Flowerbed of State (13 page)

Apparently Seth’s decision to open the Easter Egg Roll to more families was causing problems for everyone on the White House staff. I wondered why he’d decided to do it.

Seth was still relatively new. We’d joined the White House team at about the same time, and although I’d only talked to him once in the past three months, he’d seemed friendly enough.

Perhaps he hadn’t taken the time to think about or even ask anyone how the increase of five thousand available tickets would impact the other departments.

As for the Grounds Office, the change meant there’d be five thousand extra pairs of feet trampling our meticulously groomed lawn and five thousand extra visitors we’d need to gently direct away from the flowerbeds or keep from jumping into the fountain.

With less than a week to go, every member of the grounds crew had already focused much of their time and effort on preparing the lawn and the surrounding gardens for the coming assault.

Even now Gordon was out on the South Lawn overseeing the application of a preemergent crabgrass control and the pruning of the boxwood hedges. He also planned to inventory the snow fencing and various ropes and barriers stored in the maintenance shed. Seth still hadn’t decided what he wanted to use to cordon off the different activity areas.

The first White House Easter Egg Roll, in 1878, had been an impromptu event. Before then, local families would celebrate Easter Monday on the West Terrace of the Capitol grounds. But Congress, dismayed by the damage the children had caused to their lawn, passed a law banning Capitol grounds from being used as a playground.

A group of disappointed children had approached President Rutherford Hayes and explained the situation. Hayes, unable to control Congress, offered the kids the use of the White House lawn for their traditional Egg Roll.

On that Easter Monday in 1878, as families were turned away from the Capitol, word quickly spread that they should go to the White House.

Over the years the Easter Egg Roll had bloomed into an elaborate event with celebrities reading books to the children, musical performances, health and fitness demonstrations, arts and crafts stations, and the quintessential egg roll races.

The South Lawn’s preparation had been primarily Lorenzo’s responsibility, but since he had his own troubles to worry about, Gordon and I had divided the tasks between us.

Before I started work on the decorative planters for the display areas, I decided I should talk to Gordon about the increase in numbers attending. This was my first Easter Egg Roll at the White House, and I wasn’t sure if Seth’s last-minute change put a monkey wrench in our preparations or not. Gordon would know.

Carrying my wide-brimmed straw hat, I crossed through the light-filled Palm Room that separated the White House from the West Wing. The small room had been decorated to resemble a gazebo. White lattice covered the walls. Potted citrus trees and President Bradley’s favorite camellias brightened the corners. The three-foot blood orange tree I’d moved from the greenhouse last week had finally started to bloom. Tiny white flower buds dotted its dark green foliage.

As I passed through the door leading out to the South Lawn, I spotted Special Agent Janie Partners. Red highlights brightened her black hair today, and she was wearing a black pantsuit with a green silk scarf sporting a tiny dollar bill pattern tied around her neck. She gave me a friendly nod, glanced at the crowd behind her, and rolled her eyes.

“If you’ll come this way, we have a tight schedule to keep.” The young staffer I’d met in the hallway with the bankers yesterday waved a hand in the air as if swatting flies. The three bankers I’d meet yesterday meandered through the grass in the Rose Garden along with about a half-dozen more professionally dressed men and women. None of them seemed to be paying the staffer any attention. Most had their BlackBerries pressed to their ears. A couple of them were wandering in the opposite direction toward the fountain.

“Ple-ease, this way.” The young staffer waved his hand in the air with even more gusto.

“It’s been like this all day. Take a break and they scatter. Makes herding cats look easy,” Janie whispered before trotting after the straying bankers.

I spotted Lillian and Brooks Keller with their heads pressed together in deep conversation near the Jackson magnolia.

This particular tree, the oldest on White House grounds, was one of my favorite of the presidential commemorative trees. Andrew Jackson’s wife, Rachel, died just two weeks after Jackson had won the presidential election. She never got to see him take the oath of office.

The grieving president planted two magnolias, Rachel’s favorites, to flank the White House on its South Lawn. What a tribute to everlasting affection. For the past hundred-and-seventy-five years the pair of trees had thrived.

However it wasn’t the tree that interested me today, but the drama unfolding underneath it. Lillian pushed a white cast iron chair out of her way. It made a loud scraping sound on the patio’s concrete paving stone. She looked angry, though her voice remained too soft for anyone other than the stony-faced Brooks to hear her.

Lorenzo had mentioned last night that Pauline had been auditing Brooks and Lillian Keller’s bank books and then would socialize with them at night. If that was the case, they might know what had made Pauline so excited the night before her death.

Before I could question them, Special Agent Steve Sallis stepped in my path. He gave me a hard look, his brows furrowing. “I hope you’re keeping out of trouble.”

“As much as possible,” I said.

“Good.” He chuckled, his expression lightening. “You’re on CAT’s radar this morning. And they don’t sound especially happy about it.”

“Lovely,” I said with a sigh. I didn’t need an entire division of the Secret Service thinking up ways to make my life miserable. “I didn’t mean to cause trouble.”

“I know that, Casey, and you know that. But CAT obviously doesn’t. I suggest you keep a low profile for a while.” He turned toward the bankers. “Break time’s over, folks.” He raised his voice just a bit so everyone could hear him. “The afternoon session is due to start in less than ten minutes.”

Much to the young staffer’s annoyance and relief, the bankers listened to Steve and started to file back inside the West Wing.

Lillian and Brooks Keller rushed past me. I started to intercept them, but the sight of Brooks’s shoes hit me like a blow to the head. He was wearing the same black-and-white leather shoes with that lightning bolt on the side that I’d seen on the killer’s feet. The wonder twins of banking hurried past as I stood frozen, staring at his shoes. “I don’t care what you think.” I overheard Lillian’s sharp whisper.

“Go to hell!” Brooks shot back. He pushed the businessmen in front of them out of his way in his rush to get away from his sister and into the Palm Room. The hard soles of his shoes tapped against the pavement like a ticking time bomb.

Had a killer invaded the White House walls?

I grabbed Steve’s sleeve. “Brooks Keller,” I whispered. “His shoes.”

“What about them?”

“The man who’d attacked me, he was wearing those shoes.”

Steve peeled my hand from his arm. “Do you know who Brooks Keller is?”

I nodded and pointed toward the door Brooks had just blasted through.

“Apparently you don’t know.” His expression softened just a touch. “I’ll quietly mention what you’ve told me to the lead investigator.”

“Is that Mike Thatch?”

Steve nodded sharply and walked away.

“I wonder what that could have been about.” Richard Templeton, as dangerously handsome as a rock star, came to stand next to me. He jammed his hands in his pants pocket and watched as Lillian glanced nervously around her while trying to pretend that nothing had happened. “Lillian and Brooks, they’re an odd pair.”

Richard kept his gaze trained on Lillian, which made me wonder if he realized I was standing next to him in the small niche under the magnolia tree. I discretely cleared my throat to give him fair warning.

“When our lunch break included a tour of the gardens,” he said with a wry smile, “I was hoping to see you.”

I looked over my shoulder, because he couldn’t possibly be talking to
me
. But the only thing back there was the waxy-leafed magnolia.

“You’re talking to me?” I asked, because it would make more sense if he was having a conversation with the famous Jackson magnolia tree than a plain Jane gardener like me.

“Yes.” His dazzling gaze met mine. “I’m talking to you.” His smile was irresistible.

A
sudden breeze rattled the Jackson magnolia’s thick leaves. Southern magnolias like this one graced nearly every plantation, grand estate, and suburban backyard in my native Lowcountry.

At the moment, though, I wasn’t thinking of home. The charismatic Richard Templeton had completely captured my attention.

“I’ve been at my wit’s end with a hydrangea bush in my garden. I’ve had it for years. But this past winter it’s turned completely brown.” His stylish light gray suit emphasized the lines of his fit body. He’d pinned a patriotic red, white, and blue flag to his lapel. “I thought perhaps you could give me some advice on what I can do to save it.”

The rest of the bankers had slowly filed back inside, leaving me alone with Richard Templeton and Special Agent Steve Sallis.

Steve stayed a polite distance away. He crossed his arms over his chest and pretended disinterest, a skill the Secret Service had perfected to an art form.

“A hydrangea, you say?” Templeton had to be pulling my leg. “And you’ve had it for years?”

He nodded and gave me the most sincere look I’d ever seen. “I’ve lovingly tended it ever since it was just a little shoot.”

That made me laugh.

“I don’t understand,” he said.

“Hydrangeas go dormant in the winter and drop their leaves, which you’d know if you actually had one in your yard for years.”

He laughed, too. “Mental note to self—get my gardening facts straight before flirting with a gardener.”

My jaw dropped open. “You’re flirting with me?” I looked around again for another woman, because Richard Templeton, the man famous for dating supermodels, couldn’t possibly be flirting with me.

He shrugged. “Why wouldn’t I? You’re a beautiful woman.”

“You think so?” I beamed.

I’d once overheard my grandmother say that she thought my Aunt Willow’s bulldog, Beauregard, had been hit one too many times with an ugly stick. But I’d never heard anyone mention getting hit with a pretty stick. And yet that must have been what had happened to me when I got hit on the side of my head, because I couldn’t remember the last time two men complimented me on my looks in the same day.

“Er . . . thank you,” I said graciously, remembering the manners Grandmother Faye had painstakingly drilled into me. I also remembered something else, something Lorenzo had said last night.

Pauline had told Lorenzo several weeks ago that she’d dined with Richard Templeton while in New York City.

I wanted to ask Templeton about it. But Turner had warned me not to talk about the investigation to anyone, and with the threat of the pepper spray incident hanging over my head, I didn’t need to dig myself into an even deeper hole. I was very aware of Steve Sallis’s presence nearby.

It was one thing to discuss Pauline’s murder with Lorenzo. They’d been intimately involved.

Had Pauline also been involved with Richard Templeton?

I needed to find a way to work the question concerning Pauline’s relationship with Templeton innocently into the conversation.

“I don’t usually put my foot in my mouth around attractive women.” Templeton rubbed the back of his neck. “Perhaps we could start over? I’m Richard Templeton. We met briefly in the hallway yesterday when Senator Pendergast stepped on your foot.”

He extended a hand for me to take. I rather felt as if I should pinch myself because it didn’t feel real. He cleared his throat and glanced pointedly at the hand I’d yet to take.

“Sorry.” My cheeks burned a bit as I placed my hand in his. “I’m Casey Calhoun. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Templeton. Have you been enjoying your visit to the nation’s—”

“Please, call me Richard.”

He kept hold of my hand. Not shaking it in greeting, just holding on to it as if he’d found a precious object. The soft-winged butterflies that had fluttered in my belly yesterday started whipping up a windstorm.

He lightly caressed the back of my hand with his thumb.

“I hope you’re feeling better today. John told me what happened.”

“John?”

“Bradley, the President. We were roommates in boarding school. The stories I could tell.” A wistful expression tugged at his lips as his gaze turned toward the Oval Office. “But I won’t. I respect our friendship too much to want to embarrass him.”