Oak and Dagger

by Dorothy St. James

  My mind buzzed.

  Someone had murdered Frida yesterday. And today, I learn that her new assistant was an assassin?

  The buzzing in my head grew louder. The envoy from Turbekistan had been worried that Frida’s murder had been an attack against his negotiations with President Bradley. What if he’d been right? What if Nadeem was now working for the other team and was a mole? What if Nadeem had preemptively sent me that threatening text message to confuse me?

  Good gravy. I’d caught Nadeem lurking at my back door, yet I’d let him talk me out of believing what I’d seen with my own eyes.

  “Casey, I want you to be careful around him. This guy scares me,” Jack confessed.

  And no one scared Jack.

  Chapter Twelve

  There is nothing more important than a good, safe, secure home.

  —ROSALYNN CARTER, FIRST LADY OF THE UNITED STATES (1977–1981)

  “WHAT did I miss?” Lorenzo asked. He squeezed between a member of the kitchen staff who was pushing a handcart loaded with crates of oranges and the wall. And didn’t stop squeezing until he’d positioned himself between Jack and myself.

  “Well?” Lorenzo asked impatiently. “What are we doing to find Frida’s killer?”

  “Doing?” I asked. “We?”

  “Gordon is my friend, too. I’ve worked with both Gordon and Frida for the past nine years. Well, not Frida so much. I spent most of my time trying to avoid her. But I care about Gordon, and I want to join in on the investigation.”

  I glanced at Jack and shook my head. “There’s nothing for you to join.” As much as I liked to pretend otherwise, I was not an amateur sleuth tucked within the pages of a paperback novel. I was flesh and blood. And I liked to keep my blood in my body, where it belonged. “All I plan to do is provide Manny with a few alternative suspects. You might remember the last time I got all mixed up in a murder investigation, I ended up accusing several innocent people.”

  “Yeah, you ended up looking like an idiot,” Lorenzo was quick to agree, “but this is Gordon.”

  “Yes, and Manny knows Gordon. The detective is a smart guy. I’m sure once he sees that Frida had a bucketful of enemies, he’ll get to the bottom of what happened.”

  “But the newspaper said—” Lorenzo argued.

  “When do the newspapers ever get anything right?” I countered.

  “Casey.” Jack moved to stand next to Lorenzo. “This time the article did report the correct facts. Manny is being careful, collecting all the evidence before making a move. But from what I’ve heard, the DA will be pressing charges against Gordon before the week’s end.”

  “No.” I couldn’t believe it. “Manny wouldn’t let that happen. Once he sees that there are others who—”

  “Everyone from his superiors to my superiors, and political powerhouses, are pressuring Manny to close the investigation as quickly as possible.”

  “That’s why we need to help,” Lorenzo said.

  “No, we don’t—” I said.

  Jack grimaced. “As much as I hate to say this, I agree. Casey, you and Lorenzo are in a better position than anyone else to find out what really happened between Frida and Gordon. On the surface, all the clues are leading to Gordon. And I’m afraid Manny isn’t going to be given the time to look any deeper.”

  “Are you serious? You want me to investigate?” Jack hated it when I stuck my nose where he thought it didn’t belong.

  Jack jammed his hands in his pockets and gave me a hard look. “Yeah, I’m serious. This time.”

  “So what do we do?” Lorenzo asked a little too enthusiastically.

  I didn’t have an answer for him. And I still wasn’t ready to include Lorenzo in the “we” of our investigative team. Heck, I wasn’t ready to include me in it.

  The rain was letting up, and since I did my best thinking in the garden, I shook my head and walked out from under the busy tent into the cool drizzle.

  Both Jack and Lorenzo followed as I wandered across the North Lawn, past the East Wing, and through a gate that led to the South Lawn.

  “Wouldn’t it have been faster, not to mention drier, to have cut through the White House?” Lorenzo groused when he saw where I was headed.

  I slogged diagonally across the soggy lawn, down the steep hill. If Jack or Lorenzo (or anyone else for that matter) had chosen this path that sent us trampling on the grass after such a heavy rainstorm, I would have scolded them for it.

  But I was determined as I made a beeline to the spot where Frida had died.

  Yards of yellow police tape still marked the perimeter of the Children’s Garden. At the periphery, I spotted two shallow holes in the grass that hadn’t been there yesterday. “Who was watching Milo on his morning walk?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” Jack was quick to answer. “It wasn’t me.”

  “Whoever it was, he did a horrible job. Milo has been out of control lately.”

  “Why are we looking for holes in the grass when there’s a murder to solve?” Lorenzo asked.

  “I’m not looking for holes. I’m looking for clues,” I said.

  “The police aren’t going to let you anywhere near the crime scene,” Lorenzo grumbled.

  Maybe, I thought to myself as I walked up to the police officer who was huddled underneath an umbrella at a break in the yellow tape.

  Jack lifted his brows, but didn’t offer any advice.

  Two paths led into the garden. For the privacy of the first families, both paths faced the White House. They were narrow and curved so that anyone who wandered down the footpath into the Children’s Garden disappeared completely from view.

  It was the farthest path, the one on the west side of the yard, that the police were using as a controlled entrance point. Although I didn’t recognize the beefy officer standing guard at the break in the yellow tape, I read his name off the name tag pinned to his shiny black windbreaker.

  “Lieutenant Brinks.” I thrust out my hand. “I’m Casey Calhoun. I, um, found Frida yesterday.”

  “Sorry to hear that, ma’am,” Lieutenant Brinks said in a deep baritone voice. His cautious gaze shifted to beyond my shoulder, where Jack and Lorenzo were standing a few feet behind me.

  “I was wondering if—” I started to say.

  “Ma’am,” he interrupted. “I can’t help you.”

  “But I didn’t—”

  “As I said, this is a waste of time.” Lorenzo started to walk back up to the White House.

  I flashed Jack an imploring look. With a few words, I was sure he could help talk our way into the crime scene. He smiled and shrugged and hung back, letting me do all the heavy lifting.

  “Is Detective Hernandez—” I asked.

  “He’s the one who warned me about you, ma’am. Turn around.” The lieutenant wagged his meaty finger at me. “And come back when we’re done.”

  “We’re done here.” It wasn’t Manny who’d made that announcement, as I’d hoped, but Mike Thatch, the special agent in charge of Jack’s team.

  Jack moved to stand beside me as Thatch emerged from the garden’s narrow path.

  “Of course the rain couldn’t have stopped a few hours ago when the CSI guys were knee-deep in mud, trying to—” Thatch stopped when he spotted us.

  “What are you doing here?” he demanded. His gaze was fixed solely on me.

  “Funny thing about gardeners, you often find us lurking in—I don’t know—in the gardens. We’re like beetles—turn over a leaf, and look, there’s another one.”

  “Ha. Ha.” Thatch didn’t sound amused.

  “Wait! There’s another one now.” I pointed to Lorenzo’s retreating back.

  “What do you want?” Thatch rubbed his shoulder and stretched his neck to the right until it popped.

  “Gordon didn’t do it,” I said.

  He sighed and then stretched his neck to the left.

  “I mean it. You’ve known Gordon longer than I have. You know he wouldn’t hurt anybody. Since Gordon can’t tal
k for himself right now, I’m going to speak up for him. I need to talk with Detective Hernandez. I need to make sure he understands that Gordon didn’t do it.”

  Thatch rotated his hunched shoulders.

  “Follow me,” he said with a hint of resignation.

  After directing Lieutenant Brinks to take down the police tape, he led Jack and me into the Children’s Garden and to the grouping of trampled azalea bushes where I’d found Frida’s body. A canvas tent had been erected over the area.

  “The tent was set up to preserve what was left of the crime scene from the rain,” Thatch explained before I had the chance to ask. “The CSI guys spent the past twelve hours sifting through the leaves looking for . . . anything.”

  He put his hand on my shoulder. I nearly jumped clear out of my skin in shock at the gesture. It was so out of character for him to offer anyone comfort, especially me.

  “Gordon and I started our service at the White House the same year. He’d sometimes join me and some of the other agents after work to grab a beer at The Underground. I consider him a friend,” Thatch explained.

  “Then you should understand why I’m upset. I can’t stand silently by when Manny is pushing to charge Gordon for a murder you and I both know he didn’t commit.”

  His hand tightened on my shoulder. “You might change your mind about that after you hear what we know.”

  “I won’t ever change my mind about Gordon.”

  Thatch turned me around so I was standing with my back to him. He then made a slashing motion at my neck. “This was how Frida was killed with the pruning saw. A quick, but deadly, slash.”

  I pushed Thatch away from me and rubbed my neck even though he hadn’t touched me there.

  “The surveillance video from the lawn shows Gordon entering the garden using the same path we took. He was holding the saw. Frida came down the path about an hour later. No one else came down this path. It was just the two of them in here.” Anger—or perhaps frustration—strangled Thatch’s voice. “The police lab found your fingerprints and Gordon’s on the pruning saw’s handle. And no one else’s. What more evidence do you need?”

  “What about the hole I found at the base of the apple tree?” I asked. “Why was it there?”

  “The CSI techs dug through every inch of this space. They enlarged the hole. Why is it there? I don’t know. Milo probably dug it.”

  “No, the edges were too smooth. It had to have been dug out with a trowel. Or something similar.”

  “It’s just another hole in the ground, Casey. Forget about it.” Thatch rolled his eyes as he said it.

  I turned my gaze up to the canopy of oaks and elms above us. A fat raindrop fell from an oak leaf and hit me in the eye. “The Secret Service doesn’t have any hidden cameras in here?”

  “No, why would we? This garden is a retreat from the constant scrutiny for the First Family. President Bradley is adamant about keeping it that way,” Thatch explained as if I should have already known that. “Besides, why would we need cameras in here? We keep vigilant watch over the perimeter of the White House and the perimeter of the fence. No one gets in or out of this garden without us knowing.”

  “And yet you don’t know who killed Frida.”

  “I do know.” Thatch gestured toward the path. “No one else came into the garden.”

  “I saw Nadeem Barr, Lettie Shaw, and Marcel Beauchamp heading either in or out of the gardens around that time. Is Manny talking with them?”

  “You think the First Lady’s sister should be a suspect?”

  “It makes just as much sense as blaming Gordon,” I shot back.

  “I think what Casey is trying to say,” Jack jumped in to say before I could jam my foot any farther into my mouth. Accusing any member of the First Family of wrongdoing was serious business. The kind of serious business that could end a career. “Was Ms. Shaw—or any of the others wandering on the South Lawn at the time—questioned? Did one of them see or hear anything suspicious, for example?”

  “We’re all doing our jobs. I’ll thank you not to question that,” Thatch snapped. “Manny has questioned everyone. And the cameras recorded what happened out here. No one else came into this garden.”

  Which was bad news for Gordon. Jack was right. The police and Secret Service had apparently already decided on Gordon’s guilt. Motive, means, and opportunity were the cornerstones of building a conviction against a suspect. Did the police have those three pieces of the puzzle? Could they build a case against Gordon? I forced myself to see the investigation from Manny’s perspective in order to try and answer those questions.

  Motive? (Gordon and Frida were in the middle of a bitter argument. Gordon had claimed that Frida was trying to destroy him. Frida had hinted that she would get Gordon fired.)

  Means? (Gordon’s fingerprints were on the murder weapon.)

  Opportunity? (Gordon and Frida were alone in the garden.)

  “But Gordon didn’t do it,” I said more to myself than to either Thatch or Jack.

  I suddenly felt trapped. The thick wall of bushes and canopy of trees that created the walls in the Children’s Garden seemed to push in on me.

  Other than one of the two winding pathways, there was no other entrance or exit to the garden. Chain-link fencing covered with thick curtains of black landscape fabric was sandwiched between tall hedges to ensure the garden’s privacy. The fencing spanned the length of the western and southern ends of the garden. On the eastern side, the tennis court’s chain-link fence blocked a hasty exit.

  So Gordon and Frida were alone in the garden.

  I frowned as I studied the fresh pruning cuts Gordon had made to the garden’s privets and elms. He’d removed two sizable branches and several smaller branches from at least ten plants.

  “Casey?” Jack asked. “Are you okay?”

  “Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “You’re spinning in circles,” Jack pointed out.

  “I’m thinking.”

  Thatch made a rude noise.

  “The branches,” I said. “Gordon was in the garden for over an hour while he pruned?”

  “Obviously,” Thatch said, pointing to the trimmed privets.

  “He was in the garden the entire time? He never left?”

  “It’s all on the surveillance video,” Thatch said.

  “Then tell me this. If Gordon had never left the garden, and if he was busy trimming the trees and bushes in here, where are all the branches?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  . . . steady as a clock, busy as a bee, and cheerful as a cricket . . .

  —MARTHA WASHINGTON, FIRST LADY OF THE UNITED STATES (1789–1797)

  LETTIE Shaw hummed.

  She’d settled into Gordon’s office for the afternoon as she sorted through the historical documents that had been stored in a bottom file drawer. And she continued to hum, off tune, like a scratched CD, repeating the same short refrain over and over and over.

  I crossed the room to where Lorenzo sat hunched at his drafting table.

  “Why is she humming so much?” I whispered.

  “Don’t know. The hangover is wearing off, I suppose.”

  “Hangover?” Were First Ladies’ sisters allowed to have hangovers? Was Lettie the problem Seth had been moaning about during that conversation I’d overheard? “Is there anything we can do to make her stop humming?” I whispered.

  “Does it bother you?” Lorenzo lifted his head long enough to ask.

  “I’m about to go mad. That, or cut off my ears. Or both,” I said.

  “Now you know how I feel.”

  “What? I—”

  “Whenever we work at the greenhouse, you hum. The entire time, you hum. It’s torture.”

  “I don’t hum. Well, not much.”

  He glared at me.

  “I sound like that?”

  He nodded.

  “Well, won’t you say something to her?” I asked. “I can’t think.”

  I’d even tried screwing m
y fingers in my ears, but the droning sound seemed to defy all barriers. I needed to concentrate.

  The only thing I’d written on the yellow pad of paper since I’d returned from talking with Thatch was, “Where are the branches?”

  Thatch had concluded that the CSI guys must have bagged and tagged the branches. I told him I hadn’t seen the branches yesterday, either.

  “I wouldn’t have expected your untrained eyes to have noticed such a small detail,” he’d countered, adding that the shock of finding Gordon and Frida would have blinded me to seeing anything important.

  When Jack agreed with me, saying he also hadn’t seen the branches, Thatch’s face turned a funny shade of puce. He grumbled something about looking into the matter and then ordered Jack back to work.

  Not willing to give up, I’d called Detective Hernandez. Manny’s phone went straight to voice mail. I left a message telling him about the missing branches and asking him to check to see if the CSI team had collected them. That had been nearly an hour ago, and he still hadn’t called me back.

  And Lettie had hummed the entire time.

  “What are you doing?” I asked Lorenzo as I peered over his shoulder to study the large-scale schematic he was currently marking up.

  “I’m re-creating the schematic you lost the other day.” The quick movements of his pen made a scratch-scratch sound as he worked.

  “I didn’t lose it.” Not that defending myself mattered. Lorenzo enjoyed believing the worst of me. I’d long given up on forging a friendly working relationship with him. He clearly resented that the First Lady had brought me in to develop an organic gardening program for the gardens last year.