Flowerbed of State (21 page)

The camera cut away to a shot of Lafayette Square on one side of the screen and a photograph of a smiling and very much alive Pauline on the other.

“Pauline Bonde, the Treasury Department employee, had been one of the key investigators working tirelessly to assess the health and stability of our largest banks.” The reporter’s voice took a serious tone. “On the day she was to present her reports to the Congress, her life was cut short by a vicious attack. The FBI and D.C. Police are conducting a joint investigation.”

“We are looking into the matter from all angles,” Special Agent Cooper said to the two dozen or more microphones that had been thrust into his face on the front steps of the austere Hoover Building.

“What about Brooks Keller?” one of the reporters shouted.

Brooks Keller?

I leaned forward.

One of the banking wonder twins? What about him?

“We are looking into the matter,” Cooper repeated and pushed several of the microphones away.

“Questions remain whether Brooks Keller”—the camera returned to the reporter in the studio—“financial wizard and head of—”

“Ms. Calhoun.” The President’s secretary had circled around from his desk and blocked the TV. “He’s expecting you.”

Although I had a mind to shush him and push him out of the way so I could listen to the end of the news story, courtesy won out. “Thank you,” I said and stood, craning as far as I could to the left so I could find out why the press was talking about Brooks Keller.

“—fervently denies the allegation,” the reporter concluded before the program moved on to a new story.

“This way,” the secretary said. He crossed the room to a door that sat at an odd angle to the rest of the perfectly rectangular room. He leaned up against the slanted door and peered through a peephole. With a nod, he knocked twice before pushing it open.

“Mr. President, Ms. Cassandra Calhoun has arrived,” he announced, using my full name as he entered the room. He stepped out of the doorway and gestured that I should follow him.

The Oval Office struck me as surprisingly . . . oval. Light streamed in from a bank of three windows located behind a very presidential-looking desk flanked by the U.S. flag on the left side and the President’s flag on the right. Personally, I’d have turned the desk around so I could look out over the South Lawn when working. But that was just me.

With a nod, the secretary returned to his office, closing the door behind him. From inside the Oval Office, the door had been designed to disappear into the room’s surrounding walls. There was no doorframe. The bottom half of the door had the same bright white paneled wainscoting as the rest of the room, and the top half of the door had been painted the same cream color as the walls.

To my left, a glass door between two large windows with scalloped shell lintels led out to the Rose Garden. Directly opposite, an ornate solid door was located between a pair of built-in shelves with scalloped shell lintels that matched the windows. I wondered where the second door led.

Two sofas the color of butter and several blue-and-cream-striped armchairs created an informal meeting space in the middle of the room. President John Bradley, dressed in his signature dark gray suit with red tie, sat on one of the sofas with his right ankle propped on his left knee. A fluffy golden puppy with one white leg and a white chest wiggled on his lap.

Across from him sat Richard Templeton. He was dressed more causally than he had been the other day. Instead of a suit, he wore black pants and a dark gray golf shirt with an asymmetric black-and-red argyle pattern running down the right side.

At my entrance, Richard glanced in my direction and frowned.

He’d mentioned that he and the President were old friends. However, at the moment neither man looked particularly friendly nor happy, which I found surprising. The little puppy appeared to be doing his best to entertain the men. President Bradley had had to pry his red paisley tie from the pup’s mouth twice already. Puppies and their antics never failed to make me smile.

“We’ll talk about this more later,” the President said.

“We certainly will,” Richard replied sharply.

A look of tension passed between the two men as they rose to greet me.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. President,” I said, my smile widened. The puppy wiggled even more, its tail beating an excited tempo against President Bradley’s chest as it tried to jump down so it could investigate me, the new person in the room.

“Hello, Richard,” I said. I wanted to say more, to explain why I’d missed our date, but that wouldn’t have been appropriate.

“Casey,” Richard replied with a quick nod.

“Ms. Calhoun, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you. Margaret is looking forward to implementing the organic gardening plans. That’s why I asked to speak with you. You need to understand how important it is that Margaret gets what she wants. Don’t let politics or personal agendas railroad her work. I’m expecting you to smooth the way for her.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll do my best,” I assured him.

“You will do what it takes to get the job done,” he corrected and flashed his trademark smile.

During the campaign two years ago the press had discussed ad nauseam President Bradley’s charismatic personality. It was a trait that didn’t come through in his speeches on TV. Sure, his public appearances were well crafted and delivered with the skill of a trained orator. But I hadn’t understood what had so enamored the press until this moment.

When the President spoke, it felt as if the air around me hummed with bright energy.

“I have a suspicion, Ms. Calhoun, you’ll not rest until you win the critics over. I bet you’ll end up breaking new ground at the same time.”

His vote of confidence ignited a renewed sense of purpose. I drank up his encouraging smile. The President and First Lady were my clients. And my first and foremost duty was to keep my clients happy. “I know just what needs to be done,” I promised him.

“Good. Good. Ah, here’s Margaret now.”

The First Lady came through the door on the other side of the room. She looked radiant in a flowing knee-length dress made from a silvery-colored material with a subtle paisley design. She greeted me and then hurried over to the President to kiss him on the cheek. The President, who was clearly in love with his wife, beamed.

“A puppy, Richard?” She tickled the pup’s fuzzy ear. I detected a hint of strain in her voice as she addressed her husband’s friend. “You cause us too much trouble.”

“Every family needs a dog,” Richard insisted, “especially ones with kids.”

“We’re not talking about that.” President Bradley gave Richard another one of his tense looks.

“Oh, let’s tell Casey,” the First Lady said. “I think she should know.”

“Are you sure, Mags?” The President clearly didn’t want his wife to tell me whatever private bit of information they’d shared with Richard.

“I am, John. Besides, if we wait too long, the newspapers will start to report on how the stress of the office is making me fat. I’m not fat,” Mrs. Bradley turned to tell me. “I’m pregnant. We’re expecting twins.”

“My word! Congratulations!” Forgetting decorum or that she was the First Lady and not a neighbor back in Charleston, I threw my arms around her in a great big Southern hug. As soon as I realized what I’d done and where I was, I released her and backed off. “That is wonderful news.”

“After so many years of trying, I’d all but given up.” She gave my hand a squeeze as if we were girlfriends.

“We don’t plan to go public with the news until next week. I expect you’ll respect our privacy,” the President said.

“Naturally.” I’d yet to meet a White House employee who wasn’t the model of discretion.

“Call me a nervous mom-to-be, but I want the White House grounds to be as natural and safe as possible for my little ones when they arrive in the fall. That’s why we brought you here in the first place. I want the organic gardening program to work.” She turned and gazed lovingly at her husband. “And yet, I won’t push the plan if it looks like it’ll hurt John politically.”

“Honey!” the President cried. “You know you come first.”

Mrs. Bradley raised her hands in protest. “Still, you don’t need me causing trouble. You’re having a difficult time of it already with these nasty rumors that you’re trying to kill the banking legislation.”

“I’ll do whatever it takes working behind the scenes to smooth the way,” I offered.

“I know you will, Casey. I believe in you,” she said.

President Bradley flicked a glance at his watch, which wasn’t easy considering he had to juggle the approximately twenty-pound squirming puppy in his arms to manage it. “I wish we had more time to chat, Ms. Calhoun, but I have a very busy schedule. Could you please take this little guy to Gordon?” He handed me the golden puppy. The little fluff ball gave an excited yip and started to lick my face. “I’ve been told Gordon has taken care of the White House pets for nearly thirty years.”

“Yes, he has.” And I’d heard Gordon grumble more than once at the current administration’s lack of pets. “He’ll be thrilled to meet . . . What’s his name?”

“Milo,” Richard supplied. “Ms. Calhoun, may I have a word with you?”

“The two of you can talk out in the Rose Garden,” the President suggested. “I’ve got a phone call to make before Margaret steals me away for lunch.”

“Are you sure you won’t be able to make it to the golf course with the rest of us this afternoon?”

President Bradley shook his head. “Regretfully, no. My schedule is packed all week.”

I led Richard out to the Rose Garden. The garden was tucked in between the White House and the Oval Office in the West Wing. Bordering the grassy space in the center, where Presidents liked to give press conferences, were wide flowerbeds planted in the French style of mixing a profusion of colors, textures, and heights in a single space. Edged with a low boxwood hedge, the four corners of the garden were marked with showy saucer magnolias that were in full bloom with their large waxy pink-and-white flowers.

Crabapples and littleleaf lindens stood as silent sentinels down the center of the flowerbed. The crabapples had recently been replaced with younger, smaller specimens. Since it was spring, the bed was filled with jonquils, daffodils, grape hyacinths, tulips, and several other flowering bulbs.

And of course, there were the rosebushes. The hybrid tea rose and grandiflora rosebushes looked lush and healthy, too healthy for this early in the season. They looked that way because they’d been grown in a greenhouse and planted once the blooms had set.

I’d been surprised to learn that the roses were treated like annuals in the garden, pulled out and replaced with new plants the White House purchased every spring. Part of my proposal, a definite cost-
saving
measure, was to plant antique rosebushes, hardier varieties that weren’t chemically dependent or quite so short-lived.

With the President’s trust in me to help quiet the controversy swirling around the garden’s plans, I knew I needed to rethink my approach for convincing the Grounds Committee and the press to accept the proposed changes.

Milo wiggled and whimpered in my arms, insisting I pay attention to him. He was making so much of a fuss that I set him down. As soon as the pup’s feet hit the grass, he trotted over to the nearest flowerbed, hopped over a low boxwood hedge, and immediately started to dig up a meticulously trimmed geometric hedge of thyme that bordered the flowering crabapples with their explosion of white blooms.

“Stop that.” I clapped my hands. Milo glanced up at me and then returned to his digging.

“You’d better get him to start listening to you now,” Richard warned. He chuckled as I chased after the naughty puppy. “We think he’s a goldendoodle and will grow up to be about seventy pounds or so. Look at the size of his paws. I had him sent over from a rescue organization I support. John took one look at him and fell in love. I don’t remember a time when John didn’t have a dog. I think it makes him tense not to have a dog around.”

“Dogs can be stress relievers,” I agreed as I hopped over the boxwood hedge into the flowerbed. I reached down to pick up the muddy little scamp. Before I could grab him, he darted between my legs and was off and running, dirt and bits of thyme flying into the air with each bouncy leap. I’d never met a puppy I didn’t like, but I was beginning to wonder about this one. He ran over to Richard and patted his pants leg with his paw.

“That’s a good boy.” Richard scooped the puppy up for me. As he straightened, his gaze met mine. “Well, then.”

Richard and I stood in the middle of the Rose Garden not saying anything, just staring at each other.

“I’m glad John sent for you,” Richard admitted finally. “I don’t know what to do to get your attention. I don’t usually have to work this hard with women.” He shook his head with dismay. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything. I need to apologize about yesterday. I wanted to call to explain, but I didn’t have your number.”

“I had wondered why you didn’t show up.”

“I did show up! Just not on time. You see, I met Pauline’s roommate.”

“You did? Why?”

“It wasn’t on purpose.” I explained how Isabella had come to Lafayette Square, what she’d told me, and why I thought the killer had stolen Pauline’s laptop.

“What do you think it all means?”

“I think . . .” I rubbed my bruised temple. “I don’t know. Perhaps she held back a vital piece of information from the audit report she’d submitted, but had kept it on her laptop?”

“That doesn’t make sense. Why would she do that?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps she wanted to surprise everyone when she presented her findings to Congress?”

“That doesn’t seem very professional.”

“No, it doesn’t. But there has to be a reason why the killer stole her laptop. There simply has to be.”