Flowerbed of State

Table of Contents

 

 

Turner said, “Radio this in, Steve. We need the White House police out here and probably the FBI.”

I appreciated his calm voice. I clung to his controlled manner, hoping a measure of his steadiness would rub off on me because my entire body was beginning to tremble. I feared if someone were to touch me right then, I would shatter into a million pieces.

Turner slowly reached into the trash can and carefully tilted the woman’s head back so he could feel for her pulse. I prayed he’d find one.

But I knew in my heart we were too late. The woman’s glassy eyes glared up at me. Her deep red lipstick was smeared across her porcelain cheek. Her mouth gaped open as if still fighting for that one last breath. A fight she’d been doomed to lose. An angry red welt ringed her neck. I touched my own throat as Turner slowly shook his head. “It’s a homicide,” he said. “She’s been strangled.”

Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)

Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)

Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India

Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

 

Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

 

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

 

FLOWERBED OF STATE

 

A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with Tekno Books

 

PRINTING HISTORY

Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / May 2011

Copyright © 2011 by Tekno Books.

 

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions. For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

 

eISBN : 978-1-101-51442-9

 

BERKLEY
^®
PRIME CRIME
Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
BERKLEY
^®
PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group
(USA) Inc.

 

 

 

 

When I embarked on this writing adventure that had me delving into the behind-the-scenes life at the White House I never imagined the wonderful and gracious people I was destined to meet along the way.

First, a huge thank-you goes out to Amy Dabbs, the Tri-County Master Gardener Coordinator, for sharing her passion for organic gardening; Roger Francis, the Senior Clemson Extension Agent at the Charleston office, for his commonsense advice; and to the amazing master gardener volunteers who have welcomed me as one of their own. My garden has never looked so lush! And Mike Dixon, because of you, I’ll never think of grass the same way again. I’m still trying to decide if that’s a good thing.

Hazel Betts, docent at the Richard Nixon Library and Museum, taught me about the burgundy red floribunda “Pat Nixon” rose. And the incredible Eddie Gehman Kohan, who reports all things food and garden related from the White House in her Obama Foodorama blog, kept me “in the know.” Thanks to Congressman Henry Brown, Senator Lindsey Graham, and their dedicated staffs—especially Taylor Andreae in Senator Graham’s office—for arranging tours, answering questions, and giving me a peek into the inner workings of the federal government. My book is richer because of you.

Sergeant David Schlosser, of the U.S. Park Police, you have my sincere thanks for taking the time to explain how the various agencies work together. I’m also grateful to the members of the Secret Service for answering all my odd questions and
not
arresting me as I stalked them around the perimeter of the White House during all hours of the day and night. I have to point out that the men and women serving in the Secret Service, the U.S. Park Police, and the D.C. Police are some of the most professional and dedicated civil servants I’ve met. Our nation’s capitol is in great hands.

Enormous thanks go to Brittiany Koren for offering me the chance to bring Casey Calhoun to life. Brittiany, you’re a great friend, a hard-nosed editor, and one of the best cheerleaders in the business. A big thank-you goes to Michael Koren for his understanding and patience for all those times Brittiany locked herself away in her office in order to help me hash out all the details.

Thanks also go to Marty Greenberg, Rosalind Greenberg, Larry Segriff, John Helfers, and Chuck Wiseman at Tekno Books for your support. I send my deepest gratitude to my editor, Natalee Rosenstein, at Berkley Prime Crime, for giving me the chance to tell Casey Calhoun’s story, to Michelle Vega for guiding me through the process, and to the talented staff at Berkley Prime Crime who have helped turn my manuscript into the novel you hold in your hands today.

Last but not least, I’d like to thank the incredible authors in the Lowcountry Chapter of Romance Writers of America, Sisters in Crime, and Mystery Writers of America, whose unflagging support has kept me pounding away at my keyboard: especially Nina Bruhns, Margie Lawson, C. J. Lyons, Mallary Mitchell, Tracy Anne Warren, and Joanna Wayne for patiently listening and giving advice as I worked out plot problems and tilted at windmills while writing this book. I couldn’t have done it without you!

C
ASEY, child, I swear some days ain’t good for nothing but spreading out on a lawn like fertilizer,
Aunt Willow was known to sputter when everything but everything seemed to go wrong. And I don’t mean annoyances like when the car gets a flat tire, or the bank misplaces your deposit. No, she had to be
really
upset. It was the closest I’d ever heard my pearl-wearing, julep-sipping Southern belle relative come to swearing.

She had thousands of odd sayings like that. So I had to wonder why that especially dire one kept worming its way through my head.

Lately, everything in my life was coming up roses. Or perhaps I should say
pink ruffled tulips
, since I was apparently lying facedown in a bed of them.

I carefully lifted my head. A blob of mud slid down the side of my nose and trailed across my cheek. A few inches away a shiny black ground beetle tipped its antenna in my direction. I watched as it traveled across the rim of a tulip bloom. Despite the dim morning light, I was able to take this all in without any trouble at all. But when I probed deeper, I couldn’t figure out why the devil I was napping in a bed of flowers.

Slosh
.

I wasn’t in any obvious pain.
Not yet
, a frightened little voice in my head warned. I’d been here before, a long, long time ago. Not in a bed of flowers, but semiconscious and confused.
And hurt
.

Ancient history
, I reminded myself.

But was it? Waking up in a flowerbed was by no means normal for anyone, right? And why couldn’t I remember anything about how I got here? While I knew I should have stayed put until I could thoroughly assess what kind of trouble I’d gotten myself into, I wasn’t in the mood to lie about waiting for anything else to happen to me. It took some effort to push up onto my wobbly hands and knees. Oh, what a mistake! Sitting up set off a firestorm of agony that radiated out from behind my eyes and shot down my neck.

I groaned and cradled my sore head in my hands. When my fingers brushed my left temple, I felt something warm and sticky. It took several seconds to realize what I was touching.

Blood.
My
blood. And under that film of hot, sticky blood a lump was forming. Not good. Not good at all. I had just enough wits to know that landing in a soft bed of flowers shouldn’t have done this kind of damage. Something else must have happened. Something
bad
.