The Scarlet Pepper (19 page)

“I will not be bullied into anything,” she rasped. “How did you get this number? I don’t even know who you are.”

There was a pause as she listened, her entire face darkening.

“
My father
?” Desperation, a feeling I knew too well, tightened her voice, raising it an octave as she squeezed out, “Do you know where I can find him?”

She frowned as she listened.

“No!” she shouted and disconnected the call.

“I couldn’t help but overhear your end of the conversation,” I said to Kelly; then I quickly added, “If someone is harassing you, I have friends in the Secret Service who might be able to help.”

“What?” She gave a startled jerk and quickly covered a stack of papers on her desk with her arm. “The Secret Service? Oh, no. Thank you. No. I’m fine. It’s just a stupid misunderstanding. I can handle it.”

I watched her, my concern growing as she moved to more fully cover up the papers on the desk in front of her. Her hands were shaking. The media types—like the Secret Service—didn’t rattle easily. Most thrived on conflict. The greater the conflict, the better the story and all that. So I had to wonder what was going on with Kelly that would make her this nervous and yet was not something she felt she could turn into a front-page story.

“Have you seen Frank Lispon?” I asked her. “I have some information for Wednesday’s harvest to give him.”

“Frank?” She leaned out her office and looked around, her gaze flitting nervously around the busy room. “I haven’t seen him. No one has.” She huffed loudly. “I need to get a list of figures for tonight’s broadcast, and he’s ignoring my texts. I was told that Lispon was one of the best press secretaries ever to have worked these halls. But so far, I’ve not seen that.”

“A man was murdered over the weekend, your co-worker,” I pointed out. “This isn’t your typical Monday.”

“Of course.” Her cheeks darkened again. “You’ll have to forgive me. This is my first full week at the White House, Parker’s no longer around to help me out, and I don’t want
to mess up this opportunity. The jackals”—she gestured to the other reporters in the room—“want to see me fail; either that or they want to steal my story. That Simon Matthews seems eager to take over Parker’s role as hard-nosed reporter around here. I can’t let him sabotage me as he tries to climb the rungs. I really do need to get these figures checked.”

“Try texting Penny in the press office. She should be able to help you.” I gave her the number. Now that I was thinking about her, I realized Penny might be able to help me as well.

Kelly thanked me for the number. I started to leave but then thought of another question.

“Did you manage to retrieve the papers Parker took from you?” I asked with a meaningful look at the papers she was clearly trying to hide from me.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Friday night. You were arguing with Parker in Lafayette Square because he’d taken some papers from you,” I said.

“Right. I’d forgotten that you’d overheard that. I’d rather you didn’t tell anyone about the theft. They weren’t for work.” She glanced down at the papers and pushed them under a stack of newsprint. “They were personal.”

“White House employees are models of discretion,” I assured her, but then I remembered my conversation earlier in the day with Detective Manny Hernandez. “Shoot. I’m afraid, however, I did tell the police about your missing papers and your confrontation with Parker when they questioned me about what happened on Friday night.”

“I hope they don’t…” She shrugged and then forced a smile. “It was nothing. Really, nothing. You had to tell the police about what happened on Friday. I wouldn’t want you to lie. I’m sure nothing will come of it.”

“And did you find them?”

“Find what?”

Was she being deliberately dense?

“The stolen papers. After Parker’s death, were you able to find them?”

“No. I haven’t had a chance to look. They really weren’t that important anyhow. Now, if you’d excuse me, I really do have a deadline to meet.”

“Not important?” Then why was she upset to hear that I’d talked to the police about them? And why wasn’t she still looking for them? The reason was as obvious as powdery mildew on a crepe myrtle—Kelly was lying.

Did she get her papers back from Parker before his murder or after? And who was threatening her on the phone just now?

“How well do you know Francesca and Bruce Dearing?” I asked her, wondering if she knew about the details of the murder mystery dinner Francesca had cajoled me into helping her plan.

“I’ve never met them. Sorry,” she answered without lifting her head from her phone.

While Kelly texted Penny, I did a quick search in the rest of the press corps offices for Frank Lispon. No one had seen him. Most were anxiously waiting for him to return their calls and texts. When I passed Kelly’s office on my way out, she—along with the interesting stack of papers on her desk—was gone.

I FOUND PENNY IN THE PRESS OFFICE. SHE WAS
talking on the office phone while texting on her iPhone.

“You have the kitchen garden press packet?” she asked me. “No,” she said into the phone, “I was talking to someone in the office.”

“I do,” I whispered and set the press packet on the corner of her desk. “I’ve also e-mailed a copy.”

“Thanks,” she mouthed and then added aloud, “Frank’s been looking for this. No, sorry, I was talking to someone in the office again. Yes, I am listening to you,” she said into the phone.

“Have you seen him?”

She shook her head. “When I find him—” She pantomimed choking him.

“Good luck with that,” I said with a laugh. “I found a note on my desk that said ‘Lispon’s office.’ Do you know what that could be about?”

She shook her head.

After watering the peace lily on her filing cabinet, I left her office. On my way out, I passed Frank Lispon’s office again. The door, which had been closed, was now slightly ajar.

Good, I thought, I needed to check on the young Ming aralia, an indoor Asian houseplant with an exotic bonsai look, in his office. It was a thirsty critter, and Frank never bothered to water it. I was certain it needed some tending.

I’d raised my fist to knock on the door when I heard Frank’s voice say, “What are we going to do about Casey Calhoun?”

I froze.

“We?” Bruce Dearing countered. I’d recognize his gravelly voice anywhere. “She’s your problem. I expect you to handle her like you handled Griffon Parker. Only try to be more discreet this time.”

“I
was
discreet with Parker.” Frank’s cool voice chilled the blood in my veins.

“I saw you in the parking garage inches away from slugging the bastard Friday night. Thank God there weren’t any other witnesses. What was that about?”

“He’d—”

“He what?” Bruce demanded.

“Nothing. It’s not important. I’ll take care of Casey. Don’t worry. It’ll be handled before the end of Wednesday.”

“See that it is. And this time, for God’s sake, don’t let the press get hold of it,” Bruce said.

Was this the reason Francesca had warned me to stay away from anything involving Parker’s death? Did she know that Frank and her husband might turn their murderous sights on me?

The door started to swing open.

I needed to move
and fast
! I didn’t need to give either man more reason to…to…want to kill me.

With my heart thudding in my throat, I darted down the hall. I’d rounded the corner when I heard, “Casey?”

I didn’t care who had called my name. All I cared about was getting as far away from Frank and Bruce as possible. As I blasted through the glass doors leading out of the West Wing and onto the West Colonnade, I ripped my cell phone out of my pocket and dialed Jack Turner’s number.

“Please, answer. Please, answer,” I prayed, but his phone flipped over to voice mail.

“Casey?” Frank called as I pushed open the door to the Palm Room. I didn’t look back. I didn’t slow down.

If two of the top members of the President’s own staff had a hand in Griffon Parker’s murder, I shuddered to think who else might be involved.

The Secret Service
?

Jack
?

I needed to get away from the White House while I still could.

M
Y
heart was firmly lodged in my throat by the time I reached the White House’s northeast gate. My hand shook as I reached for the gate’s latch. It clanked as it opened. I’d kept my head down. So far no one had noticed me.

“Casey?” Fredrick popped his head out of the whitewashed guard hut beside the gate.

I stopped. So did my heart.

“Y-yes?” I hoped I looked calmer than I felt.

“Is everything okay? You don’t look so good.”

“Probably something I ate at lunch. Can’t talk now. I’m in a hurry,” I said and swung the iron gate open with more force than was necessary.

“Oh, okay, then,” Fredrick said as the gate clanged behind me. “Um…thanks again for bringing the violets for my Lily. She’s going to love them. Have a good evening and good luck on Wednesday.”

I kept moving away from the White House at a fast clip,
but glanced back over my shoulder. Fredrick stood at the gate with his hands on his hips, watching me and frowning.

How deep did Frank and Bruce’s conspiracy go? Who else was involved?

Not Fredrick.

Not Jack.

What if Jack was involved?

Panic surged through me.

I started to jog when I turned the corner at Seventeenth Street and hurried down the hill toward the Tidal Basin. This path took me farther away from my apartment, a deliberate choice. With Frank and Bruce—two of the President’s most powerful men—targeting me, the brownstone was the last place I’d feel safe.

Despite the oppressive heat that still hung heavy in the early evening air, the crowds were as thick as I’d ever seen them. A large family, clearly tourists, stepped in my path. The father stopped abruptly in front of me. Bending down on one knee, he pointed out the Washington Monument to his young blond daughter in pigtails. The child squealed with delight.

My chest tightened.

Nearby a group of local teenagers practiced in a field in the Ellipse. They kicked a soccer ball from one to the other as they ran down the field while their proud parents watched from the sidelines. A father cheered when a smaller boy sent the soccer ball sailing.

I hugged my arms to my chest and hurried farther down the hill, weaving my way through a large tour group. With all these people and all this action surging around me, I felt more alone now than ever.

At least I was safe. I’d gotten away from the White House, and no one had tried to stop me.

But why would either Bruce or Frank try to hold me against my will? They knew how much of a scene I’d make if they tried to drag me back to the White House. And wasn’t that exactly what Bruce had told Frank to avoid?

They were smart men. They knew they had me backed into a corner.

What could I do? Run to the police and say, “Hi, Manny, you’re not going to believe this. Two of the President’s most trusted advisers are murderers. And by the way, they’re also trying to kill me.”

Manny would probably send me straight to St. Elizabeth’s for a psychiatric evaluation. I didn’t have any proof. I didn’t even understand why the men thought they needed to “handle” me.

Damn it, this wasn’t fair. Just two days before the First Lady’s first harvest and this? I wanted to scream in frustration, but that would attract too much attention.

I passed the World War II Memorial and then turned back around. With the Lincoln Memorial in view just beyond the reflecting pool, I descended the long, grassy steps into the memorial, where the sound of whooshing water from the fountains in the central pool soothed.

The people wandering through the memorial spoke in hushed tones. The memorial, laid out like an amphitheater, had a series of pillars adorned with bronze wreaths representing every state and U.S. protectorate during World War II that stood like silent sentries at the periphery of the memorial.

A white-haired gentleman wearing a camouflage hat and leaning heavily on a cane ambled past.

He stopped and asked without turning back around, “Are you okay?” After a pause he half turned toward me. He had a kind and vaguely familiar face that made the tension in my shoulders ease.

I smiled and nodded. “Everything is going to be fine,” I said around a lump in my throat even though I felt anything but okay. I had no idea what I needed to do or where I needed to go.

The man leaned on his cane and tilted his head. I recognized him now. He was one of the regular protesters who sat outside the White House’s North Lawn, the unfriendly guy who didn’t talk to anyone. “This is a good place to
come and think. I come here often. The water”—he gestured with his cane to the center fountain—“can clear your mind of all the unnecessary noise. It can help you focus. To see what’s real and what’s not.”