Eggsecutive Orders

CHAPTER 12

OF COURSE THE PAGE TOOK FOREVER TO LOAD. Of course. Sometimes my connection was blazingly fast, and times like this-when I really wanted information quickly-the computer became uncooperative and petulant, like I was still on dial-up.

While I waited for the Liss commentary to blink back into existence, I chanced a look at my mom. “Just tell me you didn’t mention me by name.”

She opened her mouth but no words came out.

Just as the website popped up to tell me that it was temporarily unavailable, my cell phone rang.

“Aargh!” I took a look at the display. Tom.

“Did you try to call me?” he asked when I picked up.

“I started to, but then Ruth Minkus called.”

“She called you? Why? Did she start accusing you again?”

“No,” I said wearily. I didn’t feel like explaining. Over the past few days all I’d done was explain. What I wanted-what I needed-right now was to be back in the White House kitchen, working on the Egg Roll. We were already three days behind schedule. “She called to apologize,” I said. “Long story.”

He waited a beat. “So, what’s up?”

Was it my imagination, or was there a lilt of impatience in his tone? “The White House Egg Roll,” I began.

“We’ve been over that.”

“No,” I said carefully. “You said you expected they would cancel it. But they can’t.”

“They ‘can’t’?”

“You know what I mean.” I grimaced at the pleading tone in my voice. “I think it’s a mistake to cancel the Egg Roll.”

“Oh you do?”

“Yes I do,” I said, getting my back up. “Who can I talk to about it?”

“I’ll look into it for you.”

“No, Tom,” I said, regaining a little composure. “You’re responsible for my actions, remember?” Without waiting for him to answer, I pressed on. “That means that you have a conflict of interest. You believe keeping me out of the kitchen will keep me out of trouble. Or,” I added, with a smidge of sarcasm, “your perception of trouble. I think it makes more sense for me to talk with someone else about this. Do you have Craig’s cell phone number handy?”

“You would go over my head?”

I wouldn’t really, but I was desperate and I didn’t want him to call my bluff. Even though we occasionally got angry with one another, we knew our limits. Calling Craig would push things and I truly didn’t want to cause irreparable damage to our relationship. Even if this was turning into my career versus his career. “Maybe Craig isn’t my best option. How about if I talk with Paul Vasquez?”

Seconds ticked by without my being able to read his mood. Why were so many of our conversations so antagonistic lately?

“That might be a good idea,” he finally answered and I sensed conciliation in his words. “I do understand how important this is for you.”

“I know you do, and I also know you’re in a tough position.”

We were both silent for a long moment.

“I’m probably less likely to get into trouble if I’m at work,” I said.

He made a noise that might have been a laugh. “You may be right.” Shifting gears, he asked, “Anything else new?”

I debated telling him about Bucky having the Minkus file on his home computer, but decided to hold that back for now. No need to get Bucky into trouble unnecessarily. “I’m planning to go over every step of dinner preparations. I’ll make notes of anything that might be helpful to you.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“Thanks for helping out with Suzie and Steve earlier. They’re having me over for dinner tonight to thank me for getting the news hounds off their front lawn.”

“Nice. I do all the work, you get the reward.”

“Want to come with?”

“Some other time.” He made a sound-like he was sucking his bottom lip. “Until this investigation is complete, it’s a good idea if you and I aren’t seen out together.”

That stung, too. Even more than the Internet postings had. “I guess you’re right.”

“Try not to talk about the case with your SizzleMaster friends, okay?”

“Pretty hard to do after reporters showed up on their front lawn.”

He was silent again. “Just try to keep a low profile.”

“I did just think of something.”

“Uh-oh.”

“I know we’re under suspicion, and so are Suzie and Steve. But what about the other guests at dinner that night? I mean, Carl Minkus’s second-in-command sure stands to gain now that his boss is dead. And what about Alicia Parker? Or her husband? They were there, too.”

Tom’s long, deep breath wasn’t quite as annoyed-sounding as I’d expected it to be. “First off, people don’t just go killing one another to get job promotions. At least not usually. Sure, you’ll be able to quote some news story where that happened, but in the real world, most people just don’t operate that way.”

“What about-”

“Alicia Parker?” He laughed. “She’s too big for even you to touch, Ollie. Alicia Parker is a cabinet member. I’m sure there are people looking into her background, but this is one hot wire you don’t want to even get near. Trust me.”

He was right about that. I’d only met Secretary Parker in passing once or twice, although I’d seen her interviewed on TV fairly often. She came across as strong-minded, honest, and brave. “Yeah,” I agreed. “And anyway, she strikes me as the type who-if she wanted you dead-would just come straight up and shoot you. I don’t see her sneaking poison into an eggplant entrée.”

“Keep in mind, Ollie,” Tom said, and the warning was back in his tone, “Minkus might have died of natural causes.”

“Natural causes could also mean a food allergy,” I said. “And if the medical examiner proves that, then I’m out of a job for sure.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, the gentleness in his tone catching me off-guard. “With this new directive from Craig, I haven’t been very supportive recently, have I?”

“You have,” I said, remembering that he picked up my family from the airport and stood by me while I was being interrogated. “I shouldn’t be so difficult. You’re under a lot of pressure.”

“I am. And I hope you can understand that.”

“I do,” I said. And I did. Mostly.

My mom cornered me when I got off the phone to let me know that Mrs. Wentworth and Stanley had invited us out to dinner. I declined because of my meeting with Bucky and dinner plans with Suzie and Steve. Mom and Nana had, however, jumped at the chance to see more of the area, and I was glad. Knowing they were in good hands with my neighbors allowed me to feel a little less guilty leaving them.

I called Paul on the way. Although I was lucky enough to get to speak with him directly, he was running late for a meeting. When I pressed him about letting us back into the kitchen, he hedged. But that was better than saying no. Plus, they hadn’t yet canceled the Egg Roll. I took that as a positive even as I got him to promise to get back to me. But when I hung up, I realized he hadn’t said by when.

Bucky’s Bethesda home surprised me. I’d never been inside, and except for the recent trip in the limousine when the Guzy brothers dropped him off, I’d never even known exactly where he lived. This was a cheerful little neighborhood, with lots of shiny cars outside tidy front lawns. Parallel parking on residential streets was never difficult for a native Chicagoan, and I tucked my little coupe into a tight spot between two SUVs.

Although this was an old neighborhood, every town house on this street and the next sparkled like new. I’d heard that this section had undergone major renovations in the past decade. I could see the allure of living here. The trees were mature, the homes well-tended.

Bucky met me at the door, wearing a wide cotton apron tied over pale legs. It gave him the appearance of not wearing any pants, and I breathed a sigh of relief when he turned around to gesture me in and I saw his blue cutoff shorts. “It’s warm in here, sorry,” he said. “I’m working on a new quiche. Just drop your jacket anywhere.”

Sniffing the savory air, I shut the front door and followed him through the pristine living room toward the kitchen. My stomach growled as I picked up the scent of baking cheese. “How long have you lived here?” I asked.

“Eleven-no, twelve years,” he said, raising his voice so I could hear him. Whatever he was concocting in the kitchen must have needed his immediate attention, because I heard him clanking things in and out of the oven, even as I peeled off my jacket and draped it over the back of a purple couch. I ran my hand along its back pillow. Suede. Not at all what I would have imagined in Bucky’s home. “You should have seen this place back then.” He peeked his head around the corner. “Took a lot of work to get it to where it is now.”

“It’s gorgeous.” I wanted to ask if he lived alone, but I held my tongue. Bucky and I had never been friends in the sense that we discussed personal lives, and my being here suddenly seemed like an intrusion.

The living room was painted ecru, with matching crown molding and bare maple floors that shone, but didn’t squeak. Lights were on everywhere and I stopped on my way to the kitchen to admire some black-and-white photographs on the dining room wall. The shots had an Ansel Adams look to them, but the photographer’s name was listed as “B. Fields.”

“Did you do all the remodeling yourself?”

“With the hours we work at the White House? Are you kidding?” Back out of sight again, his voice was muffled. “I did do a lot, though. It’s invigorating.”

I joined him in the kitchen. What must have once been a tiny galley kitchen had been updated and expanded into a huge space that made me salivate. With gleaming pots hanging over a center island, not one, but two built-in stovetops, and two double ovens, this was the sort of kitchen I hoped to have in my own home some day. While my apartment’s small space was serviceable for my personal needs, I knew that if I ever settled down somewhere permanent, my kitchen would look just like this.

“Wow,” I said. “This is amazing.”

“We like it.”

Time to bite the bullet. “We?” I asked. “I didn’t know you were married. Are you?”

He gave a small smile. “Not yet.”

“Kids?”

This time he fixed me with a glare, though not an unfriendly one. “Do I really seem like the type who would have kids?”

“Whatever you’re making smells wonderful,” I said to change the subject.

“Good. I know we’re not going back to the White House anytime soon, and I don’t want to get rusty.”

“Bucky,” I said sincerely, “I doubt that could ever happen.”

He wiped his hands on a towel and removed his apron. “There. Everything’s good for now.” He set a timer. “Let’s go into the living room and take a look at that dossier.”

By the time the little clock dinged, we’d come up with almost nothing, dietary-wise, that we couldn’t have recited from memory.

Bucky pulled out a gently browned spinach quiche.

“Looks great,” I said, coming close to breathe in the aroma. “Smells wonderful, too.”

“Want some?” he asked.

“I’d love to, but I have dinner plans.”

His reaction was small: a slight drop of his shoulders, the quick twist of his mouth.

“But boy, it really does smell good,” I amended. “Maybe just a small piece?”

“Sure,” he said without reacting. But when he sliced a generous portion onto a piece of black and gold rimmed china and placed it in front of me, his eyes were bright with anticipation. “Let me know what you think.”

“Fancy plate,” I said.

“Why save the good stuff for special occasions?”

I forked a piece of the pie-shaped slice and pronounced it heavenly. If I hadn’t had plans to meet with Suzie and Steve in the next hour, I would have asked for seconds-even after this generous first serving. The quiche was so good, in fact, it was all I could do not to request a sample to take home to share with Mom and Nana. “You’ll have to give me this recipe,” I said.

“Already on our books.” He smiled, and it dawned on me what an unusual sight that was. “I plan to include it…” Stopping himself, the smile faded. “I should say, I planned to include it in the next set of samplings for Mrs. Campbell to taste.”

I patted his hand. He flinched but didn’t pull away.

“Well, that’s just another reason why we need to work hard at getting back into the kitchen. I don’t see anything in Minkus’s dietary profile that could have had such disastrous consequences, do you?”

Bucky had started to clean up the area and I marveled, again, at how pristine the place was. At the White House, when we were in the midst of preparing a state dinner, or other big event, the kitchen got a little cluttered. Although we had help and we cleaned up as we worked-there really was no way around that-at home I was not quite so fastidious. Bucky, however, was.

“You know,” I said, “we read over the rest of his dossier but we really didn’t digest it.”

He half turned. “What do you mean?”

“Here, for instance.” I pointed. “Minkus was appointed to his position during the prior administration. He worked hard to make a name for himself as a terrorist fighter. But he also held a position as a counterintelligence liaison to China.”

“So?”

“So isn’t that a little weird? Kind of a strange combination, I think.”

Bucky didn’t seem as interested in my musings as he was in putting his quiche away. “Who appointed him to the liaison position?” he asked.

“Don’t know. Obviously there’s a lot in his file we wouldn’t have access to. They only provided us this top-line information. Stuff that anyone could probably find in an Internet search, if they knew what they were looking for.”

“Hmph,” Bucky said, bustling around the kitchen as I pored through the file.

I mused aloud. “And what about Phil Cooper?”

“That’s the guy who reported to Minkus, right? Another security official.”

I pointed again, but Bucky just worked around me. “Exactly. Cooper worked for Minkus for about two years. It doesn’t say much here about him, except to mention that he’s part of Minkus’s staff.”

“You’re not thinking Cooper killed Minkus just to get his job?” Bucky scowled. “People don’t usually do that. At least not in the real world.”

Almost word for word, Bucky had just echoed Tom’s sentiment.

“What about China?” I asked. “Didn’t they just have that double-assassination in Beijing? The one that’s been in all the headlines.”

Stopping mid-stride on the way to his stainless steel double refrigerator, Bucky cocked his head. “Yeah. Wasn’t that the day after Minkus died?”

“Do you think it’s related?”

“Like… some Chinese official sneaked poison into Minkus’s food? Yeah. Sure.”

“Think about it. According to rumors, the Chinese had insider spies in the United States. Maybe Minkus discovered who that spy was who was selling our secrets. Maybe a Chinese operative got to Minkus before dinner.”

“An operative.” Bucky snorted. “You sound so official. Like a character in a movie, figuring out a global conspiracy.”

Put like that, it sounded ridiculous. I felt stupid for seeing patterns where there were none. For suspecting people like Phil Cooper when I had no reason to do so. I closed the file and placed both hands on top of it. “You’re right,” I finally said.

Wiping his hands after putting the food away, Bucky shrugged. “If someone did get to Minkus before dinner, then I guess we just have to be patient. Let the medical examiner figure out what killed him. God, I hope that’s it. I’m not saying I’m glad he’s dead, you understand. But now I care less about that, than about how it happened. I just hope they find out what-or who-killed him. Until then, no matter what we say or do, we’ll always be known as the killer kitchen.”

Oh God, I thought. The killer kitchen.

Sufficiently full from my healthy helping of quiche, I nonetheless headed to the studio where Suzie and Steve filmed their SizzleMasters television shows. I hoped for two things: that whatever they served would be light, and that the newshounds who had been staking out their home had given up. After my day of interruptions, the last thing I needed was to deal with the media.

The directions they’d provided were perfect and I pulled up to the studio five minutes early. From the outside it looked like a typical industrial building, but once inside, I felt as though I’d just stepped into someone’s home.

“Ollie, thank goodness,” Suzie said, giving me a quick hug hello. Hugging her was like being enveloped by a favorite aunt, all soft and smooshy, and smelling like White Linen cologne.

“How are you doing?” I asked. “Were you able to lose the reporters?”

Suzie was the type who didn’t understand the principle of “personal space.” She held my hand as we meandered through a waiting area that felt more like a cozy living room: two softly glowing lamps, red walls, jewel-toned accents. “Thank you so much for helping us out,” she said, her face close to mine. “I thought Steve was going to lose it.”

“Lose what?” he boomed from behind a thick wall. The side door was open to the filming portion of the studio and I stepped in and then up onto the raised portion, blinking into the high illumination.

This room was peculiarly lit. While the stage area was hyper-bright, the audience section was dark. I could make out rows of seats, rising toward the back of the studio, guaranteeing everyone a good view. From the looks of it, there were six rows in two sections. Maybe a dozen seats per row. Things sure looked bigger on TV.

“We’re keeping the lights off in the outer portion so that no one knows we’re here,” Suzie said as though I’d asked the question. She squeezed my hand. “I’m so glad you were able to come.”

Her voice held a strange quality. Not relief. Not a shared understanding of what we were all going through.

“Is there something else going on I should know about?” I asked

They exchanged a look. Suzie let go of my hand. “Like what?”

I gave an exaggerated shrug. “Nothing. Anything. I’m just trying to make sure you haven’t been bothered any more.”

“No,” Suzie said, leaving my side to tend to a pot on the stove. She kept her back to me. “Everything has been really quiet since we got here.”

“So your filming went well?”

“Very,” Suzie said.

Steve nodded. He stood in front of the central countertop, which faced the cameras. A large overhead camera pointed down, the better to show the folks at home precisely how items should be prepared. Before him was a heaping mound of grilled vegetables-peppers, onions, zucchini, mushrooms. I wondered how many people they were planning to serve.

The two of them worked at their stations with their backs to one another. Very straight, very tense backs. The pressure in the room was so thick I could swim in it.

“So why here?” I asked.

Steve lifted his head, but his eyes didn’t focus. “Hmm?”

“Here? You mean at the studio?” Suzie spoke over her shoulder. “Oh, we just thought you’d like to see it.”

“Come on, guys,” I said to their backs. “Something doesn’t smell right and I can tell you it isn’t the grilled portabella.”

Suzie said, “How about we eat first, discuss business later?”

“Business?”

“Suze,” Steve said, finally turning to face her. “There is no business to discuss. Remember?”

Now my curiosity was piqued.

Suzie turned. Her smile showed too much teeth. “I thought we decided-”

“Yes.” His smile was an almost perfect mimic of hers. “We decided to have a nice dinner and then give Ollie a copy of the DVD.”

Surprised, I asked, “You have a copy?”

“Of course,” Steve said. “We’re co-producers.”

As if that explained it to non-TV-savvy me. But that didn’t matter. “Where is it? Can I see it?”

He flung a derisive look over his shoulder and said, in a too-casual voice, “Sure. That’s the whole reason we wanted to have you for dinner tonight. But let’s eat first.”

We made our way to the table. “I’m very glad to hear about the DVD.” I carried a basket of fresh-baked sesame rolls, which warmed my hands. “I had asked our chief usher about getting a copy, but he didn’t know if we could.”

They exchanged another look.

The dining area was beyond a half wall-sliced vertically-that made it seem as though we were in an entirely separate room. Open to the cameras yet again, this part of the stage was decorated with homespun accessories, giving the area the feel of a middle-class American home.

Suzie gave me a funny look as she gestured me into a chair. “Why do they want a copy of the DVD?”

Steve speared a perfectly grilled ribeye and placed it on my plate. “Medium-rare okay with you?”

“Perfect.” I turned to Suzie. “I was hoping to use the DVD to prove that nobody in the kitchen could have added anything to Minkus’s plate before it went out. Your crew was still filming right up to the end, remember?”

She nodded, but stared down at her own steak. She looked ready to cry.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

She shook her head. “I should have served the soup first.”

“I make the finest grilled vegetables in North America,” Steve said, leaning over to spoon a helping onto my plate. “Say when.”

But I was looking at Suzie. Her downcast expression was not soup-related. Of that I was certain.

I reached over to touch her hand. “Suze?”

Vaguely aware of a steamy scent wafting upward, I heard Steve say, “Should I keep going?”

I glanced at my plate, alarmed at the pile of vegetables he’d mounded there. “When-when!” I said, jerking my hands up. The quiche in my stomach shifted. “I’ll never be able to eat all that.”

“Sure you will,” Steve said with over-the-top ebullience. “I’m telling you, you’ve never tasted better.”

I twisted my head from side to side, to keep an eye on both of them. “What’s really going on here?”

Suzie sniffed.

Steve sat. “Eat,” he said. It was more an order than invitation.

I tried to manage my impatience by slicing off a small piece of ribeye. Steve had, in fact, grilled it to medium-rare perfection. Popping it in my mouth, I savored its tenderness. “This is wonderful.”

“Don’t forget your veggies.”

I couldn’t possibly forget-not with him constantly reminding me. I speared a green pepper. The vegetable’s skin, shiny with marinade, was cross-sected with grill lines and topped with an ingredient I assumed was chopped garlic. Waves of heat tickled my lips as I took my first bite.

I froze, mid-chew.

It was all I could do to keep from violently spitting the pepper out onto my plate. It tasted like nail polish remover. Or at least what I imagined nail polish remover might taste like. My eyes widened-I didn’t have any idea how to remove this vile thing from my mouth with Steve watching me. Waiting for me to proclaim his creation fabulous.

“Mmm,” I said, grabbing desperately for the napkin on my lap. Damn. Cloth. I needed paper.

“What do you think, Ollie?” Steve asked, his eyes glittering. “Bet you’ve never tasted anything like it.”

I stood.

All of a sudden, it hit me. What if Suzie and Steve had poisoned Minkus? Were they now trying to get rid of me? I raced out of the stage area, ducking into the washroom, where I yanked the wastebasket to my face and spit the offensive vegetable out.

Was my light-headedness was because I’d jumped up so quickly-or was I about to die just as Minkus had? I gripped the countertop and looked into the mirror. The lights were still off, so I couldn’t see much. My lips tingled. My tongue was numb.

Just like Minkus.

I had to get out of here.

“Ollie, what’s wrong?” Suzie asked, following me into the room. Blocking my exit.

Suzie’s careworn face had paled. Steve stood behind her, looking grim. Why? Because their plan had failed?

“Sick,” I said, my tongue sluggish and swollen. “I better go.”

Steve shook his head. “I’ll drive you home.”

“No!” I shouted. “My car is here. I’ll be okay.”

Now it was Suzie shaking her head. “I won’t feel comfortable with you driving alone. Is there someone we can call? Maybe I’ll drive with you and Steve can follow us.”

She reached over and felt my forehead. “You’re clammy.”

No kidding.

“Come on,” she said, taking my arm. “Let’s sit for a few minutes.”

I tugged away. “Gotta go.”

“But what about the DVD?” Suzie asked. “You really wanted to see it.”

Not at the expense of my life, I thought.

She pressed. “Come on back to the table. I’ll get the DVD and then we’ll figure out how to get you home safely.”

Working my way to the door, I tried to still the thudding of my heart. Was its extra-speedy beat from that single bite of green pepper? Was I about to go into cardiac arrest?

Ready to run, I looked at Suzie and Steve. Really looked at them. These two had been my friends for several years. Why was I suspecting them of murder?

Because they’d been acting like weirdos leading up to dinner. That’s why.

“My purse,” I said, hurrying back to the table. I chanced a look at Suzie’s and Steve’s plates. Neither had taken the grilled vegetables.

My stomach churned and I put a hand over my mouth.

Suzie beat me to the table and picked up my purse but didn’t hand it over. Steve told me to wait while he got the DVD.

Would he come back with a meat cleaver?

“I told my mom and nana that I was coming here tonight,” I said.

Suzie looked distracted. “Will they be able to come get you?”

“No-they don’t have a car.” I held out my hand for my purse.

She stepped back, out of my reach. “I don’t know if you’re safe to drive.” Worry wrinkled her forehead. “You seemed fine until you started eating.”

“No… I’ve not been feeling well.”

The platter of vegetables sat directly in front of Suzie’s plate. She eyed them, then looked at me. “It’s too bad,” she said. “Steve was so excited to have you try this new marinade.”

I’ll bet.

Eyeing the veggies again, she leaned forward and picked up a piece of grilled portabella. If she tried to force-feed me, I was going to run for the door.

She surprised me by taking a big bite. “Oh my God,” she said, around the mouthful. She looked around wildly, but didn’t run away, as I had. Instead she grabbed the cloth napkin off the table and spit into it. “My God,” she said again. “That’s horrible.”

“Found it!” Steve said, emerging from the back area. No meat cleaver. No gun. He held a DVD in a jewel case near his head. He waved it triumphantly.

“Steve,” Suzie said, pointing at the vegetable platter. “What did you do to those?”

He looked from his wife, to me, to the platter, and then back again. “What’s wrong with them?”

“They’re disgusting. What’s in that new recipe you used? This is the worst thing I’ve ever tasted. I swear, if I didn’t know better, you were trying to poison us.”

Suzie’s hand flew to her mouth as she realized what she’d said. Then: “My tongue is numb.”

Steve’s smile dissolved. Anger and disbelief took over, as he leaned over the table to grab one of the grilled veggies. He threw two peppers into his mouth and began to chew vigorously. But not for long. Within seconds he was gagging.

Steve spit out the veggies, just as Suzie and I had. “What the hell?” he asked.

“Should we get to a hospital?” I asked. “All of us?”

Frantically wiping at his tongue with his napkin-a truly unappetizing sight if there ever was one-Steve shook his head. “I can’t imagine…”

He slammed the DVD onto the table and ran out of the dining room back into the stage-kitchen. We followed.

Digging out an olive oil container, he smelled the top of it. “Seems fine,” he said. Then, with a look of dawning realization, he pulled a plastic bowl from the refrigerator and removed the top. He stuck his face close to its contents. He then tipped a finger into the mix and touched it to his lips, grimacing at the taste. “Dear Lord,” he said.

“What?” Suzie asked.

Overhead lights were still pouring brightness down onto the stage and the two of them looked like characters in a play-characters that had just been delivered very bad news.

Perspiring heavily, Steve shook his head. “This isn’t garlic,” he said. “This was supposed to be a tomato-garlic topping.”

Suzie and I looked at each other in silence. Steve stared up with confusion on his face. “How could I have not noticed?” He touched the chopped-up substance.

My heart resumed its trip-hammer beating. “Maybe we should try to figure out what it is,” I said, feeling like the only voice of reason in the room. The two of them were staring at the bowl, perplexed. “We may have to call the poison control hotline.”

Still grimacing, Steve said, “This doesn’t even smell like garlic.”

“I get it,” I said. “It’s not garlic. How about we try to find out what it is?”

“How could I have made this kind of mistake?”

Since Steve’s lament was rhetorical, I turned to Suzie. “Do you have a list of inventory? Stuff you’ve ordered? You have a lot of assistants here, right?”

She nodded, staring at Steve.

“I’m guessing one of them made this mistake. And since this is probably a food item, I’m sure we’re all going to be okay.”

She nodded again.

“Can I have your lists?”

Luckily, their computer was on and in minutes we had accessed their inventory, and meals planned for the next several days’ shoots. “What’s this?” I asked. “I thought you guys didn’t do desserts on the show.” The item I pointed to was a persimmon-and-lemon cookie.

Suzie looked over my shoulder. “Oh,” she said. “We thought it might be fun to branch out, to start including desserts, too. We have a one-hour show coming up where we prepare everything from soup and salad to dessert. This was going to be one of our experiments.”

The light was beginning to dawn. “This calls for persimmon pulp,” I said. “Where would that be?”

She rummaged around the kitchen, then held up a finger and headed to the rear of the studio. Steve had been paying attention. “Oh geez,” he said. “You think this is chopped persimmon?”

“Unripe persimmon,” I corrected. “If you have an assistant who confused persimmon with garlic, I think you need a new assistant. It makes sense though. The bitter taste. The numb tongue.”

Suzie returned. “According to our records we received a shipment of persimmon. But there’s nothing here.”

“Ollie,” Steve said, “I can’t tell you how embarrassed I am.”

“At least we know we’re okay,” I said, thinking the fruit in the bowl had to be very unripe. Nothing else could taste that vile and still not kill you. Tannins in unripe persimmon made the fruit unpalatable. And that was being kind.

There was a stool next to the counter. Steve backed up onto it. “Oh my God,” he said. “Can you imagine if this had happened in front of a studio audience?”

Unripe persimmon wasn’t toxic in such a small dose. And though it had the potential to cause bezoars, nasty masses that can accumulate in the esophagus or intestines if consumed in large quantities, I doubted anyone would ever eat enough to allow that to happen.

I rolled my tongue around in my mouth, willing the taste away. “Do you have anything to drink?” I asked.

“Sure, of course,” Suzie said, hurrying toward the refrigerator. “I could use something, too.” Over her shoulder, she stuck out her tongue. “Ick.”

“I’m so sorry,” Steve said, for about the fifth time. “I can’t understand how this happened. I mean, the assistants know that I keep my garlic in that bowl. I always use the same bowl for garlic.” He looked about to cry. “But this time it was supposed to be a tomato-garlic combination. How could they have made such a stupid mistake? And why didn’t I notice it?”

“Let’s just be glad it wasn’t anything really bad for us,” I said, relief making me ultra-chatty. “For a minute there I was wondering…”

I stopped myself. Did I really want to tell them that I’d felt threatened? That I’d been ready to dash out the door? Wouldn’t that make it obvious that I suspected them in Minkus’s murder?

“Ollie!” Suzie said. The look on her face was one of incredulity. “You didn’t think we were trying to-”

“No. No, of course not,” I lied.

“It’s all my fault.” Steve placed both elbows on the countertop and buried his face in his hands. “I made this mistake because I was preoccupied. What other mistakes am I liable to make?”

We both looked at him.

“This isn’t going to go away,” he said.

“What isn’t?”

“We didn’t have anything to do with Minkus’s death,” he said, looking up. “I swear I didn’t. Neither did Suzie.”

“I didn’t think-”

Suzie placed a hand on my arm. “Yes, but the Secret Service probably does think so.”

“Why?”

“The NSA, Suze,” Steve said. “I think the NSA will be the first on our tails.” He lowered his head into his hands again. “But they won’t be the last.”