God, let me take you to safety,” Charles Carroll implored. He sounded like a man on the verge of tossing the Lady Presidentress over his shoulder and hauling her, kicking and screaming, to safety.
Dolley’s gaze traveled over the room as if memorizing its details before nodding. “I’m ready,” she whispered.
The war rumbled ever louder and weighted the air within the room with its heavy smoke. Thomas wiped his eyes as he followed the brave lady down the steps and out to her waiting carriage. He prayed she hadn’t waited too long.
She accepted French John’s proffered hand and put her foot on the carriage step. The silverware in her reticule clanked when she suddenly pulled away from her doorman’s grasp.
“Mr. Jefferson’s treasure! Where is it? I didn’t see it being loaded onto any of the carriages.” She started back toward the house.
A burst of cannon fire roared. The ground quaked beneath their feet.
“We must go,” Charles Carroll shouted. He grabbed her arm. “If you don’t leave now, you’ll fall into the hands of the enemy. You would make a better prize than anything Jefferson could have stashed within those walls.”
“It’s irreplaceable.” Dolley tugged at the arm holding her.
Thomas rushed to her side. “I won’t let the British bastards touch it.” They might trample his plants, but by God, he wasn’t going to let them have anything else. “I’ll guard Mr. Jefferson’s treasure with my life.”
“Do you know where to find it, Thomas?” she asked.
“Aye, I know.”
“We must go, Dolley,” Charles Carroll urged.
Another cannon blast punched through the air.
“Very well.” She climbed into the carriage. “Carry out this task with the greatest of care, Thomas. The nation’s future could very well rest in your hands.”
Thomas, true to his word, hurried back inside and found Jefferson’s polished wooden casket. It had been half-buried under a stack of crates that hadn’t fit on any of the carriages.
It was too late to escape Washington on foot. And too dangerous. Huggin
g the heavy box to his chest, Thomas hurried away from the house and into the gardens he’d come to love so dearly.
With his expression set in a grave line, he took a shovel and started to dig.
Chapter One
If life were predictable it would cease to be life, and be without flavor.
—ELEANOR ROOSEVELT, FIRST LADY OF THE UNITED STATES (1933–1945)
Present Day
A dozen inky black starlings in the nearby oak trees craned forward as they twisted their heads left then right in that jerky motion birds make when trying to unscramble some unfathomable puzzle. I agreed with the birds. I might only be an assistant gardener with less than a year’s experience working at the White House, but even I knew this wasn’t how an official tree planting should happen. That’s why the activity unfolding on the lawn in front of me made me shake my head with consternation.
“Casey Calhoun”—Grandmother Faye Calhoun would scold and wag her gnarled finger if she could see me now—“I didn’t raise you to stand around like a lazy peach.” I still had no earthly idea why my grandmother thought peaches are lazy, but she was right—I’d been raised to work, not stand idle while others did my job. So why was the shovel in the President’s hands, when the entire gardening staff was standing on the sidelines with our more than capable hands stuffed in our pockets?
President Bradley, a tall handsome man with a charismatic presence and a full head of brown hair, posed as he flashed his trademark smile for the cameras before thrusting his shovel into the South Lawn’s rich soil.
Let me repeat that last part in case you missed it. The President of the United States had thrust a shovel into the ground!
Don’t get me wrong. It’s no skin off my nose if the President wanted a pair of commemorative trees planted. What had me quaking in my leather loafers was the fact that the President had insisted on planting the trees himself.