Oak and Dagger

by Dorothy St. James

  “No, they won’t.” That’s why I had a heavy bag of topsoil slung over my shoulder. Lorenzo was carrying the spreadsheet printout that we needed to show Manny.

  The bag of topsoil was our ticket to the third floor . . . I hoped. I wasn’t sure how I’d let Lorenzo talk me into doing the heavy lifting. Why wasn’t I carrying the paperwork while he had this heavy bag pressing down on his shoulder?

  “Surely they’ll realize no one starts seeds this time of year.” Lorenzo slowed his step as our destination grew closer.

  “Even if one of them does know better, they won’t question us. We’re the gardening experts,” I mumbled out the side of my mouth. “Oh, hi there!” I called to the pair of uniformed Secret Service guards stationed at the elevator that led up to the White House’s third floor. “We need to get this up to the greenhouse ASAP. With everything that’s happened in the past several days, we’re behind schedule on all our projects. I’m sure you understand.”

  Neither of the burly guards looked the least bit sympathetic. “Let me see if it’s on the schedule,” the larger of the two grumbled and disappeared into the adjacent office.

  “Schedule?” Well, that blew a giant hole in my plan to get upstairs and ambush Manny.

  Lorenzo snorted in my ear as if to say, “I told you.”

  “I didn’t know we needed to be on a schedule,” I told the guard who’d remained behind. “We’ll just be a few minutes. It’s important that we get the potting soil up there.”

  “We can’t bend the rules, ma’am,” he said.

  “I don’t have any record of anything happening in the greenhouse,” the second guard said when he returned. “If it’s not on the schedule, it’s not happening.”

  Lorenzo snorted and danced from foot to foot like a nervous racehorse getting ready to bolt.

  “This bag is getting heavy,” I said to buy us time while I tried to think of something, anything we could say or do to convince the Secret Service guards that we needed to get upstairs. “Isn’t there anything you can do?”

  “No.” The first guard seemed to draw an impenetrable wall with that one word. “Come back when you’re on the schedule.”

  I was about to admit defeat, something I didn’t want to do since that would give Lorenzo an endless supply of I-told-you-so’s for years to come. But what else could we do? The Secret Service guards looked as if they’d put down deep roots smack dab in front of the elevator doors. There’d be no budging them.

  Think. Think, I told myself. There had to be a way to get the spreadsheet printout to Manny.

  “Lorenzo! And . . . and Cathy! Just the duo I was hoping to find,” Lettie called as she bounded down the hallway toward us.

  The Secret Service guards shrank away from the First Lady’s sister like she was poison ivy.

  “What do you have there, Cathy?” she asked, poking the bag of potting soil with such force that I had to do a sidestep dance to keep from tipping over.

  “It’s Casey,” I corrected, wondering if Lettie was mangling my name on purpose.

  “Right.” She stuck her finger in the air as if to say she’d make a point to remember that. She glanced at the Secret Service guards. Her toothy smile faded. “I’m ready to get back to work on the historical gardening notes, especially Dolley Madison’s. I did tell you that I’m a university professor of American history, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, I think you might have mentioned that. And we do appreciate your help.” I added the last part when Lorenzo, who had claimed to be in charge of the project, snorted again. “We’re not dealing with research papers today. We had hoped to prepare the seed flats in the greenhouse so they’d be ready once the seeds arrive for the founding fathers’ kitchen garden, but apparently there’s some trouble with that. Our name’s not on the schedule. So we can’t get upstairs.”

  “The seeds?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said. The seeds I hadn’t been able to order because, apparently, they no longer existed. “While the National Arboretum will have the bulk of the display, your sister has been excited about the founding fathers’ vegetable garden we’ll be planting this spring. It’s all ready to go. We just need to get upstairs to start the seeds.”

  A little white lie. If I didn’t have my hands full holding this heavy bag of potting soil, I would have crossed my fingers.

  Child, lies are lies. The devil doesn’t own a ruler, so he can’t measure the size of your sin, Grandmother Faye liked to tell me. And hellfires burn just as hot for the little white lies as they do for a humdinger.

  She was usually right about these things, but with Gordon’s reputation—not to mention his freedom—on the line, I was prepared to risk a little cosmic retribution in exchange for helping him.

  “You can’t get upstairs to the greenhouse?” Lettie muttered. Her gaze shifted slowly to the Secret Service guards, who backed farther away from her. “I can’t see why that’s a problem.”

  The second guard cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but they aren’t on the schedule. It’s the policy. There’s nothing we can do.”

  “Come on, Casey,” Lorenzo said as he glanced up and down the center hallway. “Let’s not make a scene.”

  I was about to agree with Lorenzo and follow him back to the grounds office, but then Lettie blurted out, “They’re my guests!” She latched on to Lorenzo’s arm before he could make a clean escape. A crowbar wouldn’t pry her loose. “I want them to accompany me upstairs to show me around the greenhouse. Do you have a problem with that?”

  The guards exchanged wary glances.

  I held my breath.

  The guard who’d been adamant about us not getting to the third floor gave a stiff nod. “Of course not, ma’am,” he said as he hit the elevator’s call button and stepped out of the way.

  The third floor of the White House was a later addition built on the roof of the original structure. The space started out as a storage area accessible only by a ladder. Then, a sleeping porch was added. By 1952, the third floor had been transformed into a large living space that included several guest bedrooms and additional offices for the First Lady and her staff. There was also a game room, a solarium that doubled as a family room where the First Family could escape and relax, and tucked against the northwest side of the roof was a greenhouse.

  The elevator doors slid smoothly open. Lettie nodded to the Secret Service guard who was sitting in an old desk chair near the lift. He nodded back and returned his attention to his newspaper as we walked down the hallway toward the glass door that opened out to the rooftop deck.

  Did I happen to mention that the door to the rooftop deck and the greenhouse was located right next to the entrance to the offices the First Lady had started using since giving birth to her sons? This was the part of the plan that neither Lorenzo nor I had really thought through. We couldn’t just stumble through the wrong door, especially not with Lettie following us around. After all, she was the one who was dead set on proving Gordon’s guilt.

  So close. And still, we were going to fail.

  I glanced longingly at the First Lady’s office door as we walked past. There was nothing we could do but head out to the greenhouse and prepare the planting trays for seeds that didn’t exist.

  Lettie opened the door to the rooftop deck. At the same time, Lorenzo gave me a hard shove in the center of my back with his shoulder. I would have been able to catch myself if not for the huge bag of potting soil slung over my left shoulder. Not that I didn’t try. I trip-skipped several steps before stumbling over Lettie’s foot. My face hit the tan Berber carpeting. The bag of potting soil landed with a dull thud. The thin plastic split open to send a dark cloud of soil billowing into the air.

  In the stunned silence that followed, the door to the First Lady’s office swung open. The First Lady, dressed in a tailored lavender suit with matching flats, stepped out into the hallway with Detective Manny Hernandez at her elbow.

  “Margaret!” I said, so happy to see her.

 
; Her delicate brows furrowed as she frowned down at me and the spilled bag of potting soil. “What’s going on here?” She’d addressed the question not to me or Lorenzo or even her sister, but to Manny. Her voice was filled with suspicion.

  “Sorry,” I said as I scrambled to my feet and brushed off the black soil as best I could. “I seem to have lost my footing,” I said, and grudgingly nodded to Lorenzo. This was the opening we’d been hoping for. “I had meant to tell you yesterday how so sorry I was about the broken irrigation line on Monday. It was an inexcusable mistake. And my fault. Not Gordon’s.”

  I stepped over the broken bag of potting soil and wrapped my arms around the First Lady. Impulsive, yes. And terribly inappropriate. But in my defense, her cheeks were drawn. Her eyes were bloodshot. And she looked in dire need of a hug.

  “Thank you,” she whispered when I released her from the caring embrace. “Your cheek is bleeding.”

  She dug around in her pocket for a clean tissue. She smoothed it out before handing it to me. I pressed the tissue to my cheek for a second before taking a look. Small spots of blood flecked the white tissue.

  “Thank you,” I said and pressed the tissue to my cheek again. “I guess I hit the floor pretty hard, darn my clumsy feet. I apologize about the mess.”

  Manny, dressed in a freshly pressed brown suit, glared daggers at me. His salt-and-pepper mustache flared. “What are you doing here? As if I can’t figure it out.”

  “They’re my guests,” Lettie proclaimed. “We’re working on your garden project, Mags. Cathy was worried—”

  “You mean Casey,” Margaret gently corrected.

  “Yes, of course. She was worried that with everything that had happened in the past few days, she hadn’t started the seeds for the founding fathers’ garden. And if she doesn’t start them now, they won’t be ready to be planted in the spring.”

  Lorenzo groaned as Lettie repeated my little white lie.

  “I personally helped select many of the plants,” Lettie continued. “We’re going to grow the historic heirloom plants in the greenhouse, just like you wanted.” I winced at the embellishments Lettie had added. “In fact, Mags, I’ve been taking a leading role in the project.”

  I could feel the heat of hell’s fires nipping at my heels. I should have listened to my sainted grandmother. Even if it had been for a good cause, I shouldn’t have lied. I held my breath and fully expected the First Lady to call me out and chastise me for making up stories. Margaret, a first-rate gardener, knew darn well that it would be months before we needed to start the spring seeds.

  The First Lady, however, didn’t even blink. “Thank goodness,” she said with her usual grace. “With everything that’s been going on, I was worried the planting would be delayed. I hope you haven’t had trouble finding sources for the seeds.”

  Lorenzo looked like he was trying to tell me how to answer the First Lady with his bouncing eyebrows.

  “We’re still working a plant list,” I said and then had to dodge Lorenzo’s attempts to kick me. Apparently, that wasn’t what he’d wanted me to say. But it was the truth. “Some”—make that most—“of the plants might not be available.”

  “Send me a copy of the planting list when you finish,” she said and then turned to the detective. “You must know I support the grounds office in all their projects. Especially Gordon’s.”

  Manny’s lips twisted, which caused his mustache to do a little hula dance. “Yes . . . um . . . I need to get back to the station. If you have any other questions about the investigation, please don’t hesitate to give me a call.”

  “Yes, thank you for taking the time to meet with me. I feel in the end you’ll do the right thing.” Margaret patted Manny’s hand.

  Manny stepped over the broken bag of potting soil with as much dignity as he could muster and headed toward the elevator.

  “Well, that’s done. Let’s get this mess cleaned up and out to the greenhouse,” Lettie said.

  “What do we do?” Lorenzo mumbled without moving his lips.

  “You’d better hurry. The detective is getting away,” the First Lady whispered back.

  “But I thought we were going to get the planters ready,” Lettie said, looking around.

  “We will. In a minute.” I snatched the printout from Lorenzo’s hands. “Won’t be a minute.”

  With Lorenzo sputtering protests about my leaving him to deal with Lettie alone, I jogged down the hall and stepped into the elevator with Manny just as the doors slid closed.

  “You’ve been avoiding me,” I said.

  Manny stared straight ahead.

  “Gordon didn’t do it,” I said.

  He continued to stare at the brass elevator doors as if they were the most interesting things he’d ever seen.

  “I have evidence.” I shook the printout.

  Manny tapped an impatient finger against his leg.

  “I thought we were friends, Manny. Why are you doing this?”

  A bell dinged, announcing that we’d arrived on the ground floor. The doors slid open.

  Manny stepped out of the elevator and gave a nod to one of the Secret Service guards.

  “Where do you need to go now, sir?” the guard, clearly his assigned escort, asked.

  “I’m ready to go back to headquarters,” Manny replied.

  Both men appeared content to pretend I didn’t exist.

  But I’d gone through too much trouble to give up now. So I dogged their heels as they headed toward the exit in the Palm Room. “You have to listen to me. I found the missing branches. They were next to the grounds shed. And Lorenzo found evidence that the papers Lettie gave you have always been in Gordon’s office.”

  The sunny Palm Room connected the White House residence to the West Wing. The room, with doors on each of its four walls, served as a staging area for guests and a passageway to the Rose Garden on its south side. The door opposite it, which was the door Manny was currently exiting through, opened out onto the North Lawn.

  Manny’s quick stride carried him past a small exterior guard hut attached to the West Wing and down the curving driveway toward the northwest gatehouse.

  I sprinted to catch up to him and thrust the printout against Manny’s broad chest. “This spreadsheet proves that the papers you have are only a copy of the ones Frida claimed were stolen.”

  He stopped, looked at the paper, and nodded once.

  “You can check its authenticity with the assistant usher. He’s the one who cataloged the files this past summer,” I said, pushing the spreadsheet into his hands.

  “I never thought Gordon stole from Frida,” Manny said.

  “You didn’t? Of course you didn’t. Just like this past summer, you’re working an angle. You’re putting the pressure on Gordon so the real killer will make a mistake. Isn’t that right?”

  Manny didn’t answer—not that I’d expected he would.

  “So if the research Lettie gave you isn’t relevant to the investigation, can we have it back? We need it for our—”

  “No.” Manny folded the printout in half and stuffed it into his suit jacket pocket.

  “But if you’re not going to use them, why are you holding on to them?”

  “They might be important.”

  “But you said they weren’t.”

  He stopped and turned toward me. “Look, I did say that. Missing papers or missing branches or missing schematics aren’t going to make or break the case I’m building against Gordon. But thank you for all those texts and photos you’ve been sending me the past few days.”

  “Wait a minute, I’m confused. You just said you didn’t think Gordon was guilty of stealing from Frida. So why are you still building a case against Gordon?”

  “This is a murder I’m investigating, Casey, not some petty office theft.”

  “But Gordon couldn’t have killed anyone.”

  His dark brown eyes met mine. “Do you think I enjoy this part of my job? Even the First Lady”—he gestured back at the Wh
ite House—“is telling me to get off Gordon’s back. Every single person I’ve met loves him. I get that, but at the same time I can’t ignore the evidence.”

  “Evidence? Gordon was attacked. He’s lucky to be alive.”

  Manny shook his head. “I’ve talked to his doctors. Hell, I’ve had my pathologist talk to his doctors. There’s no sign of bruising or cuts or anything on him. No one pushed him into the pond.”

  “But the blood I saw—”

  “Was Frida’s. He killed her in a fit of anger, attacked her from behind. That same fit of anger triggered his cardiac arrest.”

  “No. That’s not true. He wasn’t in the garden. He left the Children’s Garden. The branches—”

  “Yes. We’d already found the branches. The police do have a little experience in conducting murder investigations. But branches or no branches, nothing changes. Even if Gordon left the Children’s Garden, he obviously returned. You were there. You found him.”

  “But if he didn’t steal Frida’s research, if he wasn’t interested in finding some stupid treasure that probably doesn’t exist in the first place, what is his motive?”

  “I can’t talk about the case.”

  “Come on, Manny, you were talking about it just a second ago.”

  “I was talking about the alleged theft, which isn’t part of the murder investigation.”

  “Frida’s murder has nothing to do with Gordon. If you’d just open your eyes long enough, you’d see that. Gordon would never hurt anyone. And he had no reason to hurt Frida. Sure, she’d gone all nutty on him, but he could handle a little nutty.”

  “Knowing that he worked with you for the past year, I believe that. You’ve pushed me to the edge often enough.”

  I let the dig slide because it only strengthened my argument. “Then you agree with me. Gordon is innocent. You need to tell that to the press before they put him on trial in the court of public opinion and completely ruin his reputation and his nearly thirty-five-year White House career.”

  Manny’s mustache quivered as he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. “I should have all the pieces together by Friday afternoon. That’s when I’ll take what I have to the DA’s office. I’m sorry, Casey. I really am. I hate this part of my job. The people I take into custody leave behind friends and families who grieve for them. It tears me up inside to see it. But I’m not the one who forced them to break the law. And it’s still my job to arrest them. I have to do it.”