Ghost Image (14 page)

It was a bedroom, simply furnished with a bed tucked into an alcove, a chest of drawers, and a chair. There was also a fireplace and the rectangular windows were all at floor level.

“This is what I wanted you to see.” Ryan pointed to what looked like a large pine armoire. “Thomas Jefferson's seed press, made here in the Monticello joinery. He kept all his seeds in it, in vials that were hung on hooks attached to the wall or in tin canisters. Originally it was downstairs in his private suite, the rooms he called his Cabinet.”

“It's very interesting,” I said, “but why are you showing it to me?”

“Because it dates from 1809, after Jefferson returned to Monticello at the end of his second term as president, two years after the Pembroke letter. But here's what's interesting: We have a written account of a woman, a friend of Jefferson's who knew him in Washington and visited Monticello, who said Jefferson also had a portable seed press, which he used for carrying around seeds when he worked in his garden. It's gone, completely vanished, and we have no idea what it looked like except for her description: a wooden stand with some truss hooks and more corked vials of seeds. According to the woman, the portable press was able to hold at least one hundred different kinds of seeds, so it wasn't some little contraption.”

I didn't understand where he was going with this. “Are we still talking about Francis Pembroke's letter?”

“I'm getting to that.” He sounded testy. “Hold your horses. Pembroke's letter stated that Washington and Jefferson had selected seeds, or plants, for the botanic garden as you said. From what Fairbairn wrote to Pembroke, it appeared that Jefferson added many of the plants discovered by Lewis and Clark to that list, plus he was also going to incorporate an herb garden
into the national garden. Pembroke, who was something of an amateur artist, intended to document those plants, which would have been why he wanted the copy of William Curtis's
Flora Londinensis
that John Fairbairn sent him, so he could see how Curtis did the same thing for the plants and flowers found in and around London.”

“So there should be a book of Pembroke's drawings somewhere,” I said.

“I've never come across it, but after reading that letter I plan to make some inquiries in case it's still out there. So I appreciate your making us aware of it.”

“Kevin's the one who discovered it,” I said. “But I don't understand how this seed press fits in with your story.”

Was that what Kevin was looking for? Francis Pembroke's drawings of the plants that were meant to go in the national botanic garden?

Ryan ran his hand along the edge of the old worn cabinet as though he were channeling Jefferson. “The other thing we've always wondered,” he said, “was whether Thomas Jefferson had a second seed press like this one, or perhaps another portable press, in the White House. It seems logical since he would have kept the many varieties of seeds that Lewis and Clark brought him. But, you see, we've always assumed that any seeds he might have had at the White House were eventually intended for Monticello, or else to share among friends.” He turned to me. “Maybe we got this wrong. Maybe Jefferson was storing seeds for the national botanic garden, seeds that he and George Washington collected together. The Pembroke letter is another puzzle piece that would seem to validate that theory.”

“What happened to the seeds?”

“The British burned Washington during the War of 1812. Almost nothing in the White House survived, including the furniture, most of which had belonged to Jefferson.”

“You think the seeds were destroyed in that fire?”

He had started pacing back and forth in the little room, as though he were trying to work this out. “That's the thing,” he said, almost to himself, “maybe they weren't.”

“So where are they?”

“I have no idea. But I wonder if Kevin did. Dolley Madison made sure a lot of irreplaceable items like the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence were moved to Virginia for safekeeping, barely getting them out of Washington before the British showed up for their bonfire. It's possible the seeds were already stored in labeled packets, which was common in those days, meaning it wouldn't have been hard to gather them up, even if you were in a hurry, and put them in some sort of pouch. Dolley would have known how much those seeds represented to Washington and Jefferson.”

“Kevin told me he'd discovered something that was more or less hiding in plain sight. Or, at least, he thought he did. That's why he was keeping this quiet until he could find out if he was right,” I said. “Do you think he knew what happened to the seeds?”

Ryan's eyes were bright with interest and his cheeks were flushed. When he spoke, I could hear the growing excitement in his voice. “If he did, that would be quite a historical coup. There's a letter from Dolley Madison to Jefferson after the White House burned in which she mentioned something about ‘the presidents' seeds' being safe. I always thought it was a grammatical error because she referred to presidents in the plural.”

“Even if there was a seed pouch somewhere, that was over two hundred years ago. After so much time, wouldn't they be dust?”

He shook his head. “Stored under the right circumstances, they could still be viable. In other words, you could plant them and you might be able to grow something.”

“That would be amazing.”

He nodded. “Seeds from plants that George Washington and
Thomas Jefferson themselves collected, probably from Mount Vernon and Monticello, plus the original seeds of plants discovered by Lewis and Clark? There would be a huge amount of interest among historians, as well as in the scientific community, especially if some of the species were extinct.”

Ryan still didn't know how valuable Kevin's copy of the book was, and it seemed as if Kevin might not have realized, either. So if he had been murdered, had it been because of these seeds?

“Just how valuable would the seeds be?” I asked.

Ryan's eyes met mine. “To the right people—not just historians but also pharmaceutical companies or agribusinesses—they could be extraordinarily valuable because of the potential for new drugs or new crop species. Especially if you're the one who finds them. They'd be priceless.”

I nodded, wondering if the plant in
Adam in Eden
that apparently had great potency in restoring memory was one of the species that had become extinct. If so, it would be, as Kevin had said, potentially worth millions. Maybe more.

I stared at Thomas Jefferson's seed cupboard and tried to take in what Ryan had just told me. Because if he was right, there were two things Kevin had discovered that might have cost him his life.

First the book.

And now these seeds.

11

R
yan walked me to my car after a detour through Jefferson's rooms, the beautiful suite he called his Cabinet and his sanctum sanctorum. I told him I was leaving tomorrow night for a week in London and had written to the general information address at the Chelsea Physic Garden, asking to meet with someone to discuss the Fairbairn letter.

“The person you want to see is Zara Remington, the curator. She's good people. I can write her on your behalf, if you'd like. In return, I'd like to be kept in the loop of anything you find out.”

“Fair enough,” I said. “So, what about you? Do you have any ideas where these seeds might be?”

“No, but I certainly intend to start looking.”

“And in return, you'll keep me in
your
loop.” I gave him a bright smile. “If you find anything, I'd like to be the photographer who gets the first pictures. I owe it to Kevin. It's his story, you know.”

He nodded. “Now I understand why he was keeping this so quiet.”

I got in the Mini and rolled down the window. “If someone killed him, he wasn't keeping it quiet enough.”

He looked startled. “I suppose you're right.”

“Be careful.”

He reached through the window and patted my shoulder. “You be careful, too.”

• • •

Sole Brothers Shoes was located on Columbia Road, the main commercial drag in the colorful, noisy heart of Adams Morgan. Years ago the store had been an elegant French patisserie called Avignon Frères, in the middle of a largely immigrant Hispanic community. The Sole Brothers, whose surname was Weinstein, had managed to keep the Old World emporium charm when they renovated the place, and now the shoe store had become as popular a destination spot as the bakery had once been. That they were closing for a morning for “a private event” was a big deal, and as one of the brothers told me, “The good publicity don't hurt us, neither. Everybody in the neighborhood has been in, buyin' shoes and showin' their support. Plus, we've had a bunch of donations. We got at least another two hundred bucks for you just in the past three days.”

The children arrived in shifts beginning at nine o'clock, by grade, the littlest ones first, or else we figured the store would turn into a mob scene. Grace, Tommy, and I had arrived earlier, along with every teacher in the school and the entire staff of Sole Brothers. Though I would have loved to take pictures as souvenirs for the kids, I left my camera at home. Not everyone was in the country legally and we didn't want to scare any of the parents away. The goal was for every child to leave the store with a new pair of shoes.

My phone rang halfway through the third wave of kids, the fifth and sixth graders. I had been reaching for a shoe box on a high shelf for a ten-year-old girl with a sweet smile and big dark eyes who looked enough like me that we could have been
related. I answered the phone and looked down to see who was calling. A D.C. number I didn't recognize.

“Hey,” a male voice said, “it sounds like you're in the middle of Union Station. I hope I'm not catching you at a bad time.”

“Who's this?”

“Sorry,” he said. “It's David Arista.”

I handed the box to the little girl and walked to the end of the aisle where the shoe sizes were too big for any of the kids so it was quieter.

“Actually, I'm in a shoe store,” I said, “and I'm kind of busy. What can I do for you?”

“I never get in the way of a woman on a shopping mission,” he said with a grin in his voice. “Especially when it involves shoes. I'll be brief. My friend at the Arts and Industries Building is willing to meet us next week and you can photograph the inside of the building to your heart's content. I was just wondering what day would work for you.”

I leaned against the end of a tall shelf and closed my eyes. “Thank you, but unfortunately I'm not available next week.”

“Sophie?”

I looked up. Grace stood at the end of the aisle and beckoned me. I held up a finger to indicate I'd be a moment.

“You're not free any day next week? Can't you rearrange something?” he was saying. “He's making an exception to let you in. I'm not sure I can pull this off again.”

“It's very kind of you, but I won't even be in the country. I'm going to London for the week. What about the following week?”

He made a noisy, unhappy sound. “I got the mountain to come to Mohammed, but I'll see what I can do. You'll have e-mail while you're away, right?”

“Yes. I'm really sorry, but I've got to go.”

“All right. Cheerio. I'll let you get back to your Jimmy Choos and Manolo Blahniks. Sounds like they're giving them away if that din is anything to go by. Where are you, anyway?”

“It's a private event and actually they are giving them away,” I said. “Goodbye, David.”

I joined Grace, who said, “We're almost done. The older kids knew exactly what they wanted, so once that big line at the cash register is finished, that's it. I thought we could stick around and tidy up so the place doesn't look like a war zone and then I'll buy you lunch.”

“Yes to everything, but I need to pass on lunch. I haven't packed for London, plus I'm going to try to make five thirty Mass at the cathedral before Tommy comes by to take me to Dulles.”

“You have a sweet brother.”

“I know. He was going out to Middleburg anyway since he's on spring break and the house will be empty. He figured he'd get a lot of uninterrupted studying done.”

Tommy left, telling me he'd see me later, and Grace and I stuck around with several of the teachers to restock boxes that had been left in piles like snowdrifts and pick up tissue paper and cardboard shoe inserts flung about like haphazard decorations. It was just after twelve thirty when we left, both on foot, since I lived about twenty minutes from the store and Grace's house was around the corner. We exchanged hugs at the intersection of 18th Street and Columbia Road, where we went in different directions.

“What can I bring you from London?” I asked.

“I'd love some tea from Fortnum and Mason, if you have time. Any kind of tea, as long as it's English.”

“I'll have plenty of time. It's a pleasure trip.”

“By the way,” she said, “I meant to tell you. Two things. I'm still covering the story on Kevin and I checked in with my contact in the medical examiner's office this morning. They haven't done the autopsy yet.”

“Will you let me know if you hear anything?”

“Of course.”

“You said two things.”

“You'll have company from home while you're in London. I saw a story on the International Press Service wire this morning. Archduke Orlando, Victor's father, is in the hospital recovering from pneumonia. There was a picture of Victor with Yasmin Gilberti entering St. Mary's Hospital with a scrum of photogs around them. Yasmin's turned into quite a little media sensation.”

So that's what Ursula's secretary had meant when she said Yasmin and Victor were called away on family business.

“How's his father doing?” I asked. “I knew he was too frail to come to the party the other night, but I didn't realize he had pneumonia.”

“I think it came on suddenly. Apparently he's not doing well at all.”

“I'll write Victor and tell him I'm thinking about him.”

She gave me another hug and crossed Columbia Road. When I was halfway down 18th Street, I thought of Ursula's neighbor's remark the other night, that Ursula wished the older prince would die before the wedding so Victor would inherit his father's titles and his share of the family fortune. It had been a snide, snarky comment, but maybe there had been some truth in it.

Yasmin would marry a wealthier, more titled man and her wedding would be even more important in European royal society. And now neither Ursula nor Yasmin had to worry about Kevin doing or saying anything that might interfere with that wedding.

If it's an ill wind that blows nobody any good, maybe the Gilberti women considered Kevin's death and the archduke's illness to be a fortunate turn of events.

But I hoped they didn't.

• • •

Though I have amassed enough air miles for an upgrade on the first commercial trip to the moon thanks to work-related travel, I
am still fascinated by the off-kilter view from an airplane window as cars, buildings, cities, lakes, and even mountain ranges shrink to the size of toys like the quick reverse zoom of a telephoto lens. Harry gave me the window seat on our flight from Dulles to Heathrow on Saturday night; he travels first class, a sublime luxury. We took off just after ten p.m., and before long, dusky shapes melted into deeper shadows until there were only constellations of bronze and silver lights, ghost images of cities and towns and dark-edged coastlines below. After a while even those faint winking lights vanished into the depthless void of a moonless night as we turned away from Nova Scotia and headed over the North Atlantic.

Harry ordered champagne for both of us without asking me because that's the way he is. If my handsome white-haired stepfather, a traditional Southern gentleman with a moonlight-and-magnolia sense of chivalry, could wrap his arms around the women in his life—my mother, my half sister, Lexie, and me—and keep the wicked world at bay, he would do it.

He touched his champagne glass against mine. “You're welcome to come to Lingfield on Monday to watch the Winter Derby with me, kitten. The horses run on artificial turf. It ought to be a good race. You'd meet some nice people. What do you say?”

I smiled. “Thanks, Harry, but if you don't mind, I'd prefer to stay in London. See some friends, revisit old haunts.”

Though Harry knew about Kevin's death, he didn't know I'd been at the monastery that day, nor did he know anything about the book, Asquith's, or my visit to Monticello yesterday. I also hadn't told him that while we were waiting at the gate at Dulles I'd received a disturbing e-mail from Zara Remington, the curator at the Chelsea Physic Garden. According to the time stamp, she'd written me at two a.m. London time.

I would very much like to meet you when you're in London. Though the garden is closed at this time of year, by exception we're open tomorrow, Sunday, for a sale of lilies in anticipa
tion of Easter. The sale will be finished by half three, so I can be available to see you at 4 pm. I hope this suits your schedule, but in light of the information you shared with me in your e-mail as well as further correspondence with Ryan Velis, I believe time is of the essence. I shan't let anyone know you are coming and would advise you to be similarly circumspect. Please let me know if these arrangements suit you.

I'd written her right back and said I'd see her Sunday at four and didn't plan to share that information with anyone. That included Harry. If he found out any of this, he'd insist on going with me.

“Whatever you want to do, sweetheart,” he said to me now. “I just want you to have a good time.”

“It's London. I'll have a wonderful time.”

We got a few restless hours of sleep before they turned on the cabin lights and the flight attendant began serving breakfast. Harry had booked us at the Connaught—more luxury—and someone from the hotel met our flight at Heathrow, shepherding us to a waiting black Bentley that zipped along the motorway, eventually winding its way onto the quiet streets of Mayfair on a chilly, gray Sunday morning.

“I forgot to pack gloves. It's a lot colder than it was at home,” I said to Harry as the chauffeur pulled into Carlos Place and stopped at the glass-fronted hotel entrance. A doorman in a black top hat and a smart camel overcoat opened the car door.

“Welcome to the Connaught, Mr. Wyatt, Ms. Medina.”

Another doorman held the front door as Harry and I walked into the paneled lobby, where a fire burned in a small gas fireplace and the air smelled faintly of the fragrant pink and magenta roses that spilled out of a crystal vase next to the spiral staircase. A grandfather clock chimed eleven as a woman in a navy suit came toward us, holding a clipboard.

She, too, welcomed us to the Connaught in a faint Eastern
European accent that I couldn't identify. “Your rooms are ready and your registration has been taken care of. You're on the fourth floor, and James, your butler, is waiting for you. He can bring you coffee or tea, if you wish, and he would be happy to unpack your bags, which are already in your room.” She led us over to an elevator across from the registration desk.

When Nick and I lived in London, we occasionally stopped into the Connaught for drinks, and once I came to afternoon tea with a couple of girlfriends. But I'd never stayed in this small jewel of a hotel, and I already felt as though we were guests at a friend's posh country home. Our rooms, furnished in understated British opulence, overlooked Carlos Place and a shallow infinity pool in which two bare-branched London plane trees grew.

“That fountain is called
Silence
,” James said as we stood at the window in Harry's room after he'd brought coffee for Harry, English breakfast tea for me, and a basket of warm scones, jam, and clotted cream on a heavy silver tray. “Every fifteen minutes a mist comes up from the base of the trees and then vanishes after fifteen seconds. At night when it's lighted, it's quite magical. But those plane trees . . .” He chuckled and shook his head. “A right mess when they're in bloom. Just ask the doormen.”

James left after assuring us he was available to indulge our every whim and we assured him we could unpack our own bags.

“What are your plans, kitten?” Harry set his empty coffee cup on the tray and pulled a credit card from his wallet, holding it out to me. “Why don't you go shopping? Early birthday present from your mother and me.”

I closed his hand around the card. “The trip is an early birthday present and Christmas and every other holiday. Thanks, Harry. I'm just going to walk, see the sights.”