Oak and Dagger

by Dorothy St. James

  The tall man walked around me as if he hadn’t heard me and slipped into the revolving door leading out of the hospital.

  “What is he doing here?” I wondered aloud.

  “What did you say?” Jack had been several feet ahead of me scanning the area, not because he thought there was some great threat, but because that’s what he always did.

  “I just saw Frida’s new assistant.” I pointed at the revolving doors, which were now empty. I turned a full circle, searching for Nadeem’s tweed suit. “At least I think that was him.”

  What was he doing at the hospital?

  Jack watched the empty revolving doors with the intensity of a sharpshooter on the White House roof. “Do you want me to follow him?”

  No, I didn’t want Jack to go. I wanted to follow the phantom White House assistant. For as badly as I wanted to get up to Gordon’s room, I felt equal parts terror about what I might find once I got there. Gordon was my rock in this crazy city. I needed him to be alive and healthy.

  “Casey?” Jack gently touched my arm. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes, of course I am.” I shook myself out of my thoughts and waved my hands in the air as if batting them away. “I’m sure I was seeing things. It’s the stress. I’m hopelessly muddled whenever I’m stressed.”

  “You think you fall apart in stressful situations?” Jack’s gaze flashed to the revolving doors where I’d last seen Nadeem. He started to frown again. “I don’t seem to remember you falling apart last summer when—”

  “I don’t have time to stand here and reminisce.” I grabbed his arm and gave him a little tug. “Let’s go find Gordon’s room.”

  The soft-spoken man at the visitors’ desk directed us to a private wing of the hospital. The elevator opened into an elegant wood-paneled foyer.

  I’d heard of this area. It was reserved for the President and other important government officials. President Ronald Reagan had been treated here after he’d been shot outside the Washington Hilton Hotel. And just last month the vice president had stayed here after he’d torn an ACL during a charity tennis match.

  At the double doors leading into the private wing, we found Secret Service Special Agent Janie Partners standing guard with a uniformed officer from the D.C. Police Department.

  “Deloris is already here,” Janie said, referring to Gordon’s wife of more than thirty years.

  “Have you heard anything about Gordon’s condition?” Jack asked the question I’d been dreading.

  Janie shook her head slowly. “I think in this case, that’s a good thing.”

  I took several deep breaths, hoping to steel myself for the worst as we started to go in, when Janie called out to us, “Lorenzo Parisi blasted through about five minutes ago.” She paused. “He’s in with Deloris. He seemed quite shaken up.”

  “We all are,” Jack said.

  I reminded myself that the doctors here were the best, the facilities conducive to healing. Gordon was in good hands.

  The best hands.

  In the highly polished wood-paneled waiting area we spotted Deloris, Gordon’s wife, a retired schoolteacher with a round face and red-rouged cheeks. She rose from the leather armchair as we approached. Though her curly permed hair looked as if she’d just stepped out of the hairdressers, not even a wave out of place, her eyes were red and puffy. I swiftly closed the distance between us.

  Lorenzo had been crouched down beside her chair with his head nearly touching Deloris’s perfectly coiffed hair. Whatever conversation they’d been having ended abruptly with our arrival. He straightened and crossed his arms over his chest as I pulled Deloris into a tight hug.

  “How is he doing?” I asked, fighting back a lump in my throat.

  “I—I don’t really know. They got his heart going again, but . . . but . . . can the doctors keep it going?” She started to pace. “I’ve called our boys. They’re both working on getting flights to Washington National.” She continued to list everything she’d done since she’d arrived, including finding someone to feed their cat. “Can you think of anything else I need to do?”

  “It sounds as if you have taken care of everything for now,” I said and led her back to the leather armchair. She heaved a loud sigh and collapsed into its smooth cushion. “But if you do think of anything that needs to be done, we can help you.”

  Lorenzo nodded. “Of course we can.”

  “Do the doctors have any idea what happened?” I asked.

  Deloris’s hands shook as she dug around in her oversized floral-patterned pocketbook. “A cardiologist came out and talked with me just a little while ago. I told the doctor to write everything down for me. And I told him to write it legibly.” She took her time unfolding a scrap of paper she’d retrieved from her purse.

  “The cardiologist, he said that they believe Gordon suffered a cardiac arrest and collapsed.” She glanced up at me. “You found him in a fish pond?”

  “I did.” My throat burned. My voice sounded raspy. “The koi pond in the Children’s Garden.”

  She nodded. In the past thirty-five or so years that Gordon had worked the White House grounds, Deloris had visited many times and knew the gardens nearly as well as any member of the White House staff.

  She nodded again before turning her attention back to the doctor’s writing on the paper in her hands. “He must have inhaled some of the pond’s water when he fell in. That, in addition to the heart failure, has caused . . . complications. The cardiologist said—he wrote it here—that Gordon has aspirated lungs with pulmonary edema.”

  “What about the blood?” I asked. “He had blood on his arms. Do the doctors think someone attacked him? Cut him?”

  She studied the paper in front of her. “No. He didn’t say anything about cuts on his arms or signs of attack.” She looked up from her paper. “He mostly talked about the near-drowning. Apparently his lungs aren’t working . . . or they aren’t working the way they’re supposed to be working. It’s all very confusing.”

  It bothered me that the doctor hadn’t mentioned the cuts. Judging by the amount of blood I saw on his arms, they had to have been deep. “Are you sure he didn’t say anything about an injury?” I pointed to the same place where I’d spotted blood on Gordon’s arms on my own lower arms.

  “Should he have? With everything that has happened, I can’t keep it all straight. He didn’t write it on my paper.”

  “I’m sure we’ll find out everything soon enough,” Jack said more to me than to Deloris.

  “I’m sure you’re right,” Deloris answered. “I can’t wait for my boys to get here. They’ll know the right questions to ask.”

  “But . . . but Gordon’s going to be okay?” I couldn’t keep the warble from my voice.

  “I don’t know.” Deloris took her time as she refolded the paper with the cardiologist’s notes and tucked it back into her pocketbook. “The doctor, he said that it’s a miracle Gordon’s still alive.” She pointed to a nearby door. “He’s in there. They don’t want me in there right now. That’s why I’m out here. But even after they get him stabilized, the cardiologist said he’ll be on a ventilator for at least several days. He’ll be sedated the entire time. There’s really nothing to do here but wait.”

  “If you don’t mind,” I said, “we’d like to stay with you for a while tonight. Do you need anything? Coffee, water, tea, a sandwich?”

  Deloris leaned her head back in her chair and closed her eyes. “Coffee,” she whispered.

  After Jack went off in search of a cup, Lorenzo pulled me away from Gordon’s wife. “What happened out there?” he demanded.

  In halting sentences, I explained how I’d found Gordon and then Frida. “They both must have been attacked. But if that’s the case, how did the intruder get past the Secret Service?”

  “I’m not sure the police or the Secret Service will look beyond the iron fence for an answer,” Lorenzo said.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Think about it, Casey. You saw it yo
urself. Gordon and Frida had been arguing. And then you find them both in the Children’s Garden. Frida is dead. Gordon may not survive the night.”

  My gut twisted. “You’re wrong.”

  Lorenzo lowered his voice. “What if I’m not? What if their argument turned—”

  “No!” I couldn’t believe what he was saying. I just couldn’t. “Gordon isn’t a violent man.”

  “I’m not saying he is violent. All I’m saying is that the situation looks pretty bad.”

  “You’re wrong. Anyone who’s ever met Gordon knows that he could never—”

  “Casey?” Jack had returned. He was holding a tray of steaming cups. He motioned to Deloris, who had clearly overheard Lorenzo and me arguing. Her mouth had dropped open. Her eyes were wide with shock.

  My face heated. I lowered my voice to a whisper. “Lorenzo, Gordon wouldn’t attack anyone.”

  Deloris pulled herself out of the waiting room’s armchair. “What are you whispering about?”

  “Does she know about Frida?” I asked Lorenzo, who shrugged.

  Deloris crossed the room like a woman on a mission. “Tell me,” she demanded.

  “It’s nothing,” I said.

  “Nothing,” Lorenzo quickly agreed, even though he’d wrinkled his nose as he said it.

  Deloris turned her determined stare on Jack. He held out the tray for her. “Coffee?”

  “No. I want the truth. What else has happened?”

  “The curator—” Jack started to say.

  “Frida Collingsworth?” Deloris interrupted. “What has that nasty old bat done this time?”

  “She’s—she’s dead,” I said.

  “She’s been murdered,” Lorenzo added.

  “Who did it?” Deloris asked coolly. “I’d like to shake that person’s hand.”

  Chapter Seven

  Every young girl should have the opportunity of learning out-of-doors by first-hand observation, the wonders and loveliness nature has spread so lavishly—and how it grows.

  —LOU HENRY HOOVER, FIRST LADY OF THE UNITED STATES (1929–1933)

  JAMES Taylor crooned softly about traveling to Carolina, my Carolina, even if the trip was only taking place in his mind. A smile spread across my lips as the singer opined about the beauty and peace he was seeking in the Southern landscape, his soothing voice growing gradually louder.

  Slowly coming awake, I eased my hand from the warmth of my bed’s thick comforter. My fingers scrabbled along the surface of my bedside table before they curled around my singing phone.

  “Hello?” I answered groggily.

  “Gracious sakes, lamb, are you still asleep?” the woman on the other end drawled with a cultured Southern twang.

  “Uh . . . no, Aunt Alba, if I was asleep, I wouldn’t be holding a phone to my ear.”

  “Don’t you sass me. Mama taught you better than that.”

  “That she did,” I agreed. “I’m just disappointed to find out James Taylor hadn’t snuck into my bedroom and wasn’t singing sweetly in my ear.”

  “A man in your room!” my straightlaced aunt cried. “Now you’re talking nonsense.”

  “I suppose I am, Aunt Alba.” James Taylor’s “Carolina in My Mind” was the ringtone I’d assigned to Rosebrook, the Calhoun estate in Charleston. My grandmother lived there with my aunts, Alba and Willow. “I was up late last night. I’m tired.” I wiggled under the covers until I was sort of sitting up in bed. “What time is it?”

  “Half past six.”

  I sat up straighter. “That late?”

  “Yes, that late. The crows have been having a tea party on the power lines next door for more than an hour now. What are you doing staying up late to all hours of the night? Don’t tell me you’ve let the big city corrupt you with their wicked ways.”

  “I—”

  “It’s unseemly for a young lady to be out past ten. Nine is preferable. You have a reputation to guard, especially given your post at the White House.”

  “Really, I—”

  “I don’t think the President would appreciate hearing you’re gadding about town in the small hours of the morning.”

  “Aunt Alba. President Bradley doesn’t—”

  “Do I need to get on the next train—”

  “Aunt Alba, please, listen to me.” I loved the dear woman to pieces despite her antiquated notions of what women should and shouldn’t do. “I was at the hospital last night. Gordon had a cardiac arrest. He’s . . .” My voice cracked. “He’s not doing all that well.”

  There was a long stretch of silence on the other end of the line. “Gordon? Oh, lamb, not the Gordon you garden with at the White House.”

  “Haven’t you seen the news reports?” I hadn’t, but that was only because I hadn’t turned on the TV in the past twenty-four hours. I was sure all the news agencies were picking apart Frida’s murder around the clock.

  “Willow has been running me ragged with all this planting and weeding. Ever since you’ve started work at the White House, Willow has been looking at our garden with a critical eye. Says she doesn’t want you coming home and being disappointed with what we’ve been doing in our gardens.”

  “How could I ever be disappointed with anything at Rosebrook? It’s home.”

  “I know that, silly goose. It’s your aunt Willow who’s keeping me from having any time to breathe . . . or watch TV. Are you okay? I know how much Gordon means to you. What happened?”

  I explained to Aunt Alba about finding Frida and Gordon in the garden.

  “Not another murder, sweet pea. It’s that city. It’s filled with nothing but evil.”

  “There’s also a lot of good in D.C.,” I tried to tell her, but as usual she didn’t listen. In her mind, any city larger than Charleston was a gathering place for sin and vice. She’d been against my moving away from the beginning.

  “Greed. Corruption. Crime. It’s not a place for honest people like you and me. I’m only surprised you don’t run into more trouble than you already have.”

  “Tell that to the Secret Service,” I mumbled.

  “What’s that?” she said, but didn’t give me a chance to answer before she launched into a recitation of crime rates of major cities. “I am sorry to hear about Gordon,” she added, her voice softening again. “But you needn’t worry about him. He’s a gardener. We’re hardy people. He’ll recover.”

  I hoped she was right.

  After getting off the phone with my aunt, I called the hospital. There’d been no change in Gordon’s condition. He was still on the ventilator and unconscious. The nurse was quick to remind me that no change was actually a good sign. The doctors had emphasized several times yesterday it would take time for Gordon’s body to heal. I needed to be patient.

  I could do that. Patience was the cornerstone of gardening. Even Thomas Jefferson had once written, “Botany is the school for patience.” There was no rushing how fast a plant would grow and flower. Sure, adding synthetic fertilizers might make the plant bigger, leafier. But that same quick green-up could easily backfire and stop all flower and fruit production.

  Gordon’s body needed time to heal. In order to do that, he needed to know the grounds office was in good hands. This was something I could do for him, something tangible. Part of that would involve continuing work on our ongoing projects, as well as finding out what had happened with those missing schematics.

  After showering, I donned a pair of khaki pants and a dark blue turtleneck shirt. Over it, I pulled on a light green sweater embroidered with hundreds of tiny ladybugs, each with their own unique expression. I brushed my hand over a smiling ladybug on the sleeve. My grandmother Faye had knitted the sweater for me. I wore it whenever I needed to feel close to my family.

  Thanksgiving was right around the corner. As if I could already smell the rosemary-encrusted turkey and cornbread dressing baking in the oven, I ached for a healthy heaping of Grandmother Faye’s, Aunt Willow’s, and Aunt Alba’s embraces. I ached to go home to Rosebrook, the family e
state smack dab in the center of historic Charleston, South Carolina, and wrap all that was familiar and safe around me as if it were one of my grandmother’s crocheted blankets.

  Gordon, with his soft-spoken manner and his steady work-the-earth hands, was like a member of my family. He’d flown under my iron-clad defenses, defenses that had taken years to forge. Cheering my successes, offering advice, and providing unflagging support when I felt as if I’d been backed into a corner, he’d become more like a father to me than my own father. Not a great feat. My own father was never in the running for any “Dad of the Year” awards.

  James Calhoun had led a shady life. My earliest memories were of fleeing one apartment after another in the dark of night. We’d move locations, countries even, change our names, change our language. For the longest time, I’d thought he was, at worst, a con man or a thief. But this last summer, a memory had returned like a punch to the gut.

  I’d been barely five years old as I’d watched my dad pull the trigger and kill a man in cold blood.

  A year after the shooting, my father had abandoned my mom and me. Not even a week later, a group of men searching for my deadbeat dad attacked. When my mother had refused to tell them where he’d gone, the men shot us both. My mother had died.

  I didn’t.

  Luckily, my grandmother and two maiden aunts had taken me into their home. They’d raised me as if I were the most precious child to walk the earth.

  They’d also taught me to garden.

  Families came in all shapes and sizes. I was blessed to have mine. But as Jack had pointed out last summer, I hadn’t escaped my youth or James Calhoun without coming away with some very real scars. I was still punishing every man who took an interest in me for what my father had done.

  But not Gordon.

  I don’t know why, but I’d never doubted his support. I’d never even tried to push him away. He had become my rock in this slippery, political microcosm also known as the nation’s capital. I couldn’t lose him.

  I paused at my dresser and studied the sleep-deprived face staring back at me in the mirror. With a sigh, I poked the puffy skin under my eyes before quickly pulling my blond hair into a ponytail.