The Scarlet Pepper (25 page)

Lorenzo hummed tunelessly as his hands moved with a smooth motion. He finished one planter and started another
before I could finish one. He added a few ornamental onions from the species
Allium schubertii
to his pots. A brilliant choice. The pale pink flowers looked like miniature exploding fireworks blasting out of the pots.

That tiny detail transformed the plantings into something extraordinary.

Lorenzo shrugged when I told him that.

“Did you do anything fun over the weekend with your new girlfriend?” I asked, trying to strike up a friendly conversation with him.

“Not really,” he mumbled, and he started to hum again. Although he wasn’t the most personable gardener I’d ever worked with, I respected his skill and his eye for design. He placed the plants in the potting soil with the same care a father would take tucking his son into bed.

He gently patted the soil around a blueberry plant. “I heard that
Organic World Magazine
will have an article about your kitchen garden in its next issue.”“

“It’s not my garden. It belongs to the First Lady.” I picked up a pot with a sweetgrass plant. “I’m glad to hear that the garden will finally get some good press.”

“I didn’t say that,” Lorenzo said. “They faxed a copy of the article to the East Wing this morning, and the office made a copy for Gordon.”

“And?” My heart started pounding. Hard. I respected
Organic World Magazine
, read every issue from cover to cover.

“According to them, the garden is contaminated with lead, and you—yes, they named you specifically—were putting the First Family’s lives in jeopardy. It also mentioned that you were doing a shoddy job going organic and gave some suggestions on how you could improve.”

The trowel in my hand clattered as it dropped to the wooden potting table. “They said there were dangerous levels of lead in the soil? That’s…that’s crazy.”

Lorenzo gave one of his trademark shrugs. “Crazy or not, the magazine hits newsstands tomorrow.”

I was shocked, shocked down to my toes that my work
would be attacked by my fellow gardeners—organic gardeners at that!

“The article didn’t happen to suggest that the White House let Gillis Farquhar take over, did it?”

Lorenzo clucked his tongue. “Jealousy looks ugly on you, Casey. Gillis is a good guy. He’s spending his own dime and taking time out of his busy schedule to help the White House. And you’re blaming him for an article that has nothing to do with him. I bet if you could, you’d pin your garden troubles and Parker’s murder on him as well.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” I protested. “Wait a minute. You know Gillis?”

“Yeah, I’ve known him for years. I worked on his show when he was just starting out. Talk about a neurotic professional. He expected everyone around him to be as hardworking, nose-to-the-grindstone focused as he was. That was before he went off the deep end and became an econut and all, but you have to respect the guy. He knows his plants, and he’s generous with his knowledge.”

“If it’s not Gillis, then who is feeding lies to the press? Who is trying to hurt the First Lady’s reputation?”

And mine?

“How should I know? Let’s get these planters done. It’s hot as hell in here.”

It took some effort, but I picked my trowel back up and carefully eased the sweetgrass from its plastic pot.

Lorenzo had already turned his focus back on the plants in front of him. Humming that same tuneless note, he tucked another plant into its soil bed.

I carefully pressed the plant into the rich potting soil and then checked my phone. Was this thing working? Annie should have gotten my message and called by now.

My mind kept circling back to what Annie knew about Frank’s involvement in Parker’s death. Why hadn’t she gone to the police? Was she scared for her life? Or trying to protect Francesca?

By lunchtime, Annie still hadn’t returned my call. I tried her again. No answer.

I tried Francesca’s old number. Still out of service.

I tried Jack’s number. No answer.

Lorenzo and I packed the patriotic planters into the van and headed back to the White House. All the way back, I worried for Annie’s safety.

As soon as the van had passed through security, I jumped down from the passenger seat.

“There’s Jerry and Bower. They can help you unload the planters. You don’t mind, do you? I have an urgent errand to run,” I told Lorenzo, who grunted.

No one answered the door at Annie’s house. I knocked again, louder this time, while calling both her cell phone and her home phone.

“She’s not home,” a woman called to me.

“Do you know when—?” I turned around to ask when Annie might return. My mouth stopped working when I saw the woman heading across the road from Burberry Park. “Kelly? What are you doing here?”

“I—I’m not sure.” Kelly Montague stopped at the bottom of Annie’s steps. Although her dark purple suit looked perfect, her dark hair was a mess, as if she’d pulled her hands through it multiple times. “Annie Campbell’s neighbor”—she pointed to the adjacent town house—“said she left this morning and hasn’t returned. I was hoping to ask Mrs. Campbell some questions.”

That last part made my neck muscles tighten. “Is this about an investigative report you inherited?” I had hoped she would prove to be a serious reporter. Not one that just looked for flash.

But why shouldn’t she go for the flash? Going after the sensational stories would bring in the ratings, which in turn would boost her career.

“I know that you lied to me the other day. I saw the papers on your desk you were trying to hide. Not that I’m surprised about it. I heard how all the news organizations are digging around, trying to figure out what Parker was working on when he died. I would understand why you’d
want to break the news story before anyone else. After all, the story belongs to
Media Today.
”

She paled. “I wouldn’t do that. Even if I wasn’t receiving those threats, I would never pursue the story Griffon had…” She glanced down the street. “He stole that story from me. If I had never come to D.C., he’d still be alive. I’m sure of it.”

“You are? Have you told the police this?”

Tears sprang to her eyes as she violently shook her head. “I can’t.”

I led her back toward the park. “Talk to me, Kelly. Tell me what’s going on here.”

She twisted away from me. “I can’t. I can’t talk about it.”

“Why? What’s going on?”

“He’s in danger. That’s why. Because of me, he’s in danger.”

“Who is in danger?” I forced myself to ask calmly when I wanted to shake her and scream at her. If someone’s life was in danger, she needed to go to the police. And if the police refused to listen, she needed to keep talking, write articles, and do news reports until she got the help she needed. “Talk to me, Kelly. If not me, you need to talk to someone. If a life is in danger, you have to act.”

Her entire body trembled as she stared at me. Was she trying to decide whether she could believe in me, trust me? I didn’t know what I could say to convince her that I wanted to help her. In this town, it sometimes felt as if everyone was out for themselves, that it was an eat-before-you-get-eaten kind of world.

But while some people in the nation’s capital lived that way, not everyone did, not by a long shot. Being the new girl in town, Kelly had no way of knowing that yet. Nor did she know which of her colleagues and which of her friends she could trust. I understood that.

Heavens, I was struggling with enough trust issues to give a seminar on the subject.

I grabbed Kelly’s hand. “I don’t want to exploit you for
a news story. I don’t care what kind of trouble you are in or why. I’m not here to judge you. I know what it feels like to be alone in the world.” More than she could ever guess. “That’s why I want to help you.”

She swallowed deeply.

“Whose life is in danger?” I asked again.

“I don’t know!” she cried.

“
Y
OU
don’t know?” I demanded. How could that be possible?

“I can’t talk here,” Kelly said and yanked her hand from my grasp. “I’m being watched.”

At that moment her cell phone chimed. She blanched as she glanced down at it.

“Who is it?” I asked.

She showed me the caller ID readout. “Unavailable.”

“It’s the killer.” Kelly glanced around. “And I’m sure we’re being watched.”

I grabbed the phone as it continued to chime. All of the calls I’d received from Francesca had said “Unavailable” on the caller ID. “Let me answer that.”

“No!” Kelly and I played tug-of-war with the phone. I won.

It didn’t matter, though. The call had already been sent to voice mail. I handed her back her phone.

“So what do you want to do? Do you really think you can keep on ignoring this? Do you think doing nothing will
stop the killer? It won’t. And can you really let Parker’s murderer go unpunished?”

She shook her head as I asked that last question.

“I can’t do this alone,” she admitted. “You said you had connections with the Secret Service. Do you think someone there could help me?
Quietly
help me? I don’t want to be the reason anyone else gets killed.”

“I’m sure we can find the right person. Now will you tell me what’s going on?”

“Not here.” She hurried out of Burberry Park.

When I didn’t immediately follow, she whirled back around. “We’re being watched. The phone call is evidence of that. We need to leave. Now.”

I dialed Jack’s number as I followed Kelly. I’d read enough mystery novels to know I needed to tell someone else my location and what was going on. Kelly had been in the First Lady’s garden shortly before the fake suicide letter had been found. Had she dropped it? Also, I hadn’t forgotten how she’d landed Parker’s choice position in the White House press corps after his death.

The threatening phone calls could easily be staged. Why else wouldn’t she want me to answer the phone?

I had to be careful.

Jack’s cell phone went directly to voice mail. Again. I hung up and texted him that I was with Kelly Montague and was leaving Burberry Park.

“What are you doing?” Kelly demanded when she noticed I had my phone out.

“Texting my location to a friend.”

“That friend doesn’t happen to be with the D.C. Police, does he?” Her voice rose. “I told you that I can’t go to the police. If I do I’ll be responsible for someone’s death. You said I could trust you!”

Actually, I hadn’t told her that. Not explicitly. I was having a hard enough time finding trust in my own heart that I wouldn’t ask it of others.

“I’m not contacting the police. I’m doing exactly as I
said, texting my location to a friend. There’s a murderer on the loose. I don’t know who the killer is.” Even though I had strong suspicions that Frank Lispon was guilty. “Or what that person is planning.”

“You think that I’m—”

“I think I have to be careful.” I lifted my hand as I clarified. “You should be careful, too. Neither of us should go off without letting someone else know where we are. It’s simple common sense.”

She glared at me as I finished up the text and hit the “send” button.

“Tell your friend that you’re going with me in my car.” She gestured to a shiny black Range Rover parked at the curb. “I need to get away from here. If we drive to the zoo, it’s public, but there are private spots where we can talk.”

“I have a better idea,” I said. “Let’s go to the U.S. Botanic Garden. It’s at the base of the Capitol Building and there are plenty of private niches. Even if we are followed, no one will bother us there.” And I knew the garden like the back of my hand, unlike the zoo.

“I don’t know…Maybe I shouldn’t be seen with you. It might be dangerous.”

“Kelly…” I didn’t want her to run away now. If she knew something about Parker’s murder, she needed to start talking about it. “Put together another short piece about the White House, about its kitchen garden.”

“But a report about the garden and nothing else is so…”

“Fluffy? Yes, yes. That’s what Parker thought, too. He’d only bother with the garden if he could dig up a scandal, which was why I assume you were in the kitchen garden interviewing my volunteers yesterday. You were out there hoping for dirt. Well, here’s a story for you. Someone has been feeding lies and half-truths about the garden to the press. Case in point, there’s an article coming out in tomorrow’s
Organic World Magazine
that claims the First Lady’s kitchen garden is contaminated with deadly levels of lead.
I don’t know where the author of the article got that information, but it’s wrong.”

“Is it?” Kelly’s brows shot up. “That’s a serious charge.”

“Yes! It is wrong. We did the soil tests. They’re available for public review. Yes, there are traces of lead in the soil. This is an urban area. It would be odd if there weren’t some sign of lead in the soil. That’s why we tested for it in the first place. But there’s not enough lead to be dangerous, not by a long shot.” I wondered if the article’s author even bothered to look at the test results. “This isn’t the first negative article. I think someone is acting behind the scenes to discredit the First Lady.” Or me.