Ghost Image (27 page)

I held up my hands like a shield. “Okay, okay. Uncle. Sorry.”

“You're looking in the wrong place,” he said with that same intense conviction. “Maybe you'll find out something tomorrow when you call the Loudoun Museum.”

Directly ahead of us, the Capitol dome was lit up against the cobalt-blue evening sky. I stared at it and tried to imagine what it had looked like the night the British set fire to it. The dome hadn't been built yet, but the sight of the two wings of the building in flames, visible everywhere in the night sky since this was the highest point in the city, must have devastated anyone who saw it, not only because of what the building symbolized but also the deliberate, vengeful destruction. By then Dolley Madison had left town, escaping just before British soldiers marched down Pennsylvania Avenue to the White House, looting the mansion and heaping the furniture—most of it Thomas Jefferson's—into a huge bonfire.

What happened to the seeds after that awful night?

Maybe Jack was right.

Maybe tomorrow I'd find out.

21

W
hen I finally went to bed, I slept like the dead and didn't wake up until Jack came back from Mass downstairs in the chapel. He knocked on my door and handed me a coffee mug. “Bagels in my room when you're ready. I figured you could use this now.”

“Thank you. I have no idea what time zone I'm in anymore.”

Twenty minutes later I walked into his suite. He had thrown open the doors to his second-floor balcony overlooking Stanton Park, letting in cool morning sunshine, a fresh breeze, and the sound of rush-hour traffic. The pages of the
Washington Post
fluttered on the seat of his reading chair. I picked up the paper before the wind blew it around like dry leaves. It was folded to a front-page story on Ursula Gilberti's primary race.

“It looks like she might not win,” Jack said.

“I guess when it rains, it pours,” I said. “I wonder how she took the news of Victor and Yasmin's wedding being postponed.”

“Some reporter is bound to ask her about it, so she'll have to say something.”

“Especially since she's been courting the press to cover it. She probably can't get away with ‘no comment.'” I put a bagel in the toaster and let him refill my coffee mug. His mug said
WHEN GOD MADE ME HE WAS JUST SHOWING OFF.

“Gracie's latest tacky Catholic birthday gift,” he said with a grin. “You should see the card. Jesus holding out the loaves and fishes and the crowd kvetching about whether the fish contained mercury and was the bread made with organic flour.”

I laughed, and it turned into a yawn, which I tried to stifle.

He gave me a sympathetic look. “Rough night?”

“I stayed up too late studying Kevin's drawing of the Pembroke family tree. I did some searching and it looks like no Pembrokes live in Leesburg anymore. Either they passed away or they moved. I did find out that Francis P. Quincy was a senator from Virginia from 1900 until 1912, and a member of the Senate Committee on the District of Columbia, which Senator McMillan chaired. But he wasn't a member of the McMillan Commission.”

“I bet the folks at the Loudoun Museum can help you out since the family was local.”

“I left a voice mail a few minutes ago. Maybe someone will call me back even though they're not open today.”

“So now what?” he asked.

I shrugged. “The Library of Congress is just up the street. I think I'll drop by. Thea Stavros asked one of the librarians to put together a list of the items Kevin borrowed from the Science and Business Library so they could remove them from his study room before the Franciscans came to collect his things. Maybe I can talk Thea or the other librarian into letting me look at that list. There might be something about the McMillan Commission that I missed when I was there the day we discovered that Kevin's study room had been ransacked.”

Jack gave me a skeptical look. “Good luck with that. What are you hoping to find, if they say yes?”

“I'm not sure,” I said. “But if I'm lucky, I'll know it when I see it.”

“You're going to stay here again tonight, right?”

I took the bagel out of the toaster and buttered it. “I'm over my jitters. I probably ought to go home. Don't worry, I've got Nick's guns and I know how to use them if anybody decides to pay a visit again . . . which isn't going to happen now that whoever broke in has Kevin's book.”

He said in a warning voice, “I don't think you should be playing vigilante, Soph.”

I waved the butter knife at him. “I'm not. But I'm not going to be a victim, either.”

“Two people are dead. You don't want to be the third.”

“Jack. Come on.”

“I'm not kidding. First Kevin, then that scientist from the Millennium Seed Bank.”

“I called Perry before I fell asleep, since he's always up at the crack of dawn. He said he couldn't get anything out of the detective inspector looking into Alastair's accident. They won't talk about an ongoing investigation.”

He shrugged. “All the more reason for you to lay low. Stay here tonight and then tomorrow is Friday. You were going to go out to your folks' place for the weekend to see your grandfather, anyway.”

He didn't have to push hard to persuade me. “Are you sure you don't mind?”

“I'm sure. Please stay.”

“Thanks. But it's my turn to do dinner.”

He brightened. “I'm up for that. What are you making?”

“Probably reservations.”

He laughed. “I've got class so I'm going to take off. Meet you back here for a run at the end of the day?”

He was training for the Marine Corps Marathon, and he could leave me in the dust if he wanted. “You're on.”

He kissed me goodbye, and I went back to my room to brush my teeth and get my camera bag. Before I left Gloria House, I called Harry on his mobile. He had texted me last night that Chappy was spending the night in the hospital.

“No news yet,” he said now. “Your mother slept in a chair by his bed.”

“Do they have any idea what's wrong?” I asked.

“His doctor in Connecticut had changed a few of his medications. So they're looking into his meds and they want to run some more tests.”

“I'll be home tomorrow. I can spell Mom at the hospital if she needs me. Call me if there's news.”

He promised he would, and my phone beeped that I had an incoming call. An 804 area code. Richmond . . . or Charlottesville.

It was Ryan Velis. “I'm in town for a conference at the Smithsonian,” he said. “Any chance you're free for drinks or dinner tonight? I'd like to hear about your trip to London.”

“I already have dinner plans, but I could meet you for a drink.”

“What time and where?”

“Five at Busboys and Poets on Fifth and K?”

“See you then.”

It wasn't until I was in the parking lot behind Gloria House getting the Vespa that it hit me that I'd told Ryan when I saw him at Monticello that I'd be in London for a week. Instead I came back two days early.

Was it a lucky guess that I might be home so he'd called just now? Or had someone told him I was back in Washington?

And if so, who was it?

• • •

I chained the scooter to my favorite streetlamp on 2nd Street and walked to the Adams Building. Logan Day looked up from
the book she was reading at the reception desk as I walked into the Science and Business Reading Room.

“Sophie, what brings you here?”

“A favor. Is Thea in?”

She shook her head. “She's at a conference at the Smithsonian.”

Maybe it was the same conference Ryan was attending. “I was wondering if I could look at the list you put together of books and research items Kevin Boyle borrowed from the library.”

She gave me a wary look. “Why?”

In the past few days I had come to the almost certain conclusion that Kevin's killer knew him, that it wasn't a hyped-up fanatic who hated his environmental politics or even a drug dealer he'd displaced from a park. Whoever it was had to be someone who wouldn't have aroused suspicion if he—or she—had been seen with Kevin that last day.

In spite of what Jack said, I didn't think that left anyone at the monastery off the hook. But I felt sure it was someone who knew Kevin was working on a book about colonial American gardens and had somehow learned about the copy of
Adam in Eden
, the Pembroke letter, and its connection to the White House seeds. Kevin had told me that day at the Tidal Basin that he had been making inquiries, which I now realized must have been related to his search for the seeds. But he didn't believe anyone he'd spoken to had put two and two together and figured out the reason behind his questions. I thought Kevin was wrong: Someone did figure it out. Kevin had told me he'd asked Thea for some information, and Thea was certainly familiar with his research materials. So she was on the hook, too.

And right now I needed to persuade Logan to let me look at a document Thea asked her to prepare that was technically none of my business.

“I'm trying to take care of something Kevin didn't get to finish before he died,” I said, giving her a bland smile. “It had to do with his research.”

“I see.” She folded her hands. “Look, I got told off after you left the other day because it was my suggestion that you take a look in Brother Kevin's study room. I'm sorry, but I haven't got the authority to let you see that list.” She leaned closer and said in a low voice, “I'd like to help you, but Thea would kill me if she found out.”

“I don't want to get you in any more trouble,” I said. “But what if I ask you—just generally—if something rings a bell? Would you tell me?”

She stole a furtive glance around the room. There were only three people in the reading room and all seemed to be absorbed in their work. “You mean, like yes or no?” I nodded. “Okay, but that's all I can say.”

“Thank you. First, have you ever heard of someone named Francis Pembroke? A colonial doctor who lived in Leesburg?”

“No.”

“How about Senator Francis P. Quincy?”

“Nope.”

Two strikes. “Last question. What about the McMillan Commission or the McMillan Plan?”

Her eyes widened. “Yes.”

“Can you help me out with that?” I asked. “I saw Kevin's papers at the monastery yesterday. The McMillan Commission has nothing to do with colonial gardening in America, the book he was supposedly writing. It was a 1902 Senate commission that produced a report that led to the resurrection of Pierre L'Enfant's plan for Washington and, ultimately, the creation of the National Mall. According to Kevin's notes, it was the last thing he was looking into before he died.”

Logan stared at her hands while I waited. Finally she looked up. “The documents Kevin never collected are still on the bookcase in the corridor by the study rooms. At least they were last night. I'm not sure why they didn't get picked up with everything else that got returned, but that's being taken care of today. It's
possible the courier might not have come by yet.” She gave me a knowing look. “I'd better get back to work. Have a nice day.”

I knew the way to the back corridor and I remembered where Thea had found Kevin's documents on that bookcase. The corridor was deserted, so no one saw me pull the bundle of papers off the shelf. Kevin had requested three documents: a historic buildings survey written by someone at the National Park Service:
The L'Enfant-McMillan Plan for Washington, D.C.
, a dissertation on Pierre L'Enfant's vision for Washington, and finally a report from 1909 presented to the Columbia Historical Society:
The Re-Interment of Major Pierre Charles L'Enfant.

I stared at the last report. Pierre L'Enfant had been reburied at Arlington? I tried to remember the year he died from what I'd read in “No Little Plans”—sometime in the early 1800s—but I could look that up later. I skimmed the report. It was just over twenty pages, written in flowery, effusive language describing L'Enfant's genius and patriotism, along with a detailed account of his body being exhumed from “a lonely and unmarked grave” in Green Hill, Maryland, in 1909 after Congress granted the sum of one thousand dollars to bury him in a more fitting tribute at Arlington National Cemetery. From Maryland, his body had been moved to a vault in Mount Olivet Cemetery in Washington before it was carried to the Capitol, where he lay in state in the Rotunda. Finally, he was buried with full honors on a bluff overlooking the city of Washington.

At the end of the hall, a door to one of the study rooms opened and a man walked out. I shoved the papers back on the shelf and left. The last thing I wanted to do was get Logan sacked. And thanks to her, giant pieces of the puzzle were slamming into place in my head.

Kevin had been looking into L'Enfant's burial at Arlington as well as the McMillan Plan, plus he connected Senator Francis P. Quincy, a descendant of Francis Pembroke, with Charles Moore, the secretary of the commission that had drafted that plan. I
wasn't entirely sure why, but I knew someone who would be able to answer my questions.

The guard in the lobby of the Adams Building lobby checked my bag as I left. I walked outside and called Olivia Upshaw, who answered right away.

“It's Sophie Medina,” I said. “I'm at the Library of Congress. I've been doing some extra research on Pierre L'Enfant and I've got a couple of questions. I was wondering if I could drop by and talk to you.”

“Sure.” She sounded pleased and a bit surprised at my industriousness. “I'm at an all-day affiliates conference downstairs in the west wing of the Castle. How about tomorrow, say ten o'clock?”

“I'd really like to do this today. Do you have a coffee break or a lunch break? It won't take long, I promise.”

“We just started a break. We go back in half an hour.”

“I can be there in fifteen minutes.”

“This must be really important.”

“It is.”

“Meet me at the information desk in the Great Hall.”

“I'll be there,” I said. “Thank you.”

• • •

The sudden burst of warm weather three days before the first day of spring had brought out the tourists in droves. Unlike last week, the Great Hall of the Smithsonian Castle was jammed with people milling around the gift shop and filling the tables of a café across from the information desk. Olivia wasn't there when I arrived, nor did I see her in the crowded room.

“Are you Sophie?” A woman standing behind the information desk came over to me. “Olivia asked me to tell you that she had to take a call but she'll be here in just a moment.”

“Thank you.”

I looked through the rack of museum brochures and tourist
information while I waited. A pink-and-white pamphlet decorated with cherry blossoms listed spring events at the Mall museums. I picked it up because one exhibition caught my eye: the exquisite blown-glass sculptures of Dale Chihuly at the Hirshhorn.