The Scarlet Pepper (14 page)

The sergeant nodded and left to fetch them, with Barney serving as his escort.

Manny grabbed his recorder and set it back on the coffee table. “Who was in the garden at the time?” he asked me.

“What’s written on the paper?” Jack demanded at the same time. “Evidence or not, that piece of paper was found on White House grounds, in the President’s dog’s mouth at that. The Secret Service will have to review it to make sure that it’s not a classified document before allowing you to take it, Detective.”

I didn’t know if what Jack said was true or not, but his deadpan, just-the-facts delivery and hard, no-nonsense gaze as he held out his hand convinced Manny to relinquish the crumpled paper to Jack.

Jack read aloud the short but disturbing note. “‘No law would take me up and stop me, but what I’ve done was wrong.’”

Jack looked up at us. “Take him up?”

“I think he means arrested,” Manny said with a shrug. “Although he ruined people’s lives with those damned articles of his—like he tried to do to our police chief—he didn’t break any laws. Believe me, we’ve paid close attention to his actions. He walked up to the line but never crossed it as far as any of us could tell.”

Jack continued, “‘I can no longer live with myself for the pain I’ve brought on others. That is why I have decided to take my own life. My only sorrow in this is the knowledge
that, because of the life I’ve lived, no one will grieve my passing.’ And there’s the hastily scrawled signature of Griffon Parker.”

“He didn’t write that note,” I said. I’d read enough of Griffon Parker’s articles to recognize his writing style. This note had none of the pompous attitude he liked to pile onto his vile prose.

“I agree,” Manny replied, “which raises the question—who did? We’ll need to review the surveillance video of the garden from this morning.” He addressed this to Jack, who nodded his agreement.

“In the meantime, Casey, I need you to tell me who you remember being in that area of the garden. And I mean everyone.”

I closed my eyes and pictured the volunteers and staff who had been near the tomatoes where I’d first noticed the paper. “The reporters had tromped through there, but Kelly Montague stood near the peppers to interview Mable Bowls and Pearle Stone. And then there are the volunteers. They helped me clean up the mess Milo had made over the weekend. But it was mostly Mable and Pearle who worked in that area. Oh, and Annie Campbell. I believe she helped out over there, too.”

“Anyone else?”

“I think I was in that area when I talked with Frank Lispon. Jerry and Bower, two of our newest members on the grounds crew, might have spent some time over there, too, not that they were much help. Those two are lazy. Margaret Bradley walked throughout the garden, checking on its progress, but the First Lady, she wouldn’t have written a fake suicide note.”

“No,” Manny agreed, but I noticed him writing her name in his notebook even as he added, “I can’t imagine that she would. Is there anyone else?”

“No, I think that’s it.”

“I saw Francesca Dearing rushing through that part of the garden to join the group for the picture,” Jack said.

Manny nodded and added her name to the list.

“I can’t believe she could murder anyone,” I said, despite the fact that she’d obviously tried to turn the focus of Manny’s murder investigation to me. Who was I kidding? Francesca had a huge motive for wanting Parker dead.

“The murder mystery dinner was her idea. She asked me to help plan it,” I said. “I now wish I hadn’t agreed. She also had quite a bit to gain by the reporter’s death, including saving her husband’s career and her lofty social position.”

And, again, she seemed only too willing to blame me.

“Francesca and Bruce Dearing both have alibis for Friday night,” Manny said. “They went to dinner, then a late-night jazz concert that lasted until one in the morning, and their housekeeper was adamant that then the two were in for the night until seven the next morning.”

“If not Francesca or Bruce, then who killed Parker?” I asked, not because I wanted to join in on the investigation, but because I wanted out of the suspect pool.

Manny shrugged. “We’re just gathering names. Don’t you worry, Casey. We’ll catch the perp. Turner, can you arrange for me to review the videos now?”

Instead of answering, Jack looked at me. His dark brows were drawn with concern.

“We can talk later,” I said and excused myself to let Jack arrange things for Manny.

As I’d said before, despite the black cloud of suspicion hanging over my head, the investigation had nothing to do with me. Really it didn’t. I could walk away from this and not look back.

And that was exactly what I did. I walked away. I felt pretty damn proud of myself that I was able to hand over the evidence and trust that the police would find Parker’s killer. I felt no need to get involved. None at all.

Thank you very much.

However
…

How did an obviously fake suicide note end up in the First Lady’s kitchen garden? And why would the killer write something like this and then not use it?

“
Y
OU
need to be careful, Casey,” Gordon said, echoing the concern Jack had expressed earlier. “You can’t open your life to that detective and hope for the best.”

“But I did nothing wrong. As I’ve said”—many times already—“I gave Manny the fake suicide letter. The killer must have written it. Who else would have a reason to want to make Parker’s death look like a suicide?”

Gordon Sims and Lorenzo Parisi both watched me as they ate their lunches at the staff meeting in the grounds office. We’d purchased sandwiches from the cafeteria in the Eisenhower Executive Office Building and were sitting around Lorenzo’s drafting table. I took a bite of my eggplant parmesan sandwich.

Gordon had ordered his usual tuna salad sandwich. Lorenzo had ordered a spicy meatball sandwich, quite a change from his regular turkey and Swiss. He’d glared when I’d started to mention that.

By the time we’d finished our sandwiches, we’d made it
halfway through our projects list, checking off completed items and adding new tasks. As usual, we’d already added nearly as many items to our to-do list as we’d removed. With Wednesday’s vegetable harvest looming, I felt antsy. I’d already lost half a day to talking with Detective Hernandez. I had more important things to do than worry about a murder investigation that had nothing to do with me.

We would have breezed through the staff lunch in record time if Gordon hadn’t kept insisting we discuss what the police may or may not be thinking…about me.

Lorenzo watched me as he noisily sipped Diet Coke through a straw. I’d expected a snide comment or two from him, but he was keeping uncharacteristically quiet about the entire affair.

“You need to consult with a criminal lawyer,” Gordon concluded.

Alyssa had told me the same thing when I’d called to warn her that the police might contact her to verify my alibi for Friday night. My roommate had gone a step further than just providing advice. She’d surveyed several of her colleagues on the Hill. After sorting through the stories of politicians who had escaped prison sentences, she had called me back with the contact information for the top criminal defense attorney in the D.C. area.

I’d jotted his name and phone number in the margin of my yellow notepad, but I hadn’t called him. The thought of bringing in a defense attorney made my stomach churn. Hiding behind a lawyer felt too much like an admission of guilt.

“I’d much rather focus on gardening and getting ready for Wednesday,” I muttered to myself.

“What’s that?” Gordon asked, but then continued without waiting for me to answer. “It’s not that I’m worried about your guilt or innocence. I know you could never harm anyone.”

“Thank you.” I appreciated his vote of confidence.

“You do realize, however, that if the press learns that the police are digging into your affairs, they might start
calling you a murder suspect, which would be a disaster. The President needs to protect his own reputation. Even the illusion of wrongdoing could spell the end of your White House career.”

“I hadn’t thought about it that way,” I said. “I’m sure several reporters are already trying to retrace Parker’s steps in hopes of uncovering the scandal Parker almost published about Bruce Dearing. That’s going to cause trouble enough for the President.”

Considering the number of mystery novels I’d read over the years, you’d think I’d know exactly what to do if the spotlight of suspicion ever shone in my direction.

“I love the work I’ve been doing at the White House. I don’t want to leave.”

“I don’t want you to leave, either,” Gordon said. “No one does. Before I forget, one of us needs to have a talk with those two new guys on the grounds crew.”

“Jerry and Bower?” I asked. The two new National Park Service crew members assigned to work in the gardens did seem to need a lot of supervision.

“Sal said he saw both Jerry and Bower wandering off toward the Children’s Garden when the rest of the crew was working in the Rose Garden,” Gordon said. Sal Martin, who acted and dressed as if he still lived in the groovy seventies, had worked on the grounds crew for more years than I’d been alive. If he thought the two new guys were doing something they shouldn’t, then it was the truth.

“I’ll talk with them,” Lorenzo offered.

“Really?” I nearly fell out of my chair. Lorenzo almost never volunteered to interact with the grounds crew. He almost never volunteered to do
anything
. He shrugged and slurped his diet soda. His gaze glided over to the clock over the door. “Aren’t you supposed to be at another meeting, Casey?”

“I don’t have anything on my schedule…” I glanced at the day planner on my desk.

“You don’t?” He pulled his straw up and down so that it
squealed against the plastic lid. “That must be why Seth phoned. You were with that detective, I think. Seth said something about a meeting with Francesca Dearing and Gillis in his office at one o’clock to discuss the harvest. He wants you to be there.”

“Why are you only telling me about this now?” It was ten minutes after one. I dumped all my harvest organizational paperwork into a file folder and started for the door. “We’re supposed to be a team.”

His dark Mediterranean eyes widened as if he had no idea why I was upset. “What? I thought you knew about the meeting.”

A frustrated growl escaped my throat as I dashed out the door.

“Lorenzo…” I heard Gordon’s low voice echo down the hallway. “That’s not what I expect from you.”

I HURRIED THROUGH THE HALLWAY TOWARD
the East Wing and Seth Donahue’s corner office on the second floor. The overstuffed file folder flopped against my arm with each step.

At least I’d gotten my wish. I had no time to worry about murder investigations or mysterious notes.

Although I was late for the meeting, the bright sunny day tugged at me as I passed a line of windows overlooking the Jacqueline Kennedy Garden. I’d rather be outside in the garden watching out for signs of aphids or a wilting disease than stuck in yet another meeting. My step slowed as I took in how the afternoon light made the colorful blooms on the beds of geraniums, impatiens, ageratums, and lilies glow with life.

When I was stressed, I gardened. I’d plunge my hands into the cool earth to feel the natural world pulsing all around me. It was almost July, almost time to prune the impatiens back to about an inch above the ground to encourage a new burst of color that would last until late
fall. But under the heat of the intense afternoon sun, I’d do more harm than good if I were to poke or prod or prune my green darlings in their beds right now.

One of the necessary duties at the White House included participating in life-draining organizational meetings. Okay, perhaps not life draining. But close.

Gordon called them colossal wastes of time. He always found an excuse to miss them, sending either Lorenzo or me in his place. Being the new girl in the garden, I usually pulled the short straw.

This particular meeting promised to be more interesting than the rest because it was actually necessary. Without it, the harvest festivities might succumb to chaos.

The main thing that worried me about the meeting was Seth Donahue. The First Lady’s social secretary seemed particularly fond of meetings. I suspected it was because he enjoyed the sound of his own voice. He rarely let anyone else talk.

Before devoting his time to public service at the White House, Seth had owned a party planning company that catered to the rich and glamorous. High-strung and short-tempered, he often acted as if he were the only qualified employee at the White House.

Other staff members scattered whenever they spotted him storming down the hallway. He was a walking, talking headache.

Unfortunately no one could deny that he had a gift for pulling together impressive events. Most of us simply wished he would make the effort to work with the rest of us instead of fighting us every step of the way. It’d also be nice if he could let down his guard and smile.