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

had something worth stealing.
    “What did he use to choke you?” Turner wondered aloud. “If he’d used piano wire or something like that, your neck would have been sliced open.”
    I pressed my hand to my throat. “What a gruesome thought.”
    “It’s the truth.” Turner got up and crossed the room to me. “It’s the lanyard she wore around her neck that held her security badge.”
    “What about it?” Thatch asked.
    “That’s what he used to choke her. It was the closest thing on hand.”
    “But he didn’t have to take her security card,” Thatch pointed out.
    “True,” Turner agreed, but frowned. “I don’t think our killer is a professional, and I don’t think he set out to steal a White House security card.”
    “That may be true, but we have to prepare for the worst. We have to operate under the assumption that there’s been a security breach.”
    “But no one can use my badge to get into the White House, right?” I asked.
    “No. We’ve already canceled all of your security credentials and have issued you a temporary card. It should be ready by now,” Thatch said and hurried out of the room again.
    When he returned, he handed me a bright red temporary security pass and turned me loose.
    It was too late to worry about trying to do anything with my ruined outfit. But perhaps if I ran back to my office, I could grab my presentation boards and only be a few minutes late to the meeting. Like a bird set free from a cage, I dashed out the door and up the stairs.
    I made it as far as the glass double doors leading to the West Wing Colonnade, the most direct route back to my office, when I hit a roadblock in the shape of a hawk-nosed bureaucrat.
    “Ms. Calhoun!” Wilson Fisher, Ambrose’s assistant usher, hurried down the covered colonnade toward me, his beady eyes bright with glee. His thin body swayed back and forth, and a stack of papers about as thick as War and Peace flapped in his arms with every quick step.
    I’d bet dollars to daisies he’d compiled a hefty helping of forms for me to fill out. Wilson’s favorite pastime was to bury me under his endless supply of paperwork that could never, ever wait. I’d never make it to my meeting if he caught hold of me.
    “Ms. Calhoun!” He waved the forms in front of him. His shoes tapped a rapid tempo against the colonnade’s stone tiles. “I urgently need to speak with you!”

Chapter Four

    “ P RETEND you didn’t see me,” I told Turner, who was coming up the stairs behind me.
    “Why? What’s going on?”
    “That.” I hooked my thumb toward the colonnade beyond the double doors and the flapping paperwork dervish closing in on us. With the quiet stealth I’d picked up from reading a healthy heap of Miss Marple mysteries and the like, I turned on my heel and took off down the hall in the opposite direction.
    With each step, my determination grew stronger. Yes, the meeting was scheduled to begin in less than ten minutes. And yes, my feet were taking me farther away from the First Lady’s office, which was located upstairs in the East Wing. But if taking the longer route meant avoiding Wilson Fisher, then that’s what I had to do.
    I’d only briefly visited the First Lady’s office once, but I could clearly picture its cheery canary yellow walls, the delicate Chippendale sofa with flowered upholstery that graced the far wall, and the half-dozen comfortable chairs to accommodate long meetings. Margaret Bradley, the President’s soft-spoken wife, was well known for her love of the outdoors and gardening. I’d heard she never closed the blinds on the windows in her corner office that overlooked the intimate Jacqueline Kennedy Garden. If the sun came in too brightly during a meeting, she’d simply move the chairs around.
    Gordon and I had taken all of this information, including the angle of the sun, into consideration when planning for this morning’s presentation. Although I knew I’d found a kindred spirit with the First Lady, a