The Scarlet Pepper (9 page)

Spots of color rose in Annie’s tanned cheeks. “It’s good to meet you, Manny.”

I wondered if I should have felt slighted. He’d never invited me to use his first name. “Um…Manny, you can tell us. We’re not the press. What’s
really
going on here?” I asked. “Griffon Parker was having too much fun ruining other people’s lives to want to end his own.”

He spread his fingers in front of him as if trying to hold me back. “I’m not hiding anything. It really does look like a suicide.”

“Then what are
you
doing here? I thought you were a homicide detective.”

“I am. It’s standard procedure to do a full investigation whenever there’s a questionable death. We never really know what we’ll find. Although what you see on the surface is usually exactly what happened. And that seems to be the case here.”

“Oh.” I bit my lower lip. The team of medical examiners had taken away Parker’s body. A uniformed police officer wearing latex gloves bent over and picked up a brown pill bottle from the step where Parker had died. He dropped it into a paper evidence bag. A female officer nearby was dusting the step for fingerprints.

“It’s all standard procedure.” Manny rubbed his mustache again, making it poke out at odd angles. “Procedure that we religiously follow to the letter. I don’t care what Parker wrote in his column last week, the D.C. Police has some of the best professionals out there. We know how to do our jobs, and we care deeply about the public we’re trained to protect.”

“Parker has been attacking the police department in his column? I’m surprised. I thought he was strictly a White House correspondent.”

“Oh, don’t be surprised. He’s done it before, usually after getting burned up over a parking ticket or something trivial like that,” Manny said.

“I didn’t know.”

“You’re telling me you haven’t read the articles? If that’s true, I bet you’re the only person in the greater D.C. area who hasn’t.”

“After what he wrote about me and the unflattering editorial cartoons he’d inspired, I’d stopped reading anything by him.”

“I read every word,” Annie announced. She hadn’t taken her eyes off Manny or his distinctive mustache. Her
shyness seemed to fade away as she met his gaze. “I knew right away what he’d written about the D.C. Police was nothing but bunk.” She reached across the yellow tape to touch Manny’s arm. “Not a month after my husband passed away a few years ago, someone tried to break into my home. The police responded to my call practically before I’d hung up. They took up and charged the thief that same night.” Her fingers trailed lightly up his arm. “I sleep soundly in my lonely bedroom knowing that you are out there protecting me.”

“I…um…I…” Manny cleared his throat. “Thank you, Annie. That’s kind of you to say.”

“So the department’s been taking a lot of heat because of these articles?” I asked.

“Have we ever! Several politicians are calling for the chief’s resignation, which is stupid. Chief Rankin is the best chief we’ve had in years. Came up through the ranks and really knows how to handle the city’s unique quirks and problems. Honestly, I’m not sad to see Parker gone.” He hitched his thumb in the direction of the statue.

“Especially if he killed himself?” Annie added.

“Exactly. I don’t see how anyone could live with himself as long as he did while knowingly going out of his way to destroy so many careers and lives.” Manny shrugged unapologetically.

Coincidences happened every day. Just because Francesca and I had been talking about how to stage a murder, it didn’t necessarily mean that Francesca had anything to do with Parker’s death.

“So there was a note?” I asked.

“I can’t talk about the details of the investigation,” Manny said. “I’m sorry.”

Undaunted, I pressed on. “I saw the pill bottle beside Parker. Do you think he took an overdose of pills?”

“We won’t know what killed him until after the autopsy. But as I said, it looks like suicide.”

“Then no poison in his tea or anything as grim as that?” I said as a wave of relief washed over me. Perhaps Parker
hadn’t been able to face losing his position as a White House correspondent.

It wasn’t murder.

Thank goodness
.

“We did find a travel mug. There was a bit of stinky tea left in it,” Manny said, forgetting his earlier promise to keep quiet about the details. “How did you know that?”

“Good guess?” I suddenly had a difficult time catching my breath. Francesca had mentioned that she planned to put poison in his tea. Well, not
Parker’s
tea specifically, but…

Oh, hell, if I were to be honest about it, the poison in the tea had been my idea.

I knew I needed to say something to Manny, but I didn’t want to get Francesca in trouble before I had all the facts.

It still could be suicide.

I needed to step back and think.

“What was he doing drinking hot tea on a day like today?” Annie asked. “It’s hot enough to blister the paint off a roof.”

“Don’t ask me.” Manny started to watch me intently. “Casey,” he said, his voice low and cautious, “is there anything you want to tell me?”

I pressed my lips tightly together and shook my head. As much as I wanted to say something to him, I couldn’t. I wouldn’t get Francesca into trouble. Not until I gathered more information about what had happened.

If what Manny said was true and Parker had killed himself, the rest was just coincidence.

That had to be it.

Manny began to return to the work waiting for him at the crime scene when Annie whirled toward me. “My God, Casey. How could you?” She pressed both hands to her mouth. “The tea! I should have remembered right away. Francesca told me all about it. You said you’d put something—oh, yes, an extract from the yew leaves—into his tea. And here he’s been found with tea and a pill bottle. The murder is set up exactly how you said it should be done.”

“I didn’t—” I started to say.

Detective Hernandez had stopped to listen.

“I didn’t plan to kill anyone. I didn’t
kill
anyone,” I protested, but the seeds of doubt had already been planted.

Detective Hernandez’s gaze hardened.

Annie finally noticed him watching us. “I’m so sorry, Casey! I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s just that…” She waved her hands nervously in the air. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“What’s going on?” he demanded.

“Nothing. Really. Nothing,” I said firmly.

“Are you sure?”

Swallowing hard, I nodded.

A news van with
Media Today
’s distinctive logo emblazoned on its side careened around the corner and squealed to a stop in the middle of the road next to the park. Kelly Montague, dressed in a tan business suit and light blue blouse, vaulted out of the van followed by a cameraman.

Manny swore a colorful oath. “How did she find out so quickly? If she’s here, I’m sure the other vultures can’t be far behind. I need to get over there and deal with her questions.” His authoritative gait carried him over to where the news van had parked and the cameraman was setting up. As he walked past one of the uniformed officers, I heard him say in a low voice, “Make sure the ME includes a search for yew extract in the tox screen.”

“Yew, sir?” the younger officer asked.

Manny glanced back in my direction. The muscles in his jaw tensed. “You heard me. Yew. As in the plant. Now don’t waste my time. I have work to do.”

Alyssa rushed over to Annie and me, her keys dangling from her hands, her sundress swishing around her legs. “You wouldn’t believe what it took to park. I’m four blocks away. What’s going on? What did I miss?”

“
P
LAIN
and simple. A suicide,” Alyssa declared after hearing the details of Parker’s death. She pried the tray of petunias from my hands. “It’s shocking and tragic. And by tomorrow, the news cycle will have moved on to something else. Parker will be forgotten.”

“You think so?” I asked.

“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.” Alyssa introduced herself to Annie. The two women discussed their clothes and where they shopped while I watched Kelly Montague stand calmly in front of the camera and from under the shade of a towering oak tree report on her co-worker’s death. Before Kelly had finished, three additional news vans had pulled up to the curb.

“I suppose Imogene’s not around?” Alyssa asked, her gaze scanning the dispersing crowd for the senator’s wife. Griffon’s body had been taken away and the police seemed to be winding down their investigation. With the excitement over, the onlookers had started to return home.

“She’s not,” I said. “Annie warned the volunteers not to
come. That reminds me.” I reached into my purse, scribbled my cell phone number on a scrap of paper I found in there, and handed the paper to Annie. “Use this number if you need to contact me in the future. I hope we’ll be able to reschedule the planting soon.”

“I do, too.” Annie folded the paper over and tucked it into her purse.

“Well, since there’s nothing left for any of us to do,” Alyssa said, “let’s get out of here. I’m taking you to my favorite restaurant for breakfast. You rushed me out the door so quickly this morning I didn’t get a chance to eat even a crumb.”

“I’ll see you Monday at the garden,” I said to Annie, bidding her a hasty farewell as Alyssa herded me away from the park.

On the way to the restaurant, Alyssa canceled all of her afternoon plans. For the rest of the day, she stuck close by, keeping me distracted and away from the television news long into the evening. We were like a pair of college kids, ordering in pizza, eating ice cream from the carton, and watching old movies until we fell asleep on the sofa in the small hours of the night.

Griffon Parker’s death made the front page in the Sunday edition of the national newspaper
Media Today
. The television reporter and the reason Parker’s job had been in jeopardy, Kelly Montague, had written the front page’s short article. It started out flatly stating that Parker had taken his own life, citing the pending loss of his White House correspondent position. Tucked near the end—if I’d blinked I might have missed it—was Detective Manny Hernandez’s standard statement, “The investigation is ongoing.”

“So that’s it,” Alyssa said as she read the article over my shoulder. “It’s over.”

“I suppose so.”

Coincidences did happen.

But what was Parker doing in Burberry Park?

And why would he take his own life
before
publishing
the damaging article against Francesca and Bruce Dearing? It might have saved his job.

He didn’t even hang around long enough to publish the article he’d threatened to write against the First Lady’s kitchen garden.

I could understand how someone as proud as Parker would be devastated over losing his prestigious White House assignment, but he hadn’t lost the assignment yet. And I couldn’t believe he’d take his own life without trying to take one or two people down with him. That was the miserable kind of guy he was, the kind who enjoyed spreading his misery around.

Not my business.

Griffon Parker was dead. The world believed he’d killed himself. Who was I to say otherwise?

STAY OUT OF THE PICTURE.
THIS CARDINAL WHITE
House rule had been drilled into my head from day one.

Like the insects and worms silently toiling deep in the soil to keep the garden healthy, the White House staff worked behind the scenes to keep the President of the United States well fed, on time, and looking perfect as he worked to keep the country safe and the government running. Very few citizens cared to watch the ushers, maids, and gardening staff shuffling about any more than they’d wish to see those wiggly insects and worms living below ground come flopping up to the surface.

It was the colorful floribunda and tea roses blooming in the Rose Garden that the press and the public wanted to see; it was the President, First Family, VIP visitors, and the First Dog they wanted to see. There was no room on the staff for publicity seekers or showboating. It simply wasn’t done.

I didn’t need the reminder, thank you very much.

Seth Donahue, the First Lady’s social secretary, however, apparently disagreed, if his frantic gestures were any indication. His lanky body moved like an undulating
fish as he tried to push me from a great distance. Even his bleached blond hair, so light that it looked colorless, gleamed in the morning light like fish scales.

I didn’t know why he was so adamant. Perhaps he thought I was planning to dive into the picture as the First Lady’s photographer snapped pictures of Margaret Bradley surrounded by the volunteers who’d spent the last several months helping out in the vegetable garden.

To placate him, I took a half step to the left.

Honestly, after the harrowing morning I’d had, I was more than ready to stand back and let someone else—
anyone
else—take over.

That Monday morning I’d arrived at the White House bright and early with Fredrick’s thank-you violets to find the back stairs and hallways abuzz with rumors and speculations about Griffon Parker’s death. Not surprising, really. The staff—while adapt at keeping a lid on White House affairs when speaking with outsiders—loved to gossip with each other.