Flowerbed of State by Dorothy St. James Read Free Book Online

Some of my favorite cultivars can take years to mature to a point where they begin to produce fruits or flowers.
    As I sat in the conference room, describing the attack, the loss of my security badge, and what I’d remembered seeing—which unfortunately was turning out to be very little—I wondered whether Special Agent in Charge Mike Thatch had been a slow-growing oak in a past life. Every few minutes he’d interrupt my narrative to ask seemingly irrelevant questions that mainly focused on my impressions of the banking protestors gathered near the northwest gate. He certainly had no regard for my schedule.
    Dr. Stan had returned to his duties after his brief examination, making me promise I’d report to the medical center for a follow-up as soon as Thatch had finished questioning me. Ambrose had left with him.
    Gordon had remained, his nerves badly shaken. Worry and stress had deepened the lines on his pale, stricken face. He looked worse than I felt, and that was saying something. When Mike Thatch had directed me to the conference room, he’d stopped Gordon from following us inside.
    “I’ll wait for you out here,” Gordon had promised. “I still can’t believe someone tried to hurt you. This has never happened.”
    With one eye on the round metal clock above the conference room door, I watched as my meeting with the First Lady grew nearer and nearer.
    At eight thirty-eight, a little less than an hour before the Grounds Committee meeting was scheduled to start, Jack Turner slipped into the room.
    The assault rifle and sidearm were gone. His eyes weren’t quite as puffy. And his short hair looked damp, as if he’d showered. Without saying a word, he casually reached across the conference table and picked up a file folder with my name on the tab. He then dropped into a chair pushed up against the far wall. After listening for a few minutes, he started to flip through the contents of the folder.
    “You’d mentioned you saw a black-and-white leather shoe with a lightning bolt design on the side?” Thatch asked me.
    “Yes.” The shoe had an old-fashioned look, like it belonged in a vintage clothing store. The toe was wide and rounded and the soles beefy. On the black leather, the cobbler had used white stitching. And on the white leather, black stitching had been used.
    “And the man who attacked you, he was wearing this shoe?”
    I rubbed my temples as if trying to conjure a genie. “I think so. Maybe.” If I’d seen them on my attacker’s feet, why only remember one shoe and not a pair? “I don’t know. But I can tell you that the shoe had crushed three pink ruffled tulips.”
    Thatch didn’t jot that vital piece of information in his notebook. But he’d written pages about the banking protesters who, for all I knew, hadn’t molested a single tree or plant in Lafayette Square . . . much less have killed anyone.
    “Excuse me for a minute.” Thatch rose from the conference table and carried his notebook with him into the adjoining room. With a close eye on the clock, I drummed my fingers on the table.
    Gordon stepped through the door Thatch had left open. “Casey, you look pale,” he said. “You’re not going to pass out, are you?” he asked, which caused Turner to look up from his reading.
    “I feel fine,” I lied.
    “Perhaps I should call Dr. Stan and ask him to come back and take another look at you.” Gordon came into the conference room and crouched down beside me to stare at the large bandage on my head. “I’m worried about you. I think you should go to the hospital.”
    And miss the meeting with the First Lady? I didn’t think so. “Really, I’m fine. Give me a shovel and I’ll head over to the White House greenhouses to turn the compost pile by myself.”
    Turner raised a brow at that and then returned to reading whatever had so captured his interest in the file with my name on it.
    “Your health must come first, Casey,” Gordon said softly.
    Touched, I put my hand on his.