Flowerbed of State Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Epilogue

  A Page from Casey’s Spring Gardener’s Notebook

  Quick and Easy Guide for Growing a Pineapple Top

  Trashed

  Turner said, “Radio this in, Steve. We need the White House police out here and probably the FBI.”

  I appreciated his calm voice. I clung to his controlled manner, hoping a measure of his steadiness would rub off on me because my entire body was beginning to tremble. I feared if someone were to touch me right then, I would shatter into a million pieces.

  Turner slowly reached into the trash can and carefully tilted the woman’s head back so he could feel for her pulse. I prayed he’d find one.

  But I knew in my heart we were too late. The woman’s glassy eyes glared up at me. Her deep red lipstick was smeared across her porcelain cheek. Her mouth gaped open as if still fighting for that one last breath. A fight she’d been doomed to lose. An angry red welt ringed her neck. I touched my own throat as Turner slowly shook his head. “It’s a homicide,” he said. “She’s been strangled.”

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  FLOWERBED OF STATE

  A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with Tekno Books

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / May 2011

  Copyright © 2011 by Tekno Books.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions. For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-51442-9

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME

  Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group

  (USA) Inc.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  For Jim . . .

  the love of my life and partner in crime.

  And for all the dedicated men and women

  serving at the local, regional, state, and federal levels

  without acknowledgment or fanfare—

  you are the glue that keeps this country together.

  This book celebrates you.

  Acknowledgments

  When I embarked on this writing adventure that had me delving into the behind-the-scenes life at the White House I never imagined the wonderful and gracious people I was destined to meet along the way.

  First, a huge thank-you goes out to Amy Dabbs, the Tri-County Master Gardener Coordinator, for sharing her passion for organic gardening; Roger Francis, the Senior Clemson Extension Agent at the Charleston office, for his commonsense advice; and to the amazing master gardener volunteers who have welcomed me as one of their own. My garden has never looked so lush! And Mike Dixon, because of you, I’ll never think of grass the same way again. I’m still trying to decide if that’s a good thing.

  Hazel Betts, docent at the Richard Nixon Library and Museum, taught me about the burgundy red floribunda “Pat Nixon” rose. And the incredible Eddie Gehman Kohan, who reports all things food and garden related from the White House in her Obama Foodorama blog, kept me “in the know.” Thanks to Congressman Henry Brown, Senator Lindsey Graham, and their dedicated staffs—especially Taylor Andreae in Senator Graham’s office—for arranging tours, answering questions, and giving me a peek into the inner workings of the federal government. My book is richer because of you.

  Sergeant David Schlosser, of the U.S. Park Police, you have my sincere thanks for taking the time to explain how the various agencies work together. I’m also grateful to the members of the Secret Service for answering all my odd questions and not arresting me as I stalked them around the perimeter of the White House during all hours of the day and night. I have to point out that the men and women serving in the Secret Service, the U.S. Park Police, and the D.C. Police are some of the most professional and dedicated civil servants I’ve met. Our nation’s capitol is in great hands.

  Enormous thanks go to Brittiany Koren for offering me the chance to bring Casey Calhoun to life. Brittiany, you’re a great friend, a hard-nosed editor, and one of the best cheerleaders in the business. A big thank-you goes to Michael Koren for his understanding and patience for all those times Brittiany locked herself away in her office in order to help me hash out all the details.

  Thanks also go to Marty Greenberg, Rosalind Greenberg, Larry Segriff, John Helfers, and Chuck Wiseman at Tekno Books for your support. I send my deepest gratitude to my editor, Natalee Rosenstein, at Berkley Prime Crime, for giving me the chance to tell Casey Calhoun’s story, to Michelle Vega for guiding me through the process, and to the talented staff at Berkley Prime Crime who have helped turn my manuscript into the novel you hold in your hands today.

  Last but not least, I’d like to thank the incredible authors in the Lowcountry Chapter of Romance Writers of America, Sisters in Crime, and M
ystery Writers of America, whose unflagging support has kept me pounding away at my keyboard: especially Nina Bruhns, Margie Lawson, C. J. Lyons, Mallary Mitchell, Tracy Anne Warren, and Joanna Wayne for patiently listening and giving advice as I worked out plot problems and tilted at windmills while writing this book. I couldn’t have done it without you!

  Chapter One

  CASEY, child, I swear some days ain’t good for nothing but spreading out on a lawn like fertilizer, Aunt Willow was known to sputter when everything but everything seemed to go wrong. And I don’t mean annoyances like when the car gets a flat tire, or the bank misplaces your deposit. No, she had to be really upset. It was the closest I’d ever heard my pearl-wearing, julep-sipping Southern belle relative come to swearing.

  She had thousands of odd sayings like that. So I had to wonder why that especially dire one kept worming its way through my head.

  Lately, everything in my life was coming up roses. Or perhaps I should say pink ruffled tulips, since I was apparently lying facedown in a bed of them.

  I carefully lifted my head. A blob of mud slid down the side of my nose and trailed across my cheek. A few inches away a shiny black ground beetle tipped its antenna in my direction. I watched as it traveled across the rim of a tulip bloom. Despite the dim morning light, I was able to take this all in without any trouble at all. But when I probed deeper, I couldn’t figure out why the devil I was napping in a bed of flowers.

  Slosh.

  I wasn’t in any obvious pain. Not yet, a frightened little voice in my head warned. I’d been here before, a long, long time ago. Not in a bed of flowers, but semiconscious and confused. And hurt.

  Ancient history, I reminded myself.

  But was it? Waking up in a flowerbed was by no means normal for anyone, right? And why couldn’t I remember anything about how I got here? While I knew I should have stayed put until I could thoroughly assess what kind of trouble I’d gotten myself into, I wasn’t in the mood to lie about waiting for anything else to happen to me. It took some effort to push up onto my wobbly hands and knees. Oh, what a mistake! Sitting up set off a firestorm of agony that radiated out from behind my eyes and shot down my neck.

  I groaned and cradled my sore head in my hands. When my fingers brushed my left temple, I felt something warm and sticky. It took several seconds to realize what I was touching.

  Blood. My blood. And under that film of hot, sticky blood a lump was forming. Not good. Not good at all. I had just enough wits to know that landing in a soft bed of flowers shouldn’t have done this kind of damage. Something else must have happened. Something bad.

  My hands shook as they skimmed the muddy soil in search of my backpack. It was half-submerged in a mud puddle a few feet away. A couple of years ago I’d started growing habaneras in my kitchen window. It’s amazing how potent a concoction one can make with a little extracted pepper oil. I always carried my own special blend of homemade pepper spray in my backpack.

  I pulled off my gardening gloves and dug around in the soggy bag. The bottle of pepper spray was at the bottom, the worst possible location if this had been an actual emergency. Not an emergency? If you’re thinking you’re out of danger, honey, you’re deluding yourself, chided my pesky inner voice, which sounded eerily like Aunt Willow this morning.

  I shook my head, sending the world spinning out of focus. Odd images tumbled through my mind. A silver briefcase. A man’s black-and-white leather shoe with a distinctive design . . . like a lightning bolt. Just one shoe, mind you, not a pair. A plain coffee mug. My yellow rain slicker, which I was still wearing. The White House. And the First Lady of the United States, or FLOTUS, as the press called her.

  Did I know the First Lady?

  Slosh.

  My knees sank into the cool wet earth as I sat back on my heels to take in my surroundings. I recognized the pale pink flowers hanging down from the saucer magnolias and the line of elm trees to the right of me. I’d personally assisted in planting the profusion of tulip and grape hyacinth bulbs I had—I cringed to notice—crushed.

  “It’s murder, you know,” I’d told someone just that morning as I’d slipped on my bright yellow slicker raincoat. What a time to remember that and very little else!

  As I sat there, staring at the soggy landscape around me, details from that morning slowly trickled back into my throbbing head. I remembered Gordon Sims’s windowless office. The cinder block walls plastered with landscape plans and schedules. The most recent addition was the cheerful pink and yellow sketch for the upcoming Easter Egg Roll. The oldest, a plan for the grounds drawn up by Frederick Law Olmsted, Jr., dated back to 1935. Gordon, the White House chief horticulturalist, hadn’t been around quite that long. But he had an uncanny ability to remember every single day of his nearly thirty years on the job with precise detail. I, on the other hand, had only three months’ experience as his assistant.

  The White House rose above the elm trees like a gleaming beacon of hope on the far side of Pennsylvania Avenue, and here I was slumped on the ground like an overwatered houseplant. One had to wonder how I’d managed to land such a prestigious position when I apparently didn’t have sense enough to keep away from situations that ended with me waking up in flowerbeds in the middle of Lafayette Square.

  Slosh. Slosh.

  Earlier that morning Gordon had been at his desk reviewing a stack of purchase orders while complaining about the sorry state of his 401(k).

  “It’s murder, you know,” I’d said as I breezed into the room.

  “That sounds awfully melodramatic, Casey,” he’d said, straightening his hunched shoulders. He swiveled his chair toward me and fingered his plain white coffee mug. His strong hands were timeworn, but his face looked boyish despite his fifty-five years. Only his silver hair gave his age away. “You’ve been reading those murder mysteries again,” he accused, waggling his coffee mug at me. But I’d made him smile.

  “Perhaps . . .” I narrowed my eyes and shifted my gaze back and forth across the room, trying out the mysterious look I’d been practicing in the mirror. I always had at least one crime novel tucked into my backpack, and I liked to imagine myself a modern-day, hipper, and much younger Miss Marple. Not that I’d ever had a chance to solve a real mystery.

  I leaned toward Gordon and lowered my voice to a whisper. “Perhaps a bit of melodrama is needed. Those spiny devils are strangling our ruffled tulips. I won’t be a minute.”

  “Won’t be a—” He half rose from his burnt orange desk chair, its ancient springs screeching. “Casey Calhoun, you can’t be seriously considering pulling weeds now.”

  “Have to.” I hurried into the room next to Gordon’s office and straight to the partitioned space that served as my work area. The windowless workspace was tucked away underneath the White House’s North Portico and North Lawn. The carpenter’s shop was just next door. The low whirr of a power saw vibrated through the thick wall.

  Down here, underneath the ground, was where the real work in the White House got done. We were the earthworms whose tireless efforts made it possible for the mighty oak to grow. I’d joined the ranks of the most dedicated bunch of workers I’d ever met. With a shared sense of pride, we all worked behind the scenes to keep the nation’s most famous household running seamlessly.

  My office area wasn’t as dreary as one might expect in a basement setting. Floor-to-ceiling windows in the hallway just outside the door opened up into a sunken courtyard that doubled as a delivery area. If I needed a dose of natural light, I would prop open the office door and let the sun shine in. That is, when I wasn’t in such a hurry.

  I kicked off the brand-new black pumps my roommate, Alyssa, had picked out for me, and I slipped on the pair of worn loafers I kept in a caddy beneath my desk. Alyssa had also picked out the dark gray Ann Taylor suit complete with pencil skirt I was wearing. Without her, I’d happily wear a comfortable old pair of khakis or jeans every day of my life. A fate worse than death to Alyssa’s way of thinking.

  “You’re seri
ous about this? You’re going to Lafayette Square? Now?” Gordon’s voice carried through the wall. I seemed to be the only one who could alarm him just as easily as I could make him laugh.

  “There are just a few of them in the flowerbed, but you know how quickly the mile-a-minute weed spreads. A mile a minute.” Naturally that was an exaggeration. But not by much. “I noticed them when I came in this morning. They weren’t there when I left yesterday. I’m sure of it.”

  Gordon stepped into my small partitioned office, crossed his arms over his chest, and watched as I scurried about, his silver eyebrows furrowed. “Send someone from the crew. Sal usually gets in early. And you know he’s got a soft spot for you. I doubt he’ll even grumble when you tell him to pull weeds in the dark and in the rain.”

  Granted, it was early. With the recent change to daylight saving time, sunrise was still a solid hour away. And it had been raining all night. The windows in the hallway outside my office looked as if they’d been shrouded with a heavy black cloth. Gordon was right. I shouldn’t be doing this. But I had to do something. Sitting at my desk waiting for the meeting to start was going to make me lose my mind.

  I pushed aside one of the large display boards I’d made for this morning’s presentation and grabbed my backpack. The display was ready. I was ready. There was really nothing left for me to do before the meeting. In three hours I would give my first presentation to the First Lady, which was the reason I’d been struck by this sudden manic need to make Lafayette Square perfect. When I got nervous, I gardened.

  “Just don’t show up with mud on your skirt,” Gordon called after me as I rushed down the passageway, past the chocolate shop shrouded in rich, dark cocoa scents, and into the basement hallway that led away from the workshops and offices buried beneath the North Portico of the White House. I hurried, not toward the main building, but to the double doors on my right that opened into the sunken courtyard and the North Lawn.