Flowerbed of State (27 page)

“She had her eye on Richard Templeton, but he only dates celebrities with boobs out to here.” She demonstrated with her hands.

“Really? I heard she had lunch with Richard while in New York City.”

“Impossible.” She repeated her demonstration of his preference for large-breasted women. “At the party, when she’d tried to start up a conversation with him, he’d crinkled his nose and looked as if he’d spotted a cockroach. Believe me, he wasn’t interested and she knew it. That’s when she turned her sights on Brooks.”

“
Your
Brooks.”

“I knew going in that monogamy wasn’t his thing.”

“Still, that didn’t bother you?”

She waved her hand and looked away.

“So if she was sleeping with Brooks and found something in the BLK account books, something that might make the Wonder Twins look bad, do you think she might have mentioned that to him?”

“It’s a possibility.”

“Do you think he would have killed her to keep her quiet?”

“Not Brooks. Lillian, perhaps. She’s the shark in the family.”

But the shoes I saw, they were the same shoes Brooks was wearing. Still, everything seemed to be pointing me back to my original theory that Pauline had been murdered because of something she’d found in those audits of hers. It might have been something damaging enough to win widespread support for Senator Pendergast’s proposed legislation.

“What do you think about Senator Pendergast’s ideas about how to regulate the banks?”

“They’re tough, but needed. Some bankers are more interested in hitting the jackpot year after year with their profits than they are in making good long-term decisions.” Joanna cursed and jumped up from the bench. “What does the Secret Service think they’re doing now? I’ve got to go put a stop to it.”

She jogged down the path back to where two uniformed Secret Service agents were talking to a couple of her protesters, her high heels clacking against the pavement. “We’ve got a permit to be here!” she shouted.

 

BROOKS. EVERYTHING SO FAR POINTED BACK
to Brooks Keller.

Perhaps Pauline had warned Brooks that she’d found some compromising information during the audit, and he needed to stop her from making that information public. He needed to kill her and steal her laptop.

Or perhaps he didn’t care about the audit. Perhaps there was something else on that computer of hers, like a racy e-mail that Pauline had threatened to use against him. I could imagine the PR disaster that would erupt if it got out that Brooks was sleeping with the government employee who was supposed to be making sure his bank’s accounts were in order.

I hurried to the White House gate and waved to Fredrick.

After my surprise meeting with the President and First Lady yesterday, I was beginning to understand why Lorenzo dressed so formally. This morning I’d decided to wear a dark gray tailored pantsuit with a white silk blouse that was more fitting for the office than the garden.

“Could you let Special Agent Turner know that I need to see him right away?”

“Only if I want him to move more slowly,” Fredrick replied.

I tapped my foot impatiently while I waited. I was anxious to tell Turner my new theory. It had to be Brooks. Or his sister.

“Come on, come on.” I didn’t have time to stand around waiting like this. Spring was the busiest time of year for a gardener. Working at the White House only increased the workload by, oh, one hundred and ten percent or so.

There were plans to be approved, soils to be amended, plants to get into the ground, shrubs to be pruned, and not enough hours in the day to do it all.

Not to mention the string of outside public events and the expectation that the grounds always look immaculate.

I checked the clock on my cell phone. Five minutes had passed. And then ten.

Finally I spotted a dark shadow lumbering down a treelined walkway. Unless Jack Turner had grown a few inches both in height and girth, the Secret Service agent heading my way was not the understanding agent I kept accidentally assaulting.

As he got closer, I recognized the CAT agent as the same one who’d given Turner a tough time in the West Wing lobby after the—
um
—pepper spray incident. He’d insulted me. I am
neither
itty
nor
bitty.

“Where’s Turner?” I demanded.

Perhaps Turner had wised up and decided to keep his distance, regardless of his supervisor’s orders to
handle
me. Or perhaps he was more seriously injured than he’d let on yesterday.

He shrugged. “Don’t know. It’s his day off. That coffee for me?”

“Yeah, sure.” I handed him the mug. “But Turner’s okay, right?”

“Don’t rightly know. I suppose so.”

I detected a Southern twang in his accent. “Where are you from originally?”

He regarded me for a long moment before answering. “Mississippi, ma’am.”

“Imagine that. I’m from Charleston, South Carolina. We were once practically neighbors.”

“I have a cousin in Charleston. Nice place,” he commented, and then asked for my backpack.

While he searched my belongings, I decided to see if all Secret Service agents were as close-mouthed as Turner.

“I heard that the investigation is moving forward, that an arrest might be made any day now.”

He grunted.

“What about Brooks Keller? Did you know he was involved with Pauline even though she was conducting a financial review of his bank? Sounds a mite suspicious if you ask me.”

He grunted again.

“And have you heard about the cows?”

“Cows?” He kept searching my bag.

“Congress voted to send a colony of them up to live on the moon.”

He looked up and stared at me for a moment. “Ha! That’s a good one.” He zipped up the backpack and thrust it at me. “Keep out of trouble,” he said, turning away. “Oh, and thanks for the coffee.”

“Wait! What about a little tit-for-tat? That’s the best coffee in town.”

He took a sip and let the coffee’s rich flavors bathe his palette. “Yeah, it’s much better than the muddy crap in our coffeepot. Wouldn’t call that coffee, but we drink it because that’s all we’ve got.” He took another sip and smiled. “Thanks.”

“And?” I prompted.

“And I’d mind my own business where this investigation is concerned. You might have Turner wrapped around that pretty pinky of yours, but I’m from the South, missy. I know how you Southern women use your charms to trick us men into looking like fools. And you’ve done plenty of that with Turner-boy, but you’ll not be doing that with me.”

“Now see here—”

“I know you’re fixing to say that I don’t know you and blah, blah, blah. Save it for someone who cares.”

Stunned, I closed my mouth and stepped back. This guy was really something else.

And he wasn’t finished. “How or why you managed to make a straight-shooter like Jack look incompetent—to make the entire CAT team look incompetent—is beyond me. But I do know one thing, you’re damned lucky Jack took his damned babysitting gig so seriously. You’d be dead right now if he’d let those crazy protesters get their hands on you yesterday.”

“You mean the banking protesters out on Lafayette Square? You think one of them followed me to the greenhouse?”

The Secret Service had been suspicious of the protesters even before Pauline’s body had been found. “You think one of them murdered Pauline Bonde?”

“Damn. You didn’t know that?”

“Apparently, I don’t know much of anything. My life is on the line, and yet no one cared to tell me who is trying to kill me.”

“Why else do you think Thatch put Jack on babysitting detail? Jack’s responsible for keeping you alive.”

I glanced out at the protesters chanting fervently. They didn’t look so harmless anymore.

I lowered my voice. “And you suspect that one of the protesters out there has been plotting to attack the President?”

“You know about that already?”

“Thatch told me.”

“Well, then.” He cleared his throat. “Now you know everything.”

“I don’t know who killed Pauline, or why. I don’t even know—Wait! How’d he get out?”

A not-so-small fluffy ball of golden and white fur bounded toward us at full speed, clumps of mud flying in every direction.

“Milo!”

Why wasn’t anyone watching the puppy? He could easily slip out of a gate or get into something he shouldn’t.

Like the Rose Garden.

The naughty pup plowed into my legs and would have knocked me over if Turner’s stand-in hadn’t caught my arm. Not to be deterred, Milo reared up. His muddy front paws landed with a squishy splash on my expensive tailored pants. His tail thudded with unleashed excitement against the ground as he showed off his treasure.

Milo was carrying a rosebush, roots and all, in his mouth.

The naughty puppy hadn’t dug up just any rosebush. The plant hanging from his drooling mouth, a floribunda “Pat Nixon” rosebush, was covered with delicate buds that would have produced rich burgundy red blooms. The only place on the White House grounds where this particular variety grew was in the Rose Garden.

I shuddered to think about the extent of damage Milo might have wrecked in the planting beds. Seth had lost sleep worrying over a few sprigs of crabgrass in the Rose Garden? Just wait until he discovered the new First Puppy had ripped out part of the plantings a few hours before the press conference was to begin.

I
reached down to snatch the bush away from Milo, but before I could get a good grip on the prickly plant, the gangly puppy gave a muffled woof. He shook his large head and ripped the branch I’d grabbed out of my grasp. He took off with an amazingly quick bouncy gait toward the East Wing, dropping a trail of twigs, leaves, and rosebuds in his wake.

“Excuse me,” I said, and took off running after him.

In retrospect, chasing after a puppy wasn’t a good idea. He
woof-woofed
as he played hide-and-seek, darting between the parked cars in the east lot of the White House grounds. He jumped over a low hedge and darted left and right under a thick canopy of trees on the South Lawn. For a moment it looked as if he’d run right back up to the house. But he heard a car behind him and made a sharp turn back toward the south gates. The fences were open. And the traffic in the streets was hectic as usual.

If he went much farther, I feared the worst.

“Milo!” I clapped my hands.

He ignored me.

The guard hut was only a few yards away. I called for the uniformed Secret Service officers manning the gate to help me stop Milo, because once he ran past that point, he’d either take off into the fifty-two acre park behind the White House known as the Ellipse or dash out onto the street. I could see the headline now: WHITE HOUSE GARDENER LOSES FIRST PUP.

Forget the headlines, forget that in a few hours the President planned to hold a press conference to introduce Milo to the country, I couldn’t let anything bad happen to the oversized puppy. To him, he was simply playing a game. He didn’t know the dangers lurking beyond the iron fence.

“Come on, Milo. Let’s go.” I ran in the opposite direction.

That got the puppy’s attention. He crouched down on the grass with his tail end up in the air and watched me running around like a lunatic before deciding to join in on the fun.

“Got him!” Janie Partners crowed. I don’t know where the Secret Service agent had appeared from or how she’d managed to grab Milo’s bright blue collar, but she had.

Milo’s entire rear half wiggled with delight as I jogged over to them.

Today, Janie was wearing a jet-black suit with a sedate brown scarf tied around her neck. When I got closer, I noticed the scarf was decorated with tiny paw prints.

“Thank you for catching the scamp. Where did you come from? How’d you know I needed a hand?”

“It’s not every day someone runs suspicious zigzag patterns full speed across the White House lawn. You attracted a lot of attention.” She gestured behind me.

I turned to look. About a dozen Secret Service agents, most of them from the uniformed Emergency Response Team with their beefy P90 assault rifles that could blast through armored vehicles, had fanned out across the lawn. They were all staring at me. Even the snipers on the roof had trained their binoculars in my direction.

Biting my lower lip, I gave a small wave.

“They’re not going to let me forget this, are they?” I murmured.

“Not on your life.” She turned to Milo. “And what do you have there, mister? You haven’t been into Miss Calhoun’s hybrid teas, have you?”

Still happily thumping his tail, he dropped the bush. His bright pink tongue lolled out the side of his mouth. I scooped up the plant before he decided to grab it again.

“Actually, it’s a floribunda rose, which is a little bit different from the hybrid teas. For one thing, they’re hardier. Their flowers form in dense clusters. See here and here?” I pointed that out on a part of the bush that wasn’t too damaged. “All those blooms will open at about the same time and continue to bloom over a longer period of time than a hybrid tea. And you don’t care about any of that, do you?”