plans for the Capitol—though only the grotto had been mentioned, not the summerhouse. It meant, at least, that Rebecca must also have known about it. Could this be what Ian and I had been looking for? Each alley has a brother, grove nods at grove—the House and the Senate were mirrors of each other. But what about the fountain never to be played?
After a few more minutes of research I found it. Olmsted planned for a small water-powered carillon to be set in the middle of the rock garden and produce what he’d called “musical murmurings.” Unfortunately, the only one that was built—made by Tiffany & Co.—never worked, so it was removed and sent to a government warehouse and no one had seen it since. Not a fountain, but close enough.
This had to be the place. I studied the photo, growing more excited. Sheltered from the weather and small enough so it shouldn’t be too difficult to locate whatever Rebecca had left—even something as small as a portable external drive. Maybe she’d hidden it under one of the twenty-two chairs. Who would have guessed?
I got my phone from the foyer and scrolled through the recent calls until I found David’s number from last night. It went straight to voice mail. His office number. He wouldn’t be there on Sunday afternoon, especially after working so late yesterday. I left a message. Too bad I didn’t have his cell number. Kit knew it and she could reach him. But she didn’t answer her phone, either. I tried every number I had for her—D.C. apartment, cell, office—and left messages on all of them.
It would take me at least an hour to get to Washington. By then one or both of them would have checked their voice mail and called back. I shut down the laptop and got my jacket and car keys.
The trip to Washington took only forty-five minutes since I pushed the speed limit as fast as I dared. But I was excited, apprehensive, and dead certain I’d solved the mystery behind Rebecca’s two-hundred-year-old clue woven through the poetry of Alexander Pope.
Chapter 27
I kept an eye on my rearview mirror as I sped into Washington, but I didn’t see anyone following me. The skies grew increasingly darker as I drove east. By the time I crossed the Teddy Roosevelt Bridge, a fine mist of rain coated my windshield. It turned to spit as I continued up Constitution Avenue and soon would become a steady downpour, probably before I reached the Capitol. The weather seemed to have chased away all but the most determined tourists, and they’d come prepared with umbrellas. I reached behind me and felt along the backseat of the car. No umbrella, and my jacket didn’t have a hood.
At least it wasn’t hailing, which hurt, or a thunderstorm, which was dangerous. And there was one bonus with the awful weather: I was practically guaranteed to have the summerhouse to myself.
I spent twenty minutes circling Madison and Jefferson drives by the museums, searching for a parking place. A Volvo sedan pulled away from the corner of Maryland Avenue and Third Street next to the Botanic Gardens as I turned onto Third. I slipped into the spot and sat in the car calling Kit and David one more time as the rain drummed on my roof. Already it was quarter to three and we were supposed to meet at Dumbarton Oaks across town at five. I tried Kit first. Still no answer.
David picked up right away. “Where are you?”
“The Botanic Gardens,” I said.
“What’s at the Botanic Gardens?”
“Nothing. Well, plants and flowers are there. Did you know there’s a summerhouse at the Capitol?” I rubbed condensation off my car window with the side of my fist. To my left, the stepped sand-colored dome of the American Indian museum had darkened in the rain giving the building an unusual two-toned look.
He said nothing, so I went on.
“I saw a reference to it last night at the Library of Congress when I was looking at some drawings by Frederick Law Olmsted that were part of the Asher Collection. They only referred to a grotto, but I did some research on the Internet. There’s a summerhouse on the site as well. It has a working fountain, but the water carillon Olmsted intended to put there wouldn’t work so it was never played. Everything else in that passage of Pope’s poem fits. The House and the Senate—two halves reflecting each other.”
The silence continued on his end.
“Hey,” I said after a moment, “are you still there?”
I checked the display. Call lost. Where was he and when had I lost him? How much had he heard? I hit Redial, but he was still out of range because his phone switched over to voice mail.
“Call me,” I said.
By now the rain was coming down steadily, the kind of rain my mother used to call “a nice rain” as in something that would soak the ground and be good for her gardens and flowers. I could either wait for David or check out the summerhouse by myself before it turned into a downpour. I didn’t even know where he was or how long it would take him to get to me. For all I knew he hadn’t heard a word I said after mentioning the Botanic Gardens and assumed I was still going to meet him and Kit in Georgetown. I got out of the car and headed for the Capitol. The only people I saw were a young couple pushing a baby in a plastic-encased stroller toward the entrance to the Botanic Gardens. Otherwise the streets were empty. Across Maryland Avenue gulls flew over the slate-colored Capitol Reflecting Pool, landing in a bedraggled lineup on the ledge by the sidewalk. A few sailed across to the equestrian statue of Ulysses S. Grant and settled there.
The summerhouse—wherever it was—had to be well tucked away on the west lawn of the Capitol because I could see nothing as I approached the grounds. There were two paths—a red-and-gray harlequin-patterned walk that led directly to the west steps of the Capitol, and a curved walkway lined with blooming magnolias and flowering cherry trees closer to the House of Representatives. Both ended at the west steps. I took the flower-lined walk for the brief shelter from the rain provided by the trees arching overhead like a canopy. Soggy clumps of petals lay crushed underneath my feet, covering the ground like pink snow. In the middle of a lawn the color of AstroTurf, a bed of red, pink, and yellow tulips gleamed brilliantly against the sharp green. To the west, more patches of green bordered by the somber-looking buildings of the Smithsonian museums along the Mall. In the distance, the top of the Washington Monument was shrouded in clouds.
I passed one of the two marble staircases that led to the west plaza of the Capitol. Temporary fences blocked it off and security guards watched me from above. I hated how so many public buildings in Washington like the Capitol and the White House had become fortresses, with their concrete barricades, rows of stanchions, and steel plates rising out of the ground like drawbridges being pulled in. That it had become inevitable was a fact of life, but it was still ugly as sin.
Between the staircases, a terraced semicircular garden with a border of yellow, rust, and dark red pansies and miniature trees set in alcoves surrounded a fountain that splashed water over its rim as the rain beat down harder, now an unrelenting downpour. I pushed my wet hair off my face and wiped my eyes. The guards probably wondered what some nut was doing out in the middle of this. Across the street, the Roosevelt Carillon chimed three o’clock.
I passed an ancient willow oak that shaded the curved walkway, the twin of the path I’d taken on the House side, and that’s when I finally saw the summerhouse. Set low into the hillside and surrounded by shrubs and trees, it was built not to intrude on the grand view of the Capitol, which explained why the now mature landscaping nearly completely hid the little building. Clumps of daffodils bloomed in the surrounding rock gardens where barberry, gold dust,
Inside—or, rather, outside—the summerhouse was the kind of place Rebecca would find enchanting, with its burbling fountain, decorative brickwork, and stone chairs protected from the elements by shelflike orange tile roofs. I threw myself into one of the seats and tucked my legs under me, glad for a temporary shelter from the rain.
If the reason Olmsted wasn’t permitted to build a twin building on the House side was due to congressional concern about “improprieties” in this isolated place, I could see why. That, too, would appeal to Rebecca—an exotic and slightly risky place to meet and engage in just such improprieties with a lover. Say, someone like former senator Harlan Jennings.
Her package, whatever it was, was here somewhere. It had to be. Originally I thought she might have hidden
