The Scarlet Pepper (36 page)

I nodded.

I knew I’d be okay. I didn’t need a father.

My tears were for Kelly, damn it. She was the one who’d wanted to find her dad.

Not me.

Never me.

“THIS HAD BETTER BE GOOD, COLOSSAL GOOD,
not that run-of-the-mill bull,” Manny growled. His salt-and-pepper mustache stuck out at all angles as if he’d been scrubbing his fingers through it nonstop. “I’m busy. Whatever you wanted to tell me, you could have told the uniformed officer I sent to take your statement.” He’d added several more words to make his speech more colorful and, I’m sure, to entertain me, but my grandmother would die if I repeated any of it.

“What? No flowers?” I said with a goofy grin. I’d been given a sizable pain reliever. “I was nearly crushed by a bag of stinky fertilizer today. I think I deserve some flowers.
Nothing fancy or anything. Shasta daisies. Or gerberas. Just something to bring the garden into this antiseptic space.”

“You’re in an ER examination room. If all checks out you’ll be going home soon. You don’t need flowers.”

“The hospital ran a CT scan right away. The doctor noted something that he wants to check out. Casey’s waiting to get an MRI to check for internal damage,” Alyssa said quietly.

“I’m not damaged,” I said.

Even though Jack couldn’t come with me to the hospital, he’d contacted my roommate to make sure I had a friendly face with me. Gordon had crawled into the ambulance after me. He’d fretted the entire time. Alyssa, tired of his mother henning, had sent him in search of coffee. Not just any coffee but a particular kind that could only be purchased across town.

“I feel great,” I said.

“That’s the meds,” Alyssa was quick to point out.

“They could send me home right now, but they’re being pushy. How’s Kelly?”

“She’s starting to wake up.” Manny scrubbed his grizzled mustache. “I hope to be able to talk with her tomorrow.”

I started to cry. “I couldn’t be happier. Wait a minute. I’m hurt, too. You’ll talk to Kelly personally, but send one of your officers to interview me?”

“We’ve talked enough. You’ve already told me every harebrained theory that’s popped into your head, remember?”

“Yes, but I was wrong.” I waggled my finger, indicating he should lean in closer. “Frank’s not a killer,” I whispered.

“No kidding,” he said dryly.

“There’s something else you should know.”

He sighed dramatically. “I suppose since I’m here already, you might as well tell me.”

“My dad,” I said. “He killed a man.”

“Go on,” Manny said, more interested now.

“I had forgotten. I was so young, so trusting. I didn’t
want to believe he was an evil man. He was my daddy, you know? How can a little girl’s daddy be evil?”

Manny didn’t have an answer, only a sad look that said he’d seen—and had probably arrested—too many evil daddies who had broken too many little girls’ hearts.

“I couldn’t believe my daddy could be the villain of my fairy tale, so I chose not to remember. But today, I remembered.”

“I see.”

“We were living in northern France, but I’m sure you can help. I’m sure you can—”

“Wrong jurisdiction,” he interrupted. “Didn’t you want to talk to me about the murders of Griffon Parker and Simon Matthews? My officer told me that you had information about them, information that only I could understand. So, what is it?”

What was it
? That was a good question. I yawned as I tried to remember.

“I wish I was back in the garden,” I said groggily. “The First Lady’s kitchen garden. That’s where all the suspects were gathered. We could have one of those grand Agatha Christie endings. After I revealed the killer, you could spring to action and drag the culprit away.”

“Let’s pretend we are there now,” Manny said with unnecessary sarcasm.

I didn’t let his bad mood get me down. With all the pain medication flowing through my veins I didn’t think I could even if I’d wanted to. I closed my eyes and pictured the rows of leafy greens, the large leafed cucumbers that were just starting to take off, and the tiny little tomato seedlings that we’d just planted that morning.

If anything, the press should accuse the kitchen garden of shrinking.

Gillis waltzed through the garden with Annie struggling to keep up, her arms laden with his books. Gillis had wanted Parker to review his book for
Media Today
. Why Parker?

Parker wasn’t a book reviewer. He was a complainer
who had a taste for criticizing gardeners, well, one gardener in particular. Me.

Gillis wasn’t just interested in selling his book—or should I say his revolution in the organic gardening world?—he also wanted a position at the White House…at least that was what I’d thought. I opened my eyes. “What’s going on with Gillis? I can’t believe he’d hire those two slackers, Jerry and Bower, to do anything. Lorenzo used to work with Gillis and said that Gillis expected a high level of professional behavior from those around him. Jerry and Bower are anything but professional.”

“We’re still talking with Gillis and checking phone records. The number that contacted Jerry and Bower apparently came from the same throwaway phone that placed the threatening call to you and the threatening calls to Kelly. Like you, he knows his plants, including the poisonous ones. And as you’ve pointed out, he’d been in contact with Parker.”

“Don’t tell me you think Gillis slept with Parker that night.”

Manny lifted a brow. “He might have.”

“Gillis? Really? But he has children of his own. I heard him tell a little girl that she looked just like his daughter.”

“Adopted. He’s been in a long-term relationship with his show’s producer.”

“I still don’t get it. What’s the motive?”

“Give us time,” Manny said. “It’s still early in the investigation.”

“And how did Gillis manage to knock over the shelves after the Secret Service had escorted him away?”

“Accidents happen all the time. You were startled to find Frank Lispon. You panicked and set off a series of events that ended up with you crushed beneath the shelves.”

“No. It wasn’t an accident.”

“How can you be sure? Did you see someone? Did you hear someone?”

“It wasn’t an accident. I’d left the door to the shed open.
When Francesca came looking for me, she had to open the shed door to peek her head inside.”

“Are you sure? He could have hit Lispon with the shovel and returned in plenty of time for your mini press conference.”

“But—” I rubbed my temples, hoping to clear my foggy head. “But when I came into the shed I noticed that the shovel was missing from its hook. Then I heard a sound. I didn’t know what it was at the time. Thinking back, though, it must have been the killer hitting Frank with the shovel. This all happened after you took Gillis into custody.”

Manny’s jaw tightened. He scrubbed his hand over his mustache, making it look even more untidy. “You’re making me rue the day you moved to D.C. Were you this much trouble for the Charleston PD?”

“I never made any trouble in Charleston. It’s not me. It’s this city.”

“That’s what they all say,” Alyssa said, wiggling her hips like a modern-day Mae West.

“I have the coffee.” Gordon burst into the room with two tall cups. “What did I miss?”

Alyssa took one look at me, one look at the insulated cup Gordon offered to her, and said, “I wanted iced coffee.”

His shoulders dropped. “Oh.” Gordon turned around and left again.

“Quickly now, Casey, tell Manny what you remember. The pieces are in that complicated head of yours. You know all the players. Who killed Parker and Matthews?”

She was right. The pieces were all there.

But something was missing. Something felt…off.

“The sticky note I found on my desk with Frank Lispon’s name. It wasn’t a warning to stay away from him like I first thought. It was a clue. I think Francesca left me that note. She told me to stop asking questions or else I would get hurt. Shortly afterwards, the note showed up on my desk. I’m sure she left it for me. Somehow she knew Frank was Kelly’s father. She’s afraid of someone hurting me for finding out. She’s afraid of Bruce perhaps? That’s why she’s
keeping quiet. I think she knows who is killing the reporters and why.”

“Do you still have the note? Do you have any proof that Francesca is involved?”

I shook my head. “The pain medication is making me feel…drowsy. I’m sorry I wasted your time, Manny.”

“That’s all I seem to be doing lately.” He rested his hand on my shoulder. The lines in his face looked more deeply drawn tonight. His tone was ashen. He needed to take better care of himself.

“Have you eaten dinner?” I asked him.

“Not yet. I’ve got a few more things to do tonight. I hope you’re okay and you get to go home soon.”

As Manny left, a nurse came in all smiles, promising us that I was next in line for the MRI. She took my vital signs and checked my chest for any changes in color or swelling. She then asked about my level of pain and if I needed more medication.

My pain level?

So many lives ruined in such a short span of time. Kelly had given up a better job so she could go in search of her birth father. Parker and Matthews had chased an explosive story. And Frank Lispon—the man who, like my father, refused to act like one—had done nothing.

And me, I wished I had never had a father, wished I could erase the shocking memories of him that had dribbled back into my life.

Even if Manny managed to find the man responsible for the deaths and unhappiness, nothing was ever going to be the same for any of us.

And the nurse wanted me to quantify on a scale of one to ten what the pain felt like? I couldn’t. All I knew was that it would take much more than a pill to chase away that kind of pain.

A
week later I was back at work and glad to be in the garden again. It hurt when I bent over to pinch off the tops of the chrysanthemums in the Jacqueline Kennedy Garden—that was what cracked ribs did for you—but that pain paled in comparison to the sting I felt when I thought about Parker and Matthews’s murderer still walking around.

At least the heat wave had finally broken. It was nearly fifteen degrees cooler that morning than it had been the previous week.

“You don’t have to be here, Casey,” Gordon said as he accompanied me on my routine morning trek to the First Lady’s kitchen garden.

“I want to be here.” After a day of sitting around on the sofa with nothing to do, I’d been more than ready to get back to work.

“Don’t push yourself.” He took the bucket of soapy water from my hand. “You need to give your body time to heal.”

“With my cracked ribs I’m supposed to take deep
breaths and stay active, do jumping jacks and whatnot. Otherwise I might catch pneumonia.”

“I don’t remember the doctor saying it quite that way. I hope you’re not doing jumping jacks.” Gordon had eventually returned to the ER and stayed, entertaining me and driving Alyssa crazy, which was also entertaining. When the pushy hospital staff finally agreed with me that nothing had been seriously broken or punctured and let me sign the release papers, Gordon had accompanied Alyssa and me home. At the brownstone, he’d left Alyssa to help me get into my pajamas but had soon returned with takeout for dinner and an easy-to-heat precooked breakfast that he slipped into the fridge.

We ate. Talked. Gordon then sat up with me as we watched TV long after Alyssa had called it a night. He’d stayed, keeping me company, watching over me as I dozed, and texting Jack periodic updates on my well-being. I couldn’t have asked for a more devoted friend. Or a better nervous mother hen.

“You’ve seen the size of my apartment, Gordon. I’d go mad if I had to sit on the sofa day after day with nothing to do but watch gardening shows.” I took back the bucket of soapy water. “I need to keep these hands busy or else the devil might get after them.”

“You do know what today is, though?”

“I know.” The First Lady’s volunteer appreciation tea was scheduled for this afternoon, the same event that both Gordon and Lorenzo had found reasons to miss. “I have a dress all ready to go back in the office.”

“I suppose if you’re feeling up to it…” Gordon said, watching me carefully.

He’d been such a help all that past week. No, that wasn’t quite right. Gordon had been my champion from the first moment I’d stepped foot in the grounds office nearly six months before.

“It shouldn’t be that bad,” he said, but at the same time he breathed a sigh of relief that he wouldn’t have to fall on that particular sword.

We’d reached the kitchen garden.

Although we’d harvested the spring plants, my morning garden routine hadn’t changed. The summer crop still needed water, food, and weeding. As I did almost every morning, I surveyed the garden. No signs of major damage from critters of the four-legged or two-legged variety. I squatted, groaned, and started to look for the smaller pests, the kind that generally had six legs and wiggly antennas.