The Scarlet Pepper (11 page)

As soon as the White House press secretary arrived with the reporters, I did.

“Thank Griffon Parker for dying so suddenly,” Frank Lispon answered. “The reporters are having a feeding frenzy with the stories he’d been working on, including your work with the First Lady’s garden. The story is about to break wide open.”

“What story?”

“Watercressgate.”

“
W
E
didn’t plant watercress,” I protested. “Does no one fact-check anymore?”

Frank leaned back as he chuckled. “Only you would latch on to that, Casey. It’s not what they’re calling the budding scandal that has me worried. What pulled me down here this morning is the fact that someone thinks a scandal exists, and others are listening.”

“Who’s listening?” I demanded. “I saw the article. It was nothing but a jumble of lies printed in a throwaway newspaper that no one reads.”

“Someone read it,” he said.

Frank Lispon towered about a foot over my five feet seven inches. A man well into his late fifties, he kept in shape. His runner’s body was extra lean and sinewy. In his youth, he’d competed in the five-hundred-meter track and field event and gone all the way to the Olympics. That same winning drive combined with his naturally friendly manner made him an effective press secretary. Most members
of the press actually liked him, a rarity lately in this town. Everyone on the staff liked him, too.

“Well, for heaven’s sake, Frank, tell whoever read it that the article is wrong. And while you’re at it, tell those reporters that they should be ashamed of themselves for believing such a tall pile of stinky manure.”

The corners of his eyes wrinkled with worry as he dug his hands into his pockets. “We can’t do that, Casey. The damned thing’s gone viral. Hundreds of blogs have repeated the claim over the weekend. Watercressgate is trending on Twitter. It’s also in the top ten of hot search items on Google. It’ll only be a matter of hours before some crackpot is quoted on a major network claiming to have helped create the First Lady’s ‘fake’ kitchen garden.”

“But there’s no proof. Why would a reputable news organization report lies?”

“In this twenty-four/seven, breaking-news-every-half-hour news cycle, not everything gets fact-checked before it hits the air. The news media can skirt around the need to check sources by reporting what the blogs are saying. They aren’t reporting on whether it’s true. They’re just reporting what is on the Internet. It’s up to the viewer and future news reports to dig up the truth. But for the White House—especially my office—that’s too late. I’m scrambling to get the facts on the air while others are shouting about cover-ups. I don’t want that to happen here. And in order to stop that from happening, we all have to act preemptively and with care.”

“That’s why you want the press to talk with the volunteers this morning?” I asked.

He nodded. “I know it interferes with the First Lady’s tight schedule, but I believe this is necessary. The
President
believes it’s necessary. I can’t tell you how glad I am that Margaret invited so many well-known society mavens to volunteer in the garden. That’ll help. The general public may not know their names, but the press sure as hell knows and respects them. They have to if they ever hope to snag
an invitation to one of D.C.’s power teas. No reporter with any sense will go blabbing on the news that these women haven’t been doing the work they say they’ve been doing out here.”

“They have power teas?”

“You better believe it,” he said.

“Why the heck haven’t I been invited to one yet?”

He chuckled again. “I’m glad to see you understand what’s going on. Just do what you can to help the reporters get their story. Here they come. Excuse me.”

I was surprised to see
Media Today
’s new hotshot TV reporter, Kelly Montague, among the journalists who’d turned out to cover the garden. Stories concerning the First Lady’s kitchen garden were generally considered too “fluffy” for serious journalists.

I would have thought she’d be more interested in covering the back-to-back budget meetings packing the President’s schedule.

As I continued to look around, I recognized several other high-profile journalists, including Simon Matthews, a young reporter with thick glasses and a round belly, who reminded me of a computer geek. Matthews and the other reporters meandered into the First Lady’s garden, stomping through—not around—the delicate garden soil.

The First Lady had noticed them as well. Together we gently guided the straying reporters back to the stone paths—freedom of the press notwithstanding, no self-respecting gardener would allow anyone to walk through extensively prepared and tended garden soil. The soil was perfect, dark and fertile and the consistency of cake batter.

We’d created it using a sheet composting method, where layers of organic matter were sandwiched between rich compost and garden soil. As the organic matter broke down, nutrients were released to the plants. It was sort of like growing a garden on the top of an active compost pile. It wasn’t something you wanted people stomping through.

Once the journalists were back on the grass at the edge
of the garden, I introduced them to some of my most dedicated volunteers.

Francesca Dearing still hadn’t arrived. She had both the gardening expertise and experience dealing with negative press. Not only that, she could use this opportunity to garner some positive press for herself and her husband. I was sorry that she was missing out.

Annie Campbell, bless her dear heart, was talking with Kelly Montague over near the peppers. Annie did her best, but she had no clue what she was talking about as she answered questions about the many varieties of vegetables planted in the garden.

“That doesn’t look like spinach,” Kelly said, her brows furrowed with disbelief after Annie had incorrectly identified a plot of lettuce.

“I think what Annie meant to say is that this lettuce is an heirloom variety from Monticello’s gardens,” I offered as I rushed over to stop Annie from embarrassing herself. “Thomas Jefferson praised this variety, ‘tennis-ball’ lettuce, as being easy to grow. It doesn’t need too much care or attention. And it actually tastes like something, unlike the watery iceberg lettuce commonly sold at grocery stores.”

“So it’s not spinach,” Kelly said. Her gaze remained fixed on Annie. Poor Annie’s cheeks began to flare red. “You’d think your volunteers, if they were actually involved with the garden, would know—”

“Although we have volunteers of all experience levels,” I cut in, “every single one of them has done his or her part in the garden. Even the press secretary has had his hands in the dirt a few times. But don’t ask Frank about the plants. The last time he was down here, he weeded out every pea seedling while leaving clumps of henbit and chickweed untouched.”

“Is that so?” Kelly asked as she wrote furiously in a small notebook. Her astute gaze latched on to me. “And what else has gone wrong? Have you had problems with any of the other volunteers? Were they picked for you by the
First Lady’s staff, or did you get some say over who worked in the garden?”

Why, oh, why did I always seem to put my foot in my mouth around the press? “Please stop writing this down. I didn’t mean to criticize the press secretary or any of the volunteers. It was a joke. We have all had a great time working out here in the garden, haven’t we, Annie?”

“Oh, yes,” Annie agreed with a sigh of relief.

“But, Mrs. Campbell, didn’t you say”—Kelly pressed her pen to the notebook, ready to capture whatever embarrassing bit of information might pop out of either Annie’s mouth or mine—“that the garden practically appeared overnight?”

“I—I didn’t actually mean—” Annie stuttered while Kelly diligently wrote down every word. “I mean, we worked… we had so many volunteers…I’d say it was as if the garden grew over a weekend…well, perhaps not that fast…”

“Kelly, have you had the pleasure of talking with Mable Bowls?” I interrupted to save Annie from herself. It was easy to get flustered. I’ve rambled on and on when I should have kept my mouth shut around the press far too many times. “Mable is one of the matrons of D.C. society and a past president of the garden club.” I glanced around and found that the grand old lady had attracted quite a crowd of reporters already. “She’s been invaluable to us in the garden. Please, let me introduce you.”

After getting Kelly settled with Mable, who preened with pleasure over the well-deserved attention she was receiving, I led Annie away from the reporters and gave her the task of rolling up the hoses we’d used that morning to water the vegetables. The grounds crew had installed an inconspicuous water spigot under a nearby stand of linden trees for keeping the garden watered.

The South Lawn had several water spigots concealed in boxes buried throughout the lawn and gardens. During dry periods, we’d drag out our long hoses and use the spigots to water the parts of the lawn and gardens that couldn’t be reached by the rather old irrigation system.

“Is everything ready?” Mrs. Bradley’s photographer asked after the interviews started to wind down.

“We’re still waiting for a few of the volunteers to arrive.” Most notably Francesca. “If the First Lady agrees, I’d like to give them a couple of minutes. In the meantime, we can arrange where you want the volunteers who are here.”

I peeled off my gardening gloves, dug my cell phone out of my pocket, and dialed Francesca’s cell, forgetting that she’d changed her number to one that came up as “Unavailable.”

If the press were looking for scandal in the garden, I supposed they were also putting pressure on Francesca and Bruce Dearing, considering how they’d been under the spotlight already with Griffon Parker’s investigations. Bruce might have even warned Francesca about the impromptu press event and advised her to stay away.

I’d just about given up on Francesca when she walked past, a blur of pale pink linen.

“There you are!” I jammed the phone back into my pocket and fell in step with her. “If you have a moment after the photos are taken, we need to talk.”

“I—I don’t know,” she said and brushed past me. A bright red flush stained her cheeks and her eyes looked puffy, as if she’d been crying.

My mouth dropped open as she rushed to stand at the back of the group. I’d expected her to snag the choice spot in the photo next to the First Lady.

Once everyone was in place, the photographer started snapping pictures.

“What’s with that paper?” The photographer lowered his camera. “It’s getting into the picture.”

A small scrap of paper in the garden flipped around in the light breeze.

It really wasn’t too noticeable. But when everyone turned to watch it, Milo, who’d been bribed into posing for the picture with pieces of hot dog the First Lady held in the palm of her hand, couldn’t pass up the chance to play a game of chase.

With a puppy bounce, he broke away from Mrs. Bradley’s side and bounded into the garden. He crushed lettuce and cabbage and tomato plants underneath his large puppy paws as he chased the paper’s erratic movement. He looked like he was just fur and legs as he bounced after the paper.

“Milo, come!” I dashed after him before he could wreck even more damage.

Seth gestured wildly. “Get out of the picture! Get out of the picture!”

I grabbed Milo’s collar just as the oversized puppy snapped up the paper in his jaws. Pleased to have his prize, he let me lead him out of the garden. With his head held high and his tail wagging like a victor waving a flag at a soccer match, I returned Milo to his position beside the First Lady, pried the half-chewed paper from his mouth, and stuffed it into my pocket.

“Sorry about that,” I said and then stepped out of the picture.

From a spot well outside the frame I watched Barton Bailey, the photographer, work his magic. The volunteers who’d helped repair the garden had ended up looking wilted from the summer heat and a bit muddy. I thought it added a delightful touch of authenticity to what would have been a dry, staged photo.

Barton continued to snap away. Milo seemed happy to stay where he belonged. I leaned back on my heels and let my head fall forward.

“Careful where you close your eyes. Barton will take a picture of you asleep on the job and post it on a wall where everyone can see it,” a deep male voice whispered in my ear.

I opened my eyes to find a deadly handsome member of the Secret Service’s elite military arm, the Counter Assault Team, smiling at me.

His black hair was cut short. He was dressed in a short-sleeved black battle dress uniform, which had to feel like an oven in all this heat. Although, come to think about it, he didn’t look at all sweaty.

“Jack!” I was surprised to see him.

His crooked smile set my heart racing.

Pounding, actually.

And my mouth went dry.

“Before Friday, I hadn’t seen or heard from you in weeks.” The complaint slipped out of my mouth before I could catch it. “And then on Friday you didn’t stick around long enough to say two words to me.”