The Scarlet Pepper (23 page)

“What? You’ve tasted my cooking before?”

We both laughed.

“I just wish Francesca would tell me what’s going on with her. She’s upset. I’m afraid it’s because of the story
Parker was going to write and that her husband and Frank ‘took care of matters’ before the story could get written.”

“Besides the Dearings and Kelly Montague, who else was Parker investigating?”

“Me,” I hated to admit.

We talked more about the evidence that Manny had against me. Griffon Parker had written my name in his notebook. It had been his last entry.

“I think Gillis Farquhar might have talked to Parker about me. He had nothing but complaints about my—I mean, the First Lady’s—organic program for the gardens. And he admitted to knowing Parker,” I said. “I’m sure my name was in Parker’s notebook because of the article he was planning to write about the First Lady’s garden.”

“Let’s not jump to conclusions about that,” Jack said. “We don’t know what line of research Parker was following when he jotted your name down.”

I didn’t agree, but to keep the discussion moving along I let him have the last word on that. After a while, I managed to steer us back to my main focus: Frank Lispon and Bruce Dearing.

“Those two have a long history together,” Jack told me as he sat back in the chair. “They roomed together in college and have worked together in politics for decades. I haven’t seen it myself but I’ve heard other agents talk about Frank. When we’re traveling, he’ll sometimes go off radar for a while. The speculation in the ranks is that he’s meeting someone.”

“Well, he’s a good-looking man for his age and not married.”

“Bruce sometimes disappears as well,” Jack added.

“You think they might be out trolling for women when they travel?”

Jack shrugged. “It could be the scandal Parker was planning to spring.”

“I don’t know. The way the society lionesses were talking about it, they made it sound as if it had to be something bigger. What’s so shocking about an affair? Those seem to
erupt on a monthly basis. There has to be a nasty twist. Wait a minute, Lorenzo was telling me about some rumor about Frank and Bruce that was going around the White House last year. Do you know anything about that?”

Jack closed his eyes as he thought about it. “There was something…” He opened his eyes. “Oh, it was pretty far-fetched. Some of the other guys were saying that Frank and Bruce were close. More than friends.”

“You mean…?”

Jack nodded. “Romantically involved. I never believed it. I’ve seen those two together. They aren’t involved in that way. Or if they are, they’re experts at hiding their feelings for each other.”

“That reminds me,” I said. “Manny told me that Parker had sex the night he died. Don’t ask me how he knew.”

Jack started to explain forensics. I stopped him.

“I don’t want to know,” I said. “If the killer slept with Parker, which Manny seems to believe happened, and the killer is either Frank or Bruce, perhaps the rumors are true. That would be an embarrassing scandal for Francesca, and it would likely ruin Bruce’s political career.”

“So we need to find out if Parker preferred men or women?” Jack asked.

“I’ll let you handle that one. Thinking of Parker getting down and jiggly with anyone makes my skin crawl.”

“It’s not something I want to picture, either, but I’ll do it,” Jack said.

“I’m not sure who he slept with even matters. Frank killed Parker.”

“That’s conjecture,” Jack reminded me.

“You’re probably right about that. Francesca seems to know what Parker had been threatening to expose. If the scandal did involve an affair between Frank and Bruce, I can’t imagine Francesca would stay with Bruce knowing that that was going on behind her back. I simply can’t imagine she’d put up with something like that. Besides, Annie insisted that Bruce and Francesca were above reproach, that they were the perfect power couple.”

“Perhaps Annie doesn’t know her longtime friends as well as she thought. Or perhaps she does and doesn’t want to say anything.”

“I’ll ask Annie about this,” I said. “She’s known Francesca since childhood and Bruce for nearly that long. She should know what’s going on.”

“In the meantime, I think you should be careful around Bruce Dearing. He’s got a nasty way of destroying his enemies both politically and professionally.”

“And perhaps also literally,” I added. “As in murder.”

Jack made a face. “I think the chicken’s done.”

“It can’t be. The timer hasn’t gone off yet.”

Narrow ribbons of gray smoke danced in a spiral pattern as they escaped around the door’s seal.

I jumped up and threw open the door. The room filled with a cloud of smoke just as the fire detector started to scream.

“Open a window,” I shouted over the deafening sound. I pulled on a thick oven mitt and rescued the chicken from the billowing smoke.

I quickly set the table and served the salad—a mix of romaine lettuce, hydroponic cherry tomatoes, and the oil and vinegar dressing. By that time most of the smoke had cleared and the fire detector had, blessedly, stopped screaming.

“Alyssa and I usually opt for takeout or delivery,” I admitted, eyeing the chicken’s thick black crust. I had to use a metal spatula to scrape the fillets from the pan onto a glass platter. I poked at them with the side of the spatula.

Perhaps if I scraped off the blackened crust…

“It’s fine.” Jack took the platter and pushed one of the unrecognizable lumps of meat onto his plate with his fork. He chiseled off a blackened corner. “I’ve had…” He took a bite and chewed.

And chewed.

And chewed.

Finally, he washed it down with half his beer.

I put the other unappetizing piece of chicken on my
plate. Even though I rarely ate meat, I cut into it to find that although the outside had burned to a crisp the center was not only raw…it was still frozen!

“Don’t eat that.” I grabbed his plate before he could bravely carve off another piece, and I dumped the chicken into the trash. I then piled his plate with more salad.

“You would have been better off with the pizza,” I said and set the plate back in front of him. My insides clenched. What Jack must think of me! I’m worthless in the kitchen. Worse than worthless. What with the looks of the charred chicken and the bitter stench of smoke lingering in the air, I thanked providence I didn’t burn down the apartment. “I could make you a peanut butter sandwich.”

“No, Casey. Don’t worry about it. I appreciate the effort you made.” He shoveled the salad into his mouth. “This tastes…different. What did you put in the dressing?”

“Just vinegar, oil, and a dash of Italian spices.”

He swigged his beer. “I can really taste the vinegar.”

I took a bite of the salad and was nearly knocked out of my chair from the vinegar’s sharp tang. “Gracious, I must have added too much.” I really did know better. My aunts had given up on my cooking lessons before we reached the salad section in the famous Junior League cookbook
Charleston Receipts
.

“It’s different,” he said just as his cell phone beeped. Frowning, he read the screen and punched in a quick reply.

“Is there a problem?” I asked.

“No. Not really.” But he kept frowning. He shot a glance to the clock on the wall. “I’m sorry, Casey, I’ve got to run. Dinner was…”

Awful
?

Stomach pump worthy
?

I put my hands on my hips as I waited for him to finish that sentence he’d left dangling. I’d never known him to lie to me.

He cleared his throat. “Next time, I’ll cook.”

“Good idea.”

He leaned toward me, his lips nearly brushing mine.

Suddenly I couldn’t breathe.

Closing my eyes, I drew my tongue over my lips and waited for him to close the distance between us.

“Don’t do anything rash, or even slightly daring,” he whispered. “I won’t be able to watch your back like last time. I’ve not been assigned to protect you. This time, Casey, you’re on your own.”

A featherlight kiss brushed my cheek. When I opened my eyes he was gone.

N
OT
long after, Alyssa stood in the middle of the kitchen with her hands on her hips and her nose crinkled with concern. I’d just finished telling her about my day, every embarrassing and frustrating detail. Not that I needed to spell it all out. Evidence of my mortifying meal could be found in the blackened baking dish that sat soaking in the sink filled with warm soapy water and in the bitter stench of charred meat lingering in the air.

“It was a disaster,” I told her, wringing my hands. “Not one thing went right today. Not one blasted thing. If I’d read my horoscope, I bet it would have warned me to hide under my bed.”

Alyssa looked at the soaking pan with its blackened bottom, then at me, and broke out laughing.

“It’s not funny,” I protested, which only made her laugh harder. “First the garden—”

“Yeah, yeah. A disaster,” she said, grabbing her knees as she continued to laugh.

“Detective Hernandez—”

“I know, I know.” Tears filled her eyes.

“And Gillis—”

“Terrible.” Her shoulders shook so hard that her black hair slipped free from its tortoiseshell barrette.

“And the fertilizer—”

“Yes. Yes. I’m mortified for you.” She snorted, which made her laugh that much harder.

“And then this.” I swung my arms wide.

She started laughing so hard she couldn’t speak.

“What do you find so blooming funny about this?” I demanded.

“Because”—she had to gulp for air—“honey, you—you served a trained killer f-f-frozen chicken and he choked it d-d-down for you! You know what that means, don’t you?”

I crossed my arms over my chest. “No. What? That Jack’s got terrible taste in food
and
women?”

“No, silly goose.” She straightened and pulled me into her arms as she twirled in a circle. “It means I’ve been right all along. Jack lo-o-oves you.”

“Did you even listen to me?” I pried myself loose from her well-meaning but overbearing grip. “He—”

My cell phone chirped that overly cheery Katy Perry song. I was going to have to change the ringtone. I was not feeling at all cheery or perky.

With a violent yank, I flipped open the cell phone. The readout said “Unavailable.”

Francesca’s calls had been coming from a blocked number so I didn’t hesitate to answer.

“Stay out of the garden,” a gruff voice warned. I couldn’t tell if the strange voice was that of a man or a woman.

“What? What garden? Who is this? Francesca?”

“Stay out of the garden or else you might turn up at the bottom of the compost pile.”

“Who is this?” I demanded.

The line went dead.

I lowered the phone from my ear and stared at it.

“Who was that?” Alyssa asked.

I shook my head.

Alyssa grabbed my shoulders and guided me to the nearest kitchen chair and sat me down.

“Who was that?” she asked again.

“I don’t know. I didn’t recognize the voice and the call information had been blocked.”

“Well? What did this mystery person say that has you looking so pale?”

I drew a slow, deep breath. And another. “Just someone trying to scare me.”

“What exactly did the caller say?”

“That I needed to stay out of the garden.” I started to dial a number on my cell phone. “Manny needs to know about this. It could be the killer trying to discourage me from asking questions tomorrow.”

“You need to call Jack.”

“No. Not Jack. He’ll worry.”

“Of course he’ll worry. He’s in love with you. I think it’s romantic. Call him.”

“No! I can’t. It’s not romantic. It’s sad. I can’t count on Jack—or any man, for that matter. He’ll find a flaw or a prettier, younger woman or simply get bored. And then”—I snapped my fingers—“he’ll abandon me.”

And there it was, no matter how hard I fought it, at the root of everything that was wrong in my life.

My father.

THE NEXT MORNING I WOKE UP AN HOUR EARLIER
than necessary. My nerves felt raw and prickly as if a flock of starlings had been pecking at them all night.

Manny was still working on tracking down who had threatened me the night before. I’d told him to check Frank Lispon’s phones, but Manny informed me that it wouldn’t matter. The cell phone the caller had used was a prepaid throwaway phone.

He could tell me the general area where the call had been made—somewhere worryingly close to my brownstone
apartment—but not who had made the call. Not something I wanted to hear.

I snapped at Alyssa when she asked if there was any coffee left in the French press, and then after getting dressed for the day I stomped out of the house itching for a fight. I wanted the killer to jump out at me so I could unleash the full force of my ornery self. No one, not some cowardly killer and certainly not a crank caller, had the power to keep me from my garden, not while I still breathed.