Oak and Dagger

by Dorothy St. James

  “You can’t be serious. You’re going to encourage the DA to pursue charges against Gordon even when there’s clearly no motive?”

  Manny started to walk away, but he stopped and turned back around. He mumbled something.

  “What?” I asked.

  “I said, there is a motive.”

  “Impossible.”

  “Talk with Deloris.”

  “Gordon’s wife?” My stomach clenched as I remembered how pleased she’d seemed when she’d heard Frida had been murdered. Well, perhaps pleased was too strong a word. No, it wasn’t. She had been pleased. “What does Deloris have to do with anything?”

  “Ask Deloris,” Manny said as he walked away. “I’ve got work to do.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  If you want a friend in Washington, get a dog.

  —BESS TRUMAN, FIRST LADY OF THE UNITED STATES (1945–1953)

  ASK Deloris. Manny was crazy if he believed I’d badger Gordon’s wife with questions about her past when she had her hands full working with hospital staff and worrying if Gordon would even survive.

  No, don’t even look down that dark path. Gordon was going to survive.

  I gazed out over the North Lawn. This was Gordon’s domain, his love for the past thirty-five years.

  Fall leaves flecked in shades of dark reds and gold floated on the wind, swirling over the White House’s iron gates. The leaves didn’t know or care that they were entering one of the securest residences on the planet.

  Given what had happened on Monday, I was starting to wonder if all this high-priced security was simply an illusion. Frida was dead. Gordon was critically ill. Because someone had figured out how to fool the system? A stab of dread grabbed my neck as I looked around me. Someone inside this iron fence was a killer.

  It was a horrible thought.

  So horrible, the Secret Service and the police were willing to point a finger of guilt at the first person they could find. And they weren’t alone.

  On the other side of Pennsylvania Avenue, news crews had set up field studios in Lafayette Square as they reported twenty-four hours a day, spinning a story about how a head gardener could lose his mind and attack a colleague. Every day, every hour, every minute that passed edged the situation ever closer to the point of no return, the point where Gordon’s fate would be sealed and no amount of evidence to the contrary could stop the justice system from steamrolling over him.

  What did Deloris know?

  Milo gave a deep-throated bark and bounded across the North Lawn toward me. His unruly mop of yellowish-gold fur danced and waved like a rock star’s long mane.

  I held up both my hands. “No. Milo, no.”

  His yellow eyes sparkled with wild, puppy excitement. No amount of admonishment would slow him or turn his course. With a leap, his muddy front paws hit me with a smack in the chest. I staggered backward several steps as I absorbed the impact of his nearly eighty pounds of muscle. His long tail kicked up a breeze as his pink tongue slipped out of his mouth and licked my face.

  “Off,” I ordered. I twisted to the side to dislodge the oversized puppy. Black mud smeared down the front and side of my dark blue shirt and khaki pants. “What have you been doing?” As if I needed to ask.

  He’d been digging.

  Again.

  “You should know better,” I scolded. He looked up at me with his adorable brown puppy dog eyes and wagged his tail. Gordon and I, not to mention the highly skilled dog trainer who’d been brought in, had worked long hours to train Milo to direct his boundless energy into less-destructive activities.

  After wiping the dog slobber from my face, I reached for Milo’s leather collar, but he took off running before I could grab hold of him.

  “Milo! Come!” I clapped my hands.

  The naughty puppy took off running toward “Pebble Beach,” the flagstone area alongside the western end of the curved driveway where television correspondents reported from the White House. Milo stopped when he spotted a correspondent filming what looked like a live segment on Pebble Beach. The puppy looked . . . intrigued. He crouched low to the ground as he edged his way toward the fieldstones.

  Wouldn’t the reporter be surprised when a large puppy with a wild gleam in his eye crashed the interview?

  “Milo,” I called in a whispery, but commanding, voice that I hoped wouldn’t be picked up by the reporter’s microphone. “Milo, come here.”

  I moved as close as possible without risk of walking into the shot or upsetting the Secret Service agents who were keeping watch over the area. Actually, I waved my hands at the agents, hoping they’d spot Milo and grab his collar, but there was a ruckus going on at the gate as a black sedan followed by a couple of SUVs entered the property.

  I prayed the envoy from Turbekistan was sitting in the backseat of the sedan.

  Milo didn’t notice the incoming motorcade. Crouched low with his butt in the air, he flapped his tail, making it look like a loose sail in a windstorm. He inched toward the reporter who was standing with his back to us so the camera would capture a dramatic shot with the reporter in the foreground and the White House rising up behind him.

  “Milo,” I whispered as I dropped to one knee next to a wide white oak tree. Sometimes when I got down to his level, he’d run over to me. “Over here.”

  The pup cocked his head in my direction. He then looked back at the reporter. His ears tilted forward as he seemed to consider what he should do, although I suspected I already knew the choice he was going to make. His muscles quivered with delight.

  With an excited yelp, Milo broke into a run with his ears plastered on the sides of his head. He raced past the Secret Service agents on duty, leapt over a low boxwood hedge, and landed on the fieldstones. With deliriously happy barks, he launched himself at the surprised reporter.

  I had to give the man credit. After a moment of stunned silence, the reporter smiled at Milo and rubbed the pup’s scruffy head. “Looks like I have a junior reporter joining me.” After introducing Milo, not that the President’s famous pooch needed an introduction, the reporter—now wearing a goofy grin—continued his report.

  I was now close enough to hear the sandy-haired journalist. He wasn’t reporting on the sky-high gas prices or the tensions in the Middle East. It was Frida’s murder that had suddenly captured the nation’s attention. “Special Agent in Charge of Protective Operations Bryce Williams was called to testify before a joint committee of Congress today,” he said, his voice growing loud with excitement.

  Milo, enjoying the attention, smiled for the camera with his big loopy grin and tongue hanging out the side of his mouth. He looked as if he was planning on staying put. He might as well stay. The damage had already been done.

  “Security lapses have caused many to question President Bradley’s safety. Is the Secret Service doing enough to secure the White House? I have to wonder myself if enough is being done. Take, for instance, the appearance of the President’s dog just now. Where is his minder? Why isn’t he being watched?”

  I’m right here, I felt like shouting. And I would have spoken up if not for my disastrous track record for speaking with the press. Even President Bradley’s press secretary, Frank Lispon, had begged me to just keep my lips sealed around the press and let the professionals—professionals like him—do their jobs.

  So I did. I leaned against a white oak and, crossing my arms over my chest, waited for the reporter to conclude Milo’s interview.

  Since gardeners pretty much had free rein on the grounds, the Secret Service agents jogged by without giving me a second glance once the mysterious town car had entered the property and the gates had closed.

  The doors to the sedan were swept open. I held my breath, hoping that Lev Aziz would emerge . . . not that I knew what the skittish envoy looked like.

  And I certainly didn’t recognize the dark-haired man who stepped out of the sedan and was hurried into the West Wing.

  “Was that Lev Aziz?” I asked a Secret Service agent
who was heading back to the northwest gate. Getting those oil negotiations started would relieve some of the pressure Manny must be feeling to swiftly close Frida’s murder investigation.

  “Nope,” the agent answered. “The Turbekistan guy said he wasn’t coming out of hiding until his safety could be assured. Hey, wait, you aren’t supposed to know about any of that.”

  “Well, I do,” I said. After all, Aziz had said he’d wanted to talk with Calhoun . . . me. “I’m willing to help out any way I can, but no one seems interested in letting me.”

  The agent chuckled as he jogged past. “You’re just a gardener. What can you do?”

  “But—” I started to argue. Too late, the agent was too far away to hear me.

  I’d started to inch my way back to Pebble Beach to see if I could lure Milo over to me when out of the corner of my eye I spotted Marcel, the First Lady’s interior designer. He came lumbering around the corner of the West Wing. His shoulders were slightly hunched, and he was wearing his bulky dark red winter coat and matching mud boots. He appeared to be deep in thought as he kept his head down. He looked as if he was studying the ground or contemplating how to coordinate the colors in the nursery with the colors in the solarium. His thick arms swayed left-right-left-right with each step as if he needed their motion to help propel him forward.

  Milo saw him, too. With his ears turned forward, a sure sign he was on high alert, his head jerked away from the camera as he tracked the interior designer’s movement with the same intensity with which he watched the squirrels in the trees.

  Special agents Janie Partners and Steve Sallis, both dressed in dark suits and matching dark sunglasses, moved to intercept not the puppy who was somewhere he shouldn’t have been but the color-coordinated Marcel.

  Milo, seeing that the Secret Service agents were going to get to his prey before him, gave chase as well. He jumped off Pebble Beach, over the boxwoods, barking as if it were dinnertime and the chef was bringing him a choice cut of steak.

  The reporter, left alone on Pebble Beach, shook his head and chuckled before turning serious again. He reiterated that Milo’s appearance only underscored why every loyal American should be concerned about White House security.

  Half bent over to keep out of the camera shot, I darted after Milo before he caused even more trouble. I managed to snag hold of his collar at the same time Steve grabbed Marcel’s arm.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” both Steve and I demanded.

  “Sorry, I was talking to the dog,” I said when Marcel howled a protest.

  “I wasn’t,” Steve said.

  Janie stepped back and hid a smirk while she let her partner handle the emotional French designer.

  “Move out of the way, monsieur,” Marcel said with an annoyed huff. “I am doing important work for the First Lady.”

  Steve stood his ground. “Sir, how did you get past the security guards posted at all the entrances?”

  “I waved as I walked past.”

  “Impossible,” Steve said.

  “You call me a liar?” Marcel’s accented voice rose with indignation. Milo barked and tugged at his collar, anxious to get to Marcel. His tail waved madly. And he was drooling. I’d never seen Milo act so excited to see anyone. Not even the First Family elicited such unbridled enthusiasm.

  “It’s true,” I said. An intern had followed him around, serving as an official escort the first several times he’d ventured out into the White House lawn. But recently Marcel had enjoyed free access to the grounds. “He’s been out in the gardens every day.”

  “Merci, Casey,” Marcel said, puffing out his chest. His French accent deepened. “I am here at the invitation of the First Lady. I must be allowed to do my work. I must be allowed to seek my inspiration.” He’d pressed his thumb to his forefinger and lifted his hand in the air for emphasis.

  “Sir, I understand that, but you have to follow protocol,” Steve said evenly.

  Marcel jerked his arm out of the agent’s grasp. “Protocol? Protocol? What is this protocol to me? I am an artiste. I am—I am—” He stammered before switching to his native French. I caught a word here and there. Very few of the words I heard flow from his tongue were ones my grandmother would wish me to repeat in any shape or form.

  “Cut the crap and speak English,” Steve said with a sharp edge of impatience.

  “I am upset. The words . . . they come . . . difficult.”

  “Yeah, right,” Steve said as if he didn’t care that Marcel was having trouble with his English. The friendly agent wasn’t usually so harsh. I wondered if the stress of Frida’s murder and the pressure the press and members of Congress were putting on the Secret Service were getting to him.

  “You—you make English come more . . . difficult . . . by your harsh . . . tone.”

  “Well then, don’t speak. Just listen. You do not wander the lawn without prior approval. If you do it again, you will be escorted from the premises. Do you understand?”

  “Oui, oui.” Marcel sounded cowed like a scolded child. “I understand. May I go? I am late for a meeting with the florist.”

  “Not until a proper escort arrives,” Steve said, which caused Marcel to huff and puff with annoyance again.

  “I’m heading back to the grounds office. Since the florist shop is just down the hallway, I can see that he gets there,” I said.

  Steve hesitated. “I don’t know. We have to follow—”

  “She has oodles more security clearance than an intern,” Janie stepped forward to point out. “She’s more than qualified to serve as his escort.”

  Steve sighed. “Okay. Go on, Frenchie.”

  “Merci,” Marcel said to me as we headed across the North Lawn and down the steps to the sunken West Courtyard tucked behind the North Portico. Milo threatened to pull me over as he yanked at his collar, whining and yipping with each step.

  “Calm down,” I said, but he refused to listen. It was as if the excitement of running amok on the North Lawn had made him forget all his training.

  Marcel didn’t seem to notice when I stumbled down the last several steps into the courtyard. “I will call you in the future when I need an escort, non?”

  “No, I can’t—” I started to explain. I had more than enough on my plate already with trying to save Gordon’s reputation and keep him out of prison for a murder he didn’t commit. But Marcel didn’t give me a chance.

  “Bon,” he said as he hurried inside. “It will be good. We will discover the lawn’s secrets, you and me. The green of the grass can shimmer in the morning. I wish to see it from all angles. The shiny shade will make a perfect trim for the nursery, do you not think?”

  I was still in the courtyard cleaning Milo’s paws with the garden hose that was there for just this purpose when Lorenzo located me. “Thanks for letting me clean up that bag of potting soil by myself. What happened with Manny?” he demanded.

  I blushed for forgetting he had been stranded in the rooftop greenhouse with Lettie and the First Lady, then quickly summed up the frustrating conversation with the detective. “I don’t want to upset Deloris with this. But we need to find out what he’s talking about. I’ll call Pearle or Mable and see if one of them would agree to—”

  “Casey, stop! This is exactly what we need to talk about.” He held open the door for Milo and me. It was a short walk down the hallway to the grounds office. “You can’t just run off half-cocked and make the decisions. In Gordon’s absence, I get to make the decisions. I’m the senior assistant.”

  “No, Lorenzo. It’s true that you’ve been here longer, but our titles are the same. If you look at Wilson Fisher’s organizational chart, you’ll see we’re on the same level.”

  That had been the wrong thing to say. Lorenzo’s face darkened several shades. His voice was a low growl as he said, “We have never been on the same level.”

  “Fine. Let’s just focus on Gordon.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to do!” he shouted. “And you’re running a
round, lying about your founding fathers’ vegetable garden when both you and I know it’s going to be an absolute failure.”

  “What do you want me to do, Lorenzo? We can’t really back out now. Margaret has considered the project a done deal for quite a while now. She expects me to—”

  “This is part of the problem with you! You refer to the First Lady as Margaret instead of Mrs. Bradley or the First Lady. You act as if she’s your best buddy. You’re disrespectful.”

  “I’m friendly.”

  “You’re a junior assistant gardener. You’re not supposed to be friendly with the First Family!” And that was the crux of the problem. My relationship with Margaret Bradley was eating Lorenzo from the inside out.

  “What would you have me do? Should I turn the other way when she passes by? Should I ignore her when she speaks with me? Good gravy, Lorenzo, she personally asked me to work for the White House because she’d already met me; she knew my work.”

  A vein throbbed on his temple as he sent death threats in his heated glare. After a moment, he threw his hands in the air and marched out of the room. When he returned, the vein on his temple was still jumping.

  “Gordon,” he forced from behind clenched teeth. “Gordon should be our focus. Can you at least try to focus on helping him?”

  “What do you suggest we do?” I asked, keeping my arms still folded defensively over my chest.

  “I don’t know. I’m not the super sleuth.”

  “Well, we could try and follow in the killer’s footsteps. We could find out what was in Frida’s missing file folder and try to re-create her notes. And we could go looking for Jefferson’s lost treasure.”

  “I don’t believe it exists.”