Flowerbed of State (33 page)

“What happened to you?” Turner asked.

“Those bastards left me there to die with her, but I didn’t. I used to wish that I had. Surviving can be harder than dying, you know? But a Good Samaritan found me and called the police. When I woke up in the hospital, I was all alone in the world, trusted no one, spoke to no one. The authorities only knew me by the false name my mom and dad had started using only a few days before Dad’s disappearance. I think it was Melissa Baker or something like that. It took over a year for my grandmother to realize what had happened and to rescue me from foster care.”

I pulled my hand from Turner’s and took a sip of coffee. The warm liquid burned in my tight throat. I set the mug back down.

Who were those men, and why did they want to find my dad so desperately? Those two unanswered questions still haunted me. No one should have to live like this, never knowing why a loved one had been taken so violently. No one should have to endure this kind of pain.

“I’ve got an early morning,” I said and stood up so quickly the chair almost toppled over.

Turner jumped up. He took my hand as we walked out of the café. He didn’t hold my hand the same way Richard had. His thumb didn’t caress my knuckles. He’d merely wrapped his calloused fingers around mine.

He slowed his step to match my pace as we walked side by side toward my apartment.

“Thank you,” Turner said after a long span of silence. “I know it couldn’t have been easy to talk about it.”

I nodded.

“I believe your mother said what she did to protect
you
, not your father.”

I must have flinched, because his fingers tightened around my hand.

“You’re smart, Casey. Think about it. If she acted as if she might break, who knows what those monsters might have done to you. Do you really think they would have let you or your mom escape alive even if she’d told them what they wanted to hear?”

But hadn’t that been the fantasy that had haunted my dreams even to this day? Mom would have told them where to find Dad and . . .

A stupid fantasy.

“No, I suppose not,” I said.

Turner stopped walking. He dropped my hand.

I looked around, startled to realize we were standing in front of my apartment.

“I’ve never told anyone about that night,” I felt the need to explain. “I’m not sure why I told you.”

“I think you did it because on some level you knew I could hear what happened and not go to pieces with pity for you.” He tilted up my chin and leaned in close as if he was going to kiss me. “Maybe you wanted me to pity you. Maybe somewhere in that conniving mind of yours you thought you could use your past to get me to open up to you about the investigation.”

“Did it work?”

“Do I look open?”

I rolled my eyes and then raced up the stairs.

“Casey?” Turner called to me after I opened the front door.

“Yes?”

“Your parents weren’t—” he started to say and then shook his head.

“What? What do you know about them?”

“Nothing. Be sure to lock the door behind you.”

“If you know something—”

“It’s nothing. Good night.”

“
M
S. Calhoun, what do you think you’re doing?” Seth Donahue’s crisp voice assaulted my ears the next morning as he trotted up with his self-important swagger.

I’d taken Milo for a walk in the Jacqueline Kennedy Garden outside the East Wing, both to get him accustomed to me while he was still a manageable size and also to check on some of our most recent arrivals in the garden beds. Just a few days ago we’d planted a spring crop of rosemary, thyme, and a hardy variety of basil under the holly trees at the chef’s request, and I was worried that they’d suffered damage in last night’s cold snap. The basil worried me the most, since even a little bit of frost would knock it out completely. Thankfully, the hollies had protected the tender herbs. Some of the leaves showed a few black spots from the cold, but the stems were fine.

I wasn’t.

Last night had left me badly shaken. I’d never opened up so completely to anyone. I’d ended up tossing and turning all night, worrying about how Turner might use my vulnerability against me.

Not that I thought he would . . . just that I knew he
could
.

And Joanna was still missing.

Seeing Seth bearing down on me with his Hollywood swagger and the devil shining bright in his eyes wasn’t comforting either.

“We have a major event coming up,” he jabbed with his sharp tone, “and here you are for the second day in a row spending all of your time playing with the President’s dog.”

“Excuse me?”

I tightened my grip on Milo’s leash. The puppy had lowered his head and body in a primitive move very similar to a wild predator stalking its prey. A low growl rumbled in his throat.

“I directed Sal Martin to have his men paint the snow fencing. The green is too bright. I think a soft yellow would be more tasteful. And you know what he told me? He said that I’d have to talk to you. To
you
!” Seth repeated, his voice growing not louder but sharper. “The incompetence I’ve encountered these last few days staggers me. No one seems capable to act without my direct supervision. And even then, it’s a struggle.”

With everything that had been going on with the investigation into Pauline’s murder, the upcoming Easter Egg Roll wasn’t at the forefront of my thoughts that morning. Nor did it need to be.

Lorenzo, Gordon, and I, along with the grounds crew and the greenhouse staff, had worked long and hard to prepare the planters, grow the seedlings for the gardening booth, and polish the landscape until the grass shimmered and the hedges formed perfect geometrical shapes. Hell, we’d even come to work today, a Saturday, to make sure all the small details had been properly handled. We’d done our part and we did it while running around in a hectic race to keep Seth happy.

Seth came to a stop directly in front of me, invading my personal space—and Milo’s. He propped his hands on his hips. His face had turned dark red. A prominent vein throbbed in his neck.

His explosions were growing more and more frequent. To my knowledge, no one had dared stand up to him.

We’d mumble.

We’d agree.

We’d do whatever it took to get the hell away from this madman.

But no one pushed back.

Until this morning.

I didn’t have the time or the patience for Seth’s chronically bad temper. Shouting and ranting might be his management style. Perhaps it worked for him.

I didn’t care.

I should have been over the moon with anticipation about tonight. I’d be attending one of the hottest events of the season. All of the power players of Washington and Wall Street would be there. I’d be the envy of every redblooded American woman as I floated into the ballroom on the arm of the nation’s most eligible, most delectable bachelor.

Alyssa and I had an early afternoon lunch date to hit the boutiques in search of the perfect dress. It was last-minute and nerve-wracking and wonderful.

But thanks to yesterday, a bad cloud had come up and washed out all my happiness, as Aunt Willow would say.

There’d been no sign of Joanna at her hotel or anywhere else. Pauline’s killer still lurked in the shadows. Alyssa had driven me to work, because I no longer felt safe walking the D.C. streets.

The banking protesters had turned out on Lafayette Square in full force, but without Joanna’s leadership, they’d been standing around like lost chicks. Fredrick had waved me through the gates without calling Turner to search my backpack. I still didn’t know what to think about that. Although I’d been nervous about having to face him,
not
seeing him seemed even worse.

And to top it all off, Senator Pendergast continued to refuse to take my calls. I needed to talk to her about both the organic gardening proposal and whether the car that had run her off the road could be linked back to Pauline’s murder.

All my troubles seemed to go back to Pauline.

My mind wouldn’t find any rest until her killer was brought to justice. Move over, Miss Marple, and look out, Brooks Keller, I planned to catch the killer, whoever he may be, and make sure he took responsibility for what he’d done.

I would let no one get in my way. Certainly, not an overhyped event planner with an ego the size of Texas.

“Seth Donahue”—I drew in a deep breath—“if’n you think you can come over to me and raise sand whenever you plumb well like, well then, you must be dumber than a stump.” Generations of Calhoun pride came pouring out of my mouth while Milo barked his agreement. “Everyone, and I mean everyone, has been tiptoeing so much around you that their legs are about to give out. We’re bending over backward to make you happy. But no matter what anyone does, you’re perpetually
un
happy.

“You’ll do well to remember that the White House staff has executed the Easter Egg Roll flawlessly ever since the first one way back in 1878. Not once did they need your yammering to get it done. You’re the problem, Seth Donahue, you and your endless changes.”

I stopped only because I’d run out of breath. And yet, I’d said all that needed to be said. I felt cleansed, relaxed even.

“The bright green fence will look great,” I said calmly. “I’m not going to ask the grounds crew to change its color for a third time. Neither will Gordon.”

Seth glared at me. He pressed his fists to the sides of his thighs. If he’d been a cartoon character, I suppose steam would have been pouring out of his ears right about now.

“I just thought you should know the unvarnished truth.” I beamed a Southern-sized smile. Milo, worked up from my impassioned speech, pulled on the leash and barked, anxious to get into the middle of the action. “You’re making us all crazy, Seth. Work with us, not against us. That’s all you need to do.”

Seth opened his mouth. Shut it. Opened it again.

“A package arrived this morning for you. Ambrose is holding on to it in his office,” he said and walked away.

“Well,” I said to Milo, “that felt good.”

Milo, prancing happily alongside me as we returned inside, seemed to agree.

“Casey, there you are.” Gordon bent down to rub Milo’s scruff. “What a good boy you are.”

Milo tugged at Gordon’s pant leg, and then did a little bow, a clear indication that he was anxious to play. Gordon chuckled and gently pushed on the puppy’s side, eliciting happy growly barks.

“Have you seen today’s edition of
Media Today
?” Gordon asked.

“I’ve decided not to read that trash anymore.”

“You might want to see this article.”

More interested in playing with the puppy than talking with me, Gordon handed me the first section without pausing in the roughhousing game he’d started with Milo. The pup flopped over on his back and nipped at Gordon’s arm.

The newspaper had been folded open to the editorial page.

My heart sank as I read the title of the op-ed piece: ORGANIC GARDENING AT THE WHITE HOUSE, written not by
Media Today
’s star reporter Griffon Parker, but by Barney Vetters, the chairman of the Grounds Committee.

“I don’t need to read this to know I’ve got a lot of repair work to do.” I tried to hand the newspaper back to Gordon.

“I think you should read this one,” he said.

Holding my breath, I scanned the first paragraph. And then the second.

The article compared my seven-point organic lawn care proposal to Harvard University’s sustainable landscape management program. Over a series of years, the university had transitioned away from chemical fertilizers and pesticides to a holistic and natural approach that my proposal echoed. Barney lauded Harvard’s Facility Maintenance team for spearheading a program that he called a stunning success.

“
The program produced healthier grasses with deeper roots that thrive with less water and less intensive care
,” Barney had written. He’d concluded the article by saying, “
I believe the time has come for the White House to follow in the footsteps of the most prestigious of institutions in the adoption of organic lawn care. It’s not only good for the environment, it’s good for the nation
.”

I looked up at Gordon. “You did this?”

“Barney wrote it. He sought and received approval from the First Lady’s office for the article, of course.”

“Right, of course. But did you prod him to write it?”

Gordon kept his attention on Milo, who was trying his best to jump up and bite the head gardener’s ear. “I may have talked with a few members of the committee.”

“Are there any new articles written by Griffon Parker in here?” I couldn’t bring myself to look.

Gordon shook his head and smiled. “He’s moved on to greener pastures. The President and First Lady’s connection with Wall Street has grabbed the rabid reporter’s interest.”