Part 2 (1/2)

Except for this school group and two elderly women up ahead of us who were examining the old stone lantern that was lit every year at the opening of the cherry blossom festival, I still hadn't seen anyone who looked remotely interested in Kevin and me.

”Where were you?”

”Walking through the cloisters on my way back to the residence. It was about nine o'clock at night,” he said. ”Same thing, I heard someone following me. This time one of the seminarians showed up, so I said, 'Come on, let's go after this guy.' Except he said, 'What guy?' And the next thing I knew, whoever was there took off running toward the lower garden.” He sounded disgusted. ”By the time I reached the top of the stairs, he'd vanished into the woods. I'm sure he left the grounds through the path by the outdoor Stations of the Cross. From there it's easy to disappear into the neighborhood on Quincy Street.”

”Kevin, you ought to tell someone about this. I mean, besides me.”

”Come on, Soph. What am I going to say? I have no witnesses.”

”What about the seminarian who was there? He must have heard something.”

”Nope. Paul said he didn't see or hear a thing. Same as the knight who checked out the crypt.” He sighed. ”Forget about it. Let's talk about your project.”

”Kevin-”

”The reason we're here freezing our b.u.t.ts off is that you wanted to talk to me about that book of cherry blossom photos you want to put together, right?”

”Yes, but-”

”So tell me.”

He was done talking about his stalker. ”It's a fund-raiser for the Adams Morgan Children's Center,” I said. ”I could use your help.”

”Cherry blossom photo books have been done already. A lot.”

”This wouldn't be lots of pictures of pink clouds of blossoms wreathing the monuments. I'm talking about photos of the trees like they are today when it's gray and miserable, or in the fall, or covered with snow. And not just the Tidal Basin, but the out-of-the-way places people don't usually think about, like Meridian Hill Park, Scott Circle, Stanton Park.” He shook his head. ”Come on, Kevin, I think it's a good idea. But I need your help identifying all the different varieties of cherry trees and which ones are planted where.”

He pulled down a branch filled with cl.u.s.ters of tightly furled buds from over our heads. ”These are Yos.h.i.+nos, the most common cherry tree in D.C., prunus x yedoensis. It's a hybrid. They're the trees with the light pink flowers, very fragrant. When they're in bloom they look like your pink clouds.” He released the branch. ”Choose another subject, Soph.”

A pair of ducks landed in the Tidal Basin and swam under the protection of a low-hanging branch in front of us.

”Such as?”

”Photograph Was.h.i.+ngton's unknown-or little-known-gardens. I can show you where they are and introduce you to the people who care for them. Everyone thinks they know D.C., but there are loads of beautiful gardens in this town that have either been forgotten or people look at them every day but don't see them anymore. Photograph the places that are hiding in plain sight, so to speak.”

I was surprised by the pa.s.sion in his voice, but maybe he was right: Find the gardens that had become invisible for one reason or another in this city of gardens and show people what was right under their noses.

He reached inside his habit and pulled out a white business envelope as another gust of wind tugged at his long robe. ”I brought this for you. It's an article I wrote a few years ago on some of the gardens I think you might want to look at.”

”Thank you.” I opened the envelope and scanned his list. ”It's a good idea, Kevin. Maybe I could talk you into collaborating, since you already know so much about these gardens?”

”I'll be glad to help, but if you want to sell books for charity, leave my name out of it. I have a reputation for riling people up.”

I slipped the article into my camera bag. ”I'll take my chances.”

”Come on,” he said. ”Those ladies have finished examining the stone lantern. Let's walk over there. I'd like to look at the old markings. You know it once belonged to a shogun, don't you? It's one of a pair.”

”No, I didn't know.” I linked my arm through his as we started up the hill. ”Do you think whoever is following you might be someone you've riled up? A person who doesn't like your views on climate change or the environment?”

He hesitated a moment too long before he said, ”No. I don't think so.”

I knew then that he hadn't told me everything about his stalker. ”You have an idea who it is, don't you?”

”That's not true. I don't know who it is.”

He wasn't going to make this easy. ”All right, you don't know who, but you do know why someone's following you.” When he didn't reply, I said, ”What's going on, Kevin?”

We reached the old lantern. ”I don't want to get you in the middle of anything.”

”Nice try. We've known each other too long.”

A muscle flexed in his jaw as he traced the worn outline of a crescent moon on the old stone with his finger. I waited. Logic dictated that he would tell one of his brother friars, men he should trust implicitly to keep secrets. Instead I had a feeling he was going to unburden himself to me.

Finally he said, ”Back in February when I was in London to speak at a conference at Kew Gardens, I came across something quite by accident. When I got home I did some more investigating. If I found what I think it is, this whole thing could be pretty big.”

”What thing? And define pretty big.”

”Potentially millions of dollars, maybe a lot more. It's complicated. I can't tell you anything else until I'm sure I'm right. There's one more piece of the puzzle I still need to put together.”

The Franciscans were a mendicant order and took vows of chast.i.ty, poverty, and obedience symbolized by the three knots on Kevin's cincture. They lived a simple life with few possessions. Kevin had given all of his royalties and any money he earned from the publication of his book to the Franciscans, supporting their mission in the Holy Land and helping charities that worked for the poor and the disabled.

Whatever Kevin had discovered, the money would go to those same causes, not his own personal wealth.

”Good G.o.d, what is it?”

”I've said enough. Like I told you, it's a huge long shot. I'm not sure I'm right.”

”Of course you are. Otherwise why would someone be stalking you?”

He gave me a long, steady look. ”No one knows better than you, Sophie, because you're married to a guy who used to be a covert CIA officer, that a person can't talk about what he doesn't know. So can we just leave it at that?”

Nick Canning, my husband, had been with the CIA for years until his cover was blown last fall. The story had been in the press everywhere, and that ended his clandestine career. Kevin was right. You don't have to lie when you don't know the truth.

”At the party last night, Thea Stavros said she heard rumors about a project you were working on,” I said. ”Do you think she knows?”

He traced more markings on the lantern before he answered, and he seemed uneasy. ”I've had to ask a few people for some information, including Thea, but I'm sure she doesn't know or hasn't figured anything out. The project she was talking about last night was the history book on colonial gardening.”

”Does your missing puzzle piece have something to do with that book?”

He pressed his lips together and shook his head. ”I've said enough.”

”That sounds like a yes. Come on, Kevin, you trusted me enough to tell me someone's been following you.”

A long look pa.s.sed between us, and I knew he needed to tell someone.

”All right,” he said at last, ”but you can't say a word to anyone. I'm serious.”