Oak and Dagger

by Dorothy St. James

  The ladies nodded gravely.

  “I heard she’s been feeling stronger,” Pearle said. “And that she might even make an appearance this morning.”

  “I don’t think that will happen,” I told my two favorite volunteers. Seth hadn’t said anything about the First Lady. And he would have said something about it if she’d changed her mind about coming to the breakfast. He knew the First Lady’s schedule better than anyone else in the White House. “Margaret hasn’t made any public appearances.”

  “Well then, we’ll be honored to be her first.” Pearle patted my hand as she and Mable shared a knowing look. “Won’t we?”

  “Oh yes, it’ll be such a thrill.” Mable then leaned toward me. “But enough about that. How are you holding up, dear?”

  “I haven’t had much time to process any of it,” I answered honestly. “I still can’t believe what happened yesterday.”

  “We don’t believe a word of what was in the newspapers today. Our Gordon is a lover, not a fighter,” Pearle said.

  Both Mable and Pearle treated Gordon like he was a teen rock star and they were his groupies. They pursued (and sometimes pinched) Gordon during the volunteer sessions in the kitchen garden. Gordon would grumble about it, but I could tell he loved every moment.

  “And that curator,” Mable added, “may she rest in peace, had enough enemies to fill a museum.”

  “Did you know Frida?” I asked.

  “Hate to speak ill of the dead, but she was a nasty piece of work,” Pearle confided. Mable nodded in agreement.

  “What makes you say that?” Lorenzo, Gordon, and Deloris all seemed to share that view as well. I was still in shock over how coldly Deloris had reacted when she’d learned about Frida’s untimely demise.

  “We had the misfortune of inviting her to one of our power teas,” Pearle said as she sipped on a cup of tea one of the staff members had brought to the table.

  “She had all the right credentials,” Mable added. “A prestigious position at the White House. An Ivy League education. And the ability to talk to us about our lovely antiques. Who wouldn’t want to invite someone like that into your home?”

  “What did she do?” I asked.

  “Oh, she had decent enough manners when it came to introducing her to everyone, but she desperately wanted to shoot up the social ladder,” Pearle said as if ambition was a grave sin.

  “Did she ever!” Mable cried.

  “And that was wrong because . . .” I asked.

  “Honey, you don’t ever want to have someone around who’s so hungry for power she tears down everyone around her to the point that they’re left feeling like victims on a bloody battlefield,” Pearle said.

  “What do you mean? What did Frida do?” I asked again.

  But before either could answer, several other women joined us at the table, bringing a swift end to that enlightening conversation.

  Had Frida recently taunted and antagonized someone who not only held a grudge against her, but was also capable of murder? It was possible Gordon wasn’t the only person who’d been the target of her vicious attacks.

  A staff member cleared her throat into the microphone at the podium. After welcoming the women and thanking them for coming to the breakfast, she introduced me and the presentation I had promised months ago to give.

  Pearle and Mable led the applause and beamed encouraging smiles when I walked up to the podium. I began the presentation about gardening at the White House by giving an overview of organic gardening and how the practice involves a holistic approach that takes the ecosystem into consideration. This wasn’t a new idea.

  The founding fathers worried about the farming practices of their day. Many of the techniques used up the soil instead of enhancing it. In 1818, James Madison had said in a speech that the protection of the environment was essential for the survival of the United States. He urged that we needed to find a place within the symmetry of nature. We needed to learn to work the land without destroying it.

  This point segued nicely into the work I was doing with the History of the White House Gardens project. Gordon had put me in charge of identifying plants grown in the gardens during the White House during those early administrations.

  I shared with the group how many of the plants grown in the White House gardens during those early administrations came from seeds collected from the wilderness of this new nation as well as favorite varieties grown in Europe.

  “Without the hard work of these seed savers, the gardens wouldn’t have been quite so diverse or as representative of the new nation. Seed harvesting is nothing new. Cultures from the beginning have harvested seeds and carried their most productive crops with them as human settlements spread across the world. In Iraq, scientists have discovered evidence of seed banks from as far back as 6750 BC.

  “Here at the White House we will be continuing the tradition of saving and preserving heirloom varieties tomorrow when we harvest the seeds from the First Lady’s kitchen garden. I hope you join with us in the effort and harvest and share the seeds from your own home gardens. Together we can continue the work our founding fathers thought was so important.”

  A noise at the back of the room caught my attention. I looked up from my hastily scrawled notes and watched First Lady Margaret Bradley walk slowly and stiffly into the room. Nearly every head turned to watch her entrance.

  Margaret had lost weight. Of course she had—she’d just given birth to twin baby boys. But that wasn’t what I meant. Her cream-colored dress hung loosely on her body. Her cheeks had lost their fullness. She looked pale, sleep deprived, and in dire need of a hug.

  Despite all that, it thrilled my heart to see her. We’d all been so worried about her health.

  Margaret indicated with a graceful nod that I should finish my presentation. While her shocked staff hurried to assist her, I quickly wrapped up my talk and turned the microphone over to the First Lady.

  Pearle and Mable had known from the beginning the First Lady would show up. But how?

  I’d already suspected my favorite volunteers had better sources of information than most covert intelligence agencies, but this was amazing. Clearly, not even Margaret’s own staff had known she’d intended to make this surprise visit.

  “Thank you, Casey. You and every member of our gardening staff is valued and trusted here at the White House,” the First Lady said as she took her place at the podium. “I am grateful for the tremendous job the gardeners do. Casey, for example, is working hard on developing a founding fathers’ kitchen garden that will take a prominent position in our spring gardens. I invite you to return then to personally tour this new showpiece.”

  I winced, wishing Margaret hadn’t mentioned that garden. It was still in the early planning stage. I wasn’t sure if we’d be able to develop it in time. I hadn’t yet identified all the plants we’d be using or even tried to locate the heirloom seeds. Too late, though. Members of the First Lady’s press pool who had followed her into the room were furiously scribbling notes about the founding fathers’ kitchen garden as if it were already a done deal.

  “The gardeners are always giving me so much to look forward to,” Margaret continued. “I hope all of you will join me in giving them, especially our head gardener who is fighting for his life in the hospital, your wholehearted support while the police conduct their investigation into yesterday’s tragedy.”

  Ain’t that the berries! My grandmother’s expression of happiness popped into my mind. News that the First Lady supported Gordon and believed him innocent would definitely make the six o’clock news. Hearing her say it planted a huge smile on my face.

  I tapped my fingers against my chin, wondering what I needed to do to get Manny and the rest of the police detectives to come around to the First Lady’s way of thinking.

  Chapter Ten

  The independent girl is a person before whose wrath only the most rash dare stand, and, they, it must be confessed, with much fear and trembling.

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

  AFTER breakfast had ended, I descended the stairs two at a time. I was anxious to get back to the grounds office to work on a plan to support Gordon. As soon as my feet touched the carpet on the ground floor, ushers and maids appeared from, seemingly, out of the woodwork to express their concern for Gordon.

  “Please tell him we’re all praying for him,” said a maid who had worked at the White House her entire adult life and had served six administrations.

  “He’s a good friend,” said another maid. “He tended my mother’s garden every other Saturday for several years when she was unable to look after it herself. I can’t tell you what that meant for her in her last years.”

  “He’s helped almost every one of us. If there’s anything we can do,” an usher said, “just say the word and we’re there.”

  I thanked them all and promised I’d tell Gordon the next time I saw him about the generosity of the White House staff, which led to the tearful maids taking turns hugging me. Their sweet lemony scent clung to my clothes. It smelled like Rosebrook, like home. The memory wrapped around me like a warm embrace. I couldn’t wait to tell Gordon about this morning’s incredible show of support from nearly everyone, including the First Lady.

  Even Milo, the First Family’s goldendoodle mix, barked an excited greeting when he saw me. He bounded down the hallway with unfettered puppy exuberance. I held up my hands, worried he might knock me over. The overgrown puppy was now close to eighty pounds. His wavy golden fur was damp, his paws muddy. Someone must have already taken him on his morning walk.

  He wagged his shaggy tail with such enthusiasm his back legs skidded around the marble floor like a car spinning on a patch of black ice as he closed the distance. Despite his nutty behavior, he was a pretty dog. A blaze of white on his chest highlighted his shimmering gold color. The white blaze swirled down his chest through his golden fur and extended down his right leg.

  A touch of white on the tip of his tail waved at me as he lurched up on his hind legs and smeared his dirty front paws on my clean pants. Then, as trained, he plopped his rear on the floor. His tail still wagging like wild, he waited to be praised for spreading his muddy excitement and cheering me up.

  I patted the silly puppy’s head. Gordon always took Milo on his morning walk. But not this morning, and he wouldn’t be able to walk Milo for a long time to come.

  Milo nudged my leg with his big brown nose. His pink tongue hung out the side of his mouth, and his lips were pulled tight like he was smiling at me.

  “You’re a troublemaker, that’s what you are. Digging holes in the lawn again, you naughty puppy,” I said in a goofy voice—because how else did you talk to a dog? I petted his scruffy head again. “Is that why your paws are a mess? Whoever walked you should have cleaned you off before letting you inside. Yes, they should have, you silly puppy. Let’s go get them cleaned off.”

  Milo groaned with delight. When I stopped petting him, he pranced happily behind me down the hallway toward the grounds office.

  “What a charming sight,” a heavily accented voice said, “a lady and her dog.”

  I nearly jumped out of my skin.

  Marcel Beauchamp, the First Lady’s decorator, watched as he leaned his large body against the wall near the closed door that led into the curator’s office.

  I swear I had just looked in that direction and hadn’t seen anyone.

  “Milo is the President’s dog,” I corrected.

  “Mais the gardening staff looks after him, non?” he asked. He reached down and patted the pup’s head. Milo licked Marcel’s fingers as if the interior designer had slathered his digits in steak broth.

  “Enough. It tickles.” Marcel wiped his soggy hand on a stained linen handkerchief he’d produced from his pants pocket. If I were Miss Marple, I’d be thinking about how Marcel must be a bachelor and didn’t have a wife to watch after him.

  But I wasn’t Miss Marple, and my instincts had been sorely lacking lately. Like now, a quick glance at Marcel’s ring finger and the band of gold that I spotted there said he was married.

  “I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced,” Marcel said and launched into a history of his professional career, beginning on the mean streets of Paris. His big break came when he was discovered by an actress I’d never heard of. Then he moved to New York City. “I’ve been featured in all the best magazines. I’m sure you’ve heard of me.”

  I hadn’t, but I nodded. I didn’t doubt he was famous. To be fair, the only magazines I read featured flowers and vegetables and gardening tools, not tulle drapes and paint chips.

  My elementary education, however, had included daily French lessons. I considered myself passably fluent.

  “How is your redecorating proceeding?” I asked in my Southern-flavored schoolgirl French.

  “Oh! You speak French! Bon. Bon.” He switched to his native language. His words flowed together as if there were no spaces. It was fluid and beautiful. And I didn’t understand a word.

  “I suppose I should stick to bonjour and merci,” I said, laughing at myself. “My French isn’t as good as I thought it might be.”

  “I was telling you that the First Lady is quite pleased with the garden theme I’m weaving in the babies’ room. And I also expressed my condolences for Frida and wished your Gordon a speedy recovery. What happened yesterday, a terrible shock for everyone, non?”

  “Yes, it was quite a shock. Thank you,” I said and then wondered what Marcel was doing hanging out near the curator’s office. “Is there something I can help you with?”

  “Merci, oui. I wished to see the marks left from the time of Madison when the White House burned. I was told I could find evidence of that time somewhere around here, but I have yet been able to find it. Perhaps you may aid me in my treasure hunt?”

  “I sure can. Follow me.” I led him down the hallway and through a pair of heavy metal doors that opened into the basement hallway located underneath the North Portico. Down here was where the carpenter’s shop, florist shop, chocolate shop, cold storage, bowling alley, and the grounds offices were housed. I turned around and pointed to the stone archway above the double doors we’d just passed through.

  The edges of the brown stone wall still bore the black marks from the time back in 1814 when British soldiers had marched into Washington, D.C., and had burned the White House to a smoldering shell.

  “Ah.” Marcel reached up and ran his hand over the scorched stone. “These colors will be perfect for the sofa in the rooftop solarium.”

  “I thought you were supposed to be decorating a space for the nursery.”

  “I was. I am. But the babies, they need a place to relax . . . to play. Do you not agree?”

  I nodded and left him to his contemplation of the stone. I had more important things to do, like cleaning off Milo’s paws and getting rid of this newspaper containing such a slanderous article against Gordon. Then I needed to check my to-do list and decide what needed to be done in the gardens today. With Milo still following my every step, I dropped the newspaper’s crumpled pages in an oversized recycle bin at the far end of the basement hallway.

  “Any luck finding the missing grounds schematic?” Special Agent Janie Partners asked as she rounded the corner. Today she was dressed in a gray suit with a sedate silk blue scarf around her neck. Milo greeted her as if he’d found a long-lost friend, his tail wagging in large circles.

  “No, and I’ve looked everywhere.” I leaned in closer to her so Marcel couldn’t overhear us. “Does the Secret Service suspect the schematic’s disappearance is related to Frida’s death? She was angry about the misplaced research from her office. The schematic went missing, too. It could be connected.”

  “It . . . could . . . be . . .” Janie said slowly.

  “I’ve looked for the schematic everywhere.” Janie and Milo followed me down the hall and into the grounds office. “It was not on my—”

  That’s when I spotted .
. . “My desk!”

  Had someone ransacked the office and tossed all of our papers onto my desk? Lorenzo’s drafting table looked pristine. So did every other surface.

  “I thought you’d said you’d cleaned up,” Janie said.

  Milo woofed.

  “I did!”

  “It looks worse than it did yesterday.” She wrinkled her nose. “If that’s possible.”

  Janie was right. My desk looked as if a filing cabinet had gotten sick on it. File folders sporting the familiar White House stamp along with heaps of loose papers were everywhere.

  “What happened here?” I cried. “Lorenzo? Are you here? Do you know why my desk looks like this?”

  Lorenzo emerged from Gordon’s private office. “What’s the matter this time?” he asked as if I constantly complained, which I didn’t.

  “My desk.” I gestured to the offending piece of office furniture.

  “Oh. That.” He scratched the back of his neck. “My meeting with Nadeem and Dr. Wadsin ended abruptly yesterday when we heard about Gordon and Frida.”

  “Why were you using my desk when you have a huge drafting table sitting just over there?”

  Lorenzo shrugged. “You were the one that sent Nadeem and Dr. Wadsin to the grounds office. I assumed you wanted them to use your desk.”

  I opened my mouth. And then closed it.

  Lorenzo shrugged and returned to Gordon’s office as if he belonged there.

  “It was cleared off,” I grumbled to Janie while I cleaned Milo’s muddy paws with one of the towels I kept in my desk’s bottom drawer.

  Janie patted my back. “I’m sure it was. Hey, look at the bright side. There’s a good chance you’ll find the lost Ark of the Covenant under that mess. I’ll leave you to it.”

  Milo followed Janie, jumping up and nipping at her hands with every step. When I tried to call him back—his paws still needed a good washing—Janie volunteered to take care of the task herself. With that settled, I started the arduous task of straightening my desk again.