The Scarlet Pepper (6 page)

“What should I do?” I whispered to Thatch.

“Plan ahead next time. Give us some advance notice,” he snapped and returned to directing his agents on crowd control.

Fredrick, bless his kind heart, directed us to step inside the whitewashed guardhouse. He spoke quietly on the
phone for a few minutes before producing two visitor’s badges, which he handed to Gillis and Francesca. “You have permission to use a conference room in the EEOB. I’ll serve as your escort.”

“Dog’s baws!” Gillis exclaimed.

“I beg your pardon?” I asked.

“Just my way of saying it’s excellent, lass. We get to go inside after all. Lead on.”

“It’s not inside the White House,” I cautioned.

“Then where are we going, lass?”

I pointed to the Eisenhower Executive Office Building.

“Cor blimey, that rickety old place?”

Fredrick rolled his eyes. I rather liked the French Second Empire design of the building. With its steeply sloped mansard roof, the five-story, block-long structure looked as if it belonged in a quaint Paris neighborhood or a doily-draped living room crowded with figurines and knickknacks.

“Does your girlfriend have a favorite flower?” I asked Fredrick as he hurried us through the metal detector inside the guardhouse and away from Gillis’s screaming fans. Several news reporters came over from the West Wing press room to see what the fuss was about.

As we crossed the lawn toward the Eisenhower building, every few steps Gillis would stop to wave. I glanced back at the crowd and saw that the journalists had converged on SAIC Mike Thatch. His expression grew all the more grim as he answered each of their questions.

Tomorrow his name would likely appear in several newspapers. Thatch would not thank me for thrusting him into the spotlight. Nor would he let me forget it.

“Violets,” Fredrick replied, barely moving his lips. “My Lily likes violets.”

“Really? Not lilies?” I asked.

“Go figure.” He shrugged.

“Monday morning I’ll bring a potted arrangement filled with violets for you to give her.” I touched his sleeve. “Thank you.”

We entered the Eisenhower Executive Office Building located beside the West Wing. The EEOB, built in the 1880s, like the Treasury building on the other side of the White House, was connected to the White House through a tunnel. The large building housed medical offices, a bank, and offices for most of the White House staff. We followed Fredrick up a flight of bronze baluster stairs to a small conference room on the second floor.

Once we’d settled in around the oak conference table, I tried to reach Seth Donahue, the First Lady’s social secretary, to include him in the meeting, but he’d already left for the day. I made a mental note to call him over the weekend to brief him on whatever plans we made.

Over the next hour, Gillis provided several ideas of how he could assist with the harvest. He volunteered to teach gardening lessons to the schoolchildren scheduled to attend. Francesca focused on how his presence would attract additional media attention.

I frantically jotted down notes while wondering how I could make all these changes before Wednesday. However, while it would mean more work, his suggestions had merit. It’d be a mistake to dismiss them.

The day had faded into twilight by the time the meeting ended and Fredrick escorted us back to Pennsylvania Avenue. Deep shades of orange and red streaked across the evening sky.

“We can continue our planning session tomorrow morning at the public garden. You are still coming?” Francesca asked.

“Of course I am. I’m bringing the petunias,” I said, relieved that Francesca had found something other than murder plots to occupy her mind.

“Wonderful. And if you have any upcoming meetings with the First Lady, please include me. I want to make sure she knows—”

“Mrs. Bradley’s schedule is always full,” I interrupted, wondering why I hadn’t realized it sooner. Francesca hadn’t been interested in helping me. It wasn’t friendship
that had inspired her to invite Gillis to the White House. She was using the vegetable harvest as a way to bolster her husband’s faltering career. She wasn’t the first wife anxious to forge a close relationship with the First Lady. “I’m sorry, Francesca. Mrs. Bradley doesn’t have time to sit in on meetings such as these, especially not with twins on the way. She receives briefings on our progress, of course.”

“You’ll make sure she knows I’m working on the plans, though, and that I was the one who brought in Gillis, won’t you?”

“I’ll send an update to her office first thing in the morning,” I promised and then thanked Gillis for volunteering to help out with the local schoolchildren.

“She’d said I’d like it here.” His gaze darkened as he stared intently at the White House behind me. The gleam in his eyes was one I’d seen in many of the politicians around here. Ambitious. And power hungry. “She was right. I do like it here. I can’t wait to use my organic gardening method in these gardens.”

I HAD TO MANUALLY CLOSE MY GAPING MOUTH
as I watched Gillis swagger through a throng of adoring fans before ducking into a sleek black town car waiting at the curb.

“Bruce won’t be done for at least another hour. Annie gave us tickets to a late-night jazz concert at Ford’s Theater. It doesn’t start for hours,” Francesca said. She stood next to me as she hugged herself and gazed out over the tall iron fence that encircled the White House northwest gate. Now that Gillis was gone, she looked as lost and uncertain as an abandoned puppy. The corners of her eyes crinkled as she implored me to take her back to my office.

“I don’t want to go home alone and face the answering machine. Please, Casey, I could help you hammer out the details for the harvest.”

“I don’t know.” Until an hour ago, all the details had already been hammered out. Francesca and Gillis had
changed several activities. If I spent more time with her, what other changes would she make?

“Please, Casey.” She gripped my wrist with crushing strength. Unnerved, I tried to pull away, but she held on with brute force.

“You’re hurting me,” I said, wincing.

“Sorry.” She released my wrist. I doubted she realized she’d grabbed me in the first place. “Let me help you so I can feel as if I’m doing something productive instead of sitting around and worrying about what that journalist might do.”

“Sure, come on,” I said with a sigh.

Back at the grounds office Francesca chatted happily about nothing really. I only half listened. I was too busy worrying about what Gillis had meant when he’d said he couldn’t wait to get his hands on the White House gardens.

The First Lady didn’t need anyone to develop an organic gardening plan. One was already being implemented. Mine.

I glanced over at Francesca as she happily carried on a conversation without any help on my part. Gillis had taken time out of his busy schedule to come down from New York to Washington. What would he want with my job? By the time Francesca and I had tamed the towering piles of official forms on my desk, I’d concluded that I’d misunderstood what Gillis had been talking about. He didn’t want or need my job. And it was late.

The windows across the hallway from the basement office were draped in darkness. The arched concrete hallway, which tended to carry the slightest sound along its length, had fallen silent. Not a clank or a whirl of whisks could be heard from the busy chocolate shop down the hall. Only a hint of rich, dark chocolate aroma lingered in the air.

I closed my eyes and breathed in the sweet scent. Attached to that scent was a faint memory that fluttered in the deep shadows of my mind. Something had happened in a quiet, chocolate-scented room once a long, long time ago. I couldn’t quite remember what.

I didn’t want to remember. Memories were dangerous.

I jumped to my feet, stuffed my belongings into my backpack, and slung it over my shoulder. “I’m calling it a night,” I announced.

A few minutes later Francesca and I crossed the North Lawn. While Francesca gossiped about West Wing staffers, my thoughts strayed. I wanted to get home and into a cool shower.

We were halfway to the gate when the door from the West Wing press room swung open to release a steady stream of reporters. There must have been an evening briefing.

“Do you know what’s going on?” Francesca asked.

“It’s probably just a late briefing on the budget negotiations.” Even so, I wondered if a crisis had erupted somewhere in the world and if it would affect the upcoming harvest events. It amazed me how a skirmish half a world away could upend even the White House grounds office’s schedule.

“I haven’t heard about any breaking news events.” Francesca scowled at the approaching reporters. “I do hope you’re right that it’s about the budget debate and that it doesn’t have anything to do with Bruce.” She drew a deep breath. “
Or me
.”

“Those rumors are about you, aren’t they?” I asked. Francesca represented the epitome of grace and good manners. My grandmother would love her. “What did you do?”

Under the glow of the White House lighting, Francesca’s healthy pink glow drained from her face as she watched the number of reporters swell. “I can’t be here.”

“Facing them would suck the power right out of the rumors. I know. Remember when Griffon Parker targeted me this spring?” I tried to catch her arm, but she pushed my hand away and hurried toward the security gate.

“Ms. Calhoun!” a reporter called.

Great, Francesca wouldn’t stop and talk with me now. Not with a reporter dogging my heels.

“Ms. Calhoun!” the reporter called again.

Although the grounds crew would sometimes chat with the press, official contact had to be approved through either the communications office or the East Wing.

Quite frankly, with all the talk of scandals lately and the “Watercressgate” article, I had no desire to talk with anyone in the press corps. For all I knew I was about to stumble into a political briar patch.

So even though my grandmother had taught me better manners, I pretended I didn’t hear my name being called as I rushed through the northwest gate’s security barriers and jogged to catch up with Francesca.

Lafayette Square (which throughout its history has been used as a graveyard, an army encampment, and a zoo) was relatively quiet tonight. The long-term protesters were there. Connie, a nuclear arms protester, had lived in front of the White House among her large, handmade poster board signs for the past three decades. Beside her was the new unfriendly guy, who wore a camouflage hat pulled low on his head. He sat in a battered lawn chair and held a handwritten sign propped up in his lap that read, “Every American Deserves a Safe Workplace.” A small handful of tourists milled about. The stifling humidity must have chased everyone else indoors.

“I’m sure it’s not as bad as you think,” I said as I caught up to and matched Francesca’s long stride.

“It is,” she cried. “I can’t face it. I can’t face them.”

Her whole body began to tremble. “They know, don’t they? That’s what the press conference was about. Bruce will be devastated. I—I can’t face him. I can’t face either of them.”

“Why? What did you do?”

“Please, Casey.” She picked up her pace. “I can’t talk about it.”

I hated to let her run away in such distress. “We don’t know what Frank Lispon said at the press conference.”

“
Frank
!” She used his name like a curse. Tears coursed
down her perfect cheeks. She pushed me away and turned her head the other direction so I couldn’t see her. “
Frank
,” she moaned.

“Ms. Calhoun!” That darn reporter had followed me into the park and was fast closing the distance between us.

Francesca darted behind a statue of Andrew Jackson sitting astride a horse.

“Miss Calhoun! I’ve a source who insists the First Lady’s organic garden is a farce. Would you like to comment on that?” The reporter’s voice boomed across the park.

Grimacing, I whirled around to face my accuser. “That news article was nothing but a pack of lies.”

An older man in a tweed suit with hunched shoulders and a stooping back rushed toward me. His determined stride was quick and jerky. He had a pinched expression around his eyes as if he was too proud to admit he needed glasses.

I don’t know if it was his personality or his looks, but whenever I saw him, he reminded me of a pesky weasel that tore plants out of garden beds just for the fun of it.

“Griffon Parker.” I wrinkled my nose with distaste. “You’ll have to request an interview with the East Wing. It’s unfair of you to ask me questions. You know I’m not in a position to comment.”

“But you’re in charge of the First Lady’s gardens,” he pressed.

“You’ll have to submit your questions to the East Wing,” I repeated. Chief Usher Ambrose Jones, who’d spent nearly all of his adult life working in some capacity at the White House, had taught me the technique. Calmly and professionally repeat your point until the other side gives up.

Unfortunately, when I turned to look for Francesca, Parker stuck to my side like a prickly sandspur.

“Come now. You wouldn’t want tomorrow’s story to be one-sided,” he threatened. “Let’s be honest here. Claiming the First Lady created an
organic
vegetable garden is good PR, but it’s not real. My source tells me—”

“Before you write this glorious exposé of yours, do
some research,” I said, feeling the blood rise to my cheeks. I didn’t care what his source was telling him. His source was wrong. “The First Lady’s vegetable garden is
not
an organic garden. No one at the White House
ever
said it was an organic garden. We’re utilizing organic practices. There’s a difference. Google it!”

I jogged away from him before something unladylike slipped out of my mouth. My face burned with frustration and embarrassment.

Good gracious, I shouldn’t be allowed within a mile of the press, especially not Parker. Why couldn’t I learn to keep my mouth shut? Why did I let him get under my skin?

Now when he’s writing up his story tonight, all he’ll remember is how the assistant gardener snapped at him.

Instead of biting his head off, I should have
calmly and professionally
asked for more information. Who was his source? What exactly had his source told him? If Parker had a source who was criticizing the First Lady’s garden, that was something I needed to know.