Hail to the Chef

CHAPTER 8

ON THURSDAY, WITH LESS THAN AN HOUR TO go before Thanksgiving guests were due, food was flying. Not literally, of course. But we were all moving so fast that everything seemed a tiny bit blurred. Though there were only nine for dinner today, there were still dozens of last-minute details to attend to. We concentrated hard and talked very little.

I glanced at the clock. Just past noon. Mingled scents of roasting meat-the turkey breasts in the far oven, and the Virginia ham resting on the counter behind me-gave me enormous comfort. We were on time. Despite the fact that we left nothing to chance, I always panicked about the turkey; in my opinion, there was nothing worse than dried-out fowl. As I poured onion gravy from a pan into a temporary tureenlike container, I shot a glance at the oven door. “Bucky,” I called over my shoulder, “can you-”

“I just checked on them,” he answered, reading my mind. “They’re perfect. Nicely brown. Right on schedule.”

“Thanks.”

Agda was in charge of putting the finishing touches on each course. Every plate was arranged with exquisite precision just before it left our kitchen. At the White House, food did not simply sit on a dish-our meals required presentation. With her speed and accuracy, Agda was a natural to handle that job. Even though today’s dinner would be served in a traditional, family-style manner, the trays and platters required her full attention before they were sent to the table.

Bent over the first tray of hors d’oeuvres, Agda was carefully placing fruits and cheeses in meticulous formation, interspersing crackers and spiced nuts to make for a beautifully appetizing display.

I glanced up when our head butler, Jackson, came in. He’d recently taken over the position, though he’d been on staff for many years. A tall black man with curly salt-and-pepper hair, he smiled often and could always be counted on for White House scoop. Right now, however, he wasn’t smiling.

“The president is not returning to the White House until this evening,” he said.

All activity stopped. “What?” I asked.

Jackson shook his head. “A change in plans.”

Before inquiring as to what great world event prevented the president from attending his family’s Thanksgiving dinner, I needed to know the truly crucial information. “Are we still serving?”

“We are,” Jackson said, still not looking happy. “Sad day for the missus. She was counting on her husband’s support with these guests.” He met my gaze. “You have heard some stories?”

I had, and I remembered Sean Baxter’s warnings. “This isn’t going to be a friendly social dinner after all, is it?”

Jackson shook his head again. “I am concerned. But there is nothing we can do.”

“Except feed them well and keep them happy,” I said, “and hope that they’re all so impressed with dinner that they forget about business.”

The corner of Jackson ’s mouth curled up. “We can try. I will return when the guests arrive.” Looking around the area, he asked, “Have you seen Yi-im?”

One of the newer butlers, a tiny gentleman of an Asian descent I couldn’t deduce, Yi-im never seemed to be available when there was work to be done. It had taken me a while to get the hang of pronouncing his name: Yee-eem. I pointed downward. “He said something about heading to the cafeteria.”

Anger sparked Jackson ’s eyes. “Lazy man.”

“WE ARE READY,” MARCEL SAID, AS HE CAME around the corner, wheeling a cart. The top shelf held a tall pumpkin trifle and a selection of four different varieties of minitartlets: pecan, orange chiffon, lemon cheese, and Boston cream. The cart’s second shelf held Marcel’s famous apple cobbler with oatmeal crumble.

“Do you need me to heat that up when the time comes?” I asked.

His dark face folded into worry lines-he hadn’t even heard my question. “I hope I ’ave made enough.”

I started to assure him that there was enough dessert to satisfy twenty hungry guests when he turned and beckoned someone behind. The missing Yi-im stepped into the kitchen carrying a large silver tray almost as big as he was. Just over forty, the junior butler was slim and so short that in his tuxedo he might have passed for a ring-bearer in a wedding. Except for his bald head, which he kept shaved and shiny enough to reflect lights.

“Just in case they are very hungry, I ’ave created another option,” Marcel said, with a hint of superiority. “Chocolate truffles. Do you think they are a good choice?”

Again, as I was about to answer, Marcel’s attention shifted. He ordered Yi-im to begin sending the desserts to the staging area: the Butler’s Pantry just outside the first-floor Family Dining Room. I recognized in Marcel the same controlled panic I felt right before an important meal. He wasn’t interested in my opinion-he simply wanted to bring me up to speed. And probably show off a little. The chocolate truffles would be a huge hit. Of that, I was certain.

When Yi-im left the area, I told Marcel that Jackson had been looking for the diminutive butler.

Marcel’s hands came up in a gesture of supplication. “But he told me he had been assigned to help out here today.”

I didn’t have time to quibble. “At least we know he isn’t shirking his duties,” I said in a low voice. “And heaven knows we can use all the help we can get.”

Marcel wiped his hands on his apron, looking thoughtful. “Yi-im has worked very hard today. As a butler, he is perhaps in the wrong department, no?”

I followed his logic. Marcel was always on the lookout for pastry assistants. With the number of dazzling and delicious desserts his department produced, he was usually understaffed. At the moment, however, I didn’t have time to discuss personnel with him. “Let’s talk about this next week,” I said. “Monday morning staff meeting?”

“Excellent plan,” he said. “Now I shall go upstairs to be certain my creations arrive safely.”

Thirty seconds after his departure, Jackson returned, making me think about one of those old movies where people chase one another and keep missing their quarry by moments. “Mr. and Mrs. Volkov have arrived, as has Senator Blanchard with Ms. Gerhardt. She has requested a few moments of your time.”

I was surprised. “Bindy wants to talk to me?”

He nodded.

“Sure,” I said. “You can let her come down after dinner.”

“She would prefer to visit with you now.”

Great. Another interruption. “Go ahead, Ollie,” Bucky said. “We’ve got you covered.”

He was right. One of the things Henry had told me before passing the potholders was that in order to succeed, I needed to be able to rely on the efforts of others. “You can’t do everything yourself anymore,” he’d said, chiding me. He knew how much I liked to feel in control. “You have to be able to let go. Let your staff show you how good they are.” With a wink and a smile, he’d added, “That’s how I recognized talent in you.”

“Thanks, Bucky.” I took a deep breath. “Okay,” I said to Jackson. “Send her down.”

Bindy Gerhardt had been a staffer in the West Wing during her tenure at the White House, and I liked her well enough. But she and I weren’t the kind of girlfriends who sought one another out. Although she looked like central casting’s answer to the nerdy girl with the heart of gold, she’d always struck me as a power groupie-doing her best only when people in authority were apt to notice. In fact, immediately after she’d accepted the position on Blanchard’s staff, she’d stopped visiting the White House altogether. Probably to stave off any impression of impropriety. This was the nature of Washington, D.C. -rumor and innuendo ruled. We all knew that perception was often more important than reality. Especially where the news media was concerned.

Cyan sidled next to me. “That’s weird,” she said. “I hope she isn’t looking for a special menu at this late date.”

“I don’t remember her having dietary restrictions.” I was pretty good at remembering unusual requests. Plus, Bindy would have known to send her preferences early. I couldn’t imagine why she’d asked to come down here, so I shrugged. I’d find out soon enough. “Maybe she wants to swap recipes.”

Cyan laughed. I washed and dried my hands, taking a long look around my kitchen. It hummed. Without a doubt, this would be the best Thanksgiving dinner any of our guests had ever experienced. I savored the moment-the instance of absolute certainty that we’d achieved greatness. I couldn’t wait for our guests’ reactions.

Deciding it would be best to keep Bindy out of the kitchen proper-and hence out of the staff’s way-I came into the Center Hall just as she made it to the bottom of the stairs. “Ollie!” she said when she saw me.

I almost didn’t recognize her. Bindy had lost at least twenty pounds, and although I knew it was impossible, it seemed she’d grown taller, too. “Wow!” I couldn’t stop my reaction. “You’re… so…” I almost said, “slick,” but caught myself before the word escaped. “So… chic. I mean… not that you weren’t before, I just…” I’d fallen so far into the open-mouth-insert-foot trap that I couldn’t escape without a massive recovery effort. “What I mean to say is that you look wonderful. The new job must be going great.”

Sunny smile. “It is. And believe me, everyone has the same reaction. Quite the change, isn’t it?”

Understatement, I thought.

She spun on a navy blue heel. Her dress was navy, too, a perfect contrast to her pearly skin. “What do you think?”

“You look fabulous.” She did. Although she hadn’t been exactly overweight before, the new, slimmer look suited her. The last time she’d been here, she preferred easy-comfort clothes and ballet flats. Back then she’d had loose, curly hair that she wore to her shoulders. No makeup. Now her hair was cropped short and slicked back, framing her carefully made-up face and exposing a pair of pert diamond earrings. The nose was still wide, the chin still weak, but she’d evidently been schooled in how to play up her better features because her eyes drew my attention first. Bindy would never be considered beautiful, but the change in her appearance certainly made her more attractive.

She tapped one of the earrings. “Fake,” she said, “but aren’t they great?”

At the moment, I would have much preferred to be discussing turkey dressing with Bucky than fake baubles with Bindy. “So, you’re here in Mrs. Blanchard’s place today?” I asked. I knew my voice held just enough curiosity to prompt her to get to the point.

“Yes, yes,” she said. “There are some personal business items Senator Blanchard needs to discuss with the First Lady.” Bindy wrinkled her nose, giving a little giggle. “Mrs. Blanchard didn’t want to be in the way. I’ve done a lot of research for the senator…” She waved both her hands at me. “That sounds so stilted. I do a lot for Treyton and his wife, and they both thought it would be smarter, strategically, for me to be here today when the partnership is discussed.”

So Sean’s fears had been warranted. Again, I was thankful he was due to arrive soon. “I thought this was supposed to be a Thanksgiving celebration.”

“That, too. There’s never any downtime in D.C., is there?” She licked her lips. “But that’s not what I wanted to talk with you about. I wanted to ask you about the gingerbread men.”

“The ones Marcel is creating?”

“No, the ones being sent in from across the country.” She giggled again. I’d forgotten that she had the tendency to do that when nervous. “Treyton knows that you’re choosing the best ones from the thousands you’ve received to display in the Red Room next to the gingerbread house. Is that right?”

“It’s not just me; Marcel has the final-”

“Yes, but you’re in on it, right?”

“Sure.”

“Treyton’s kids are submitting gingerbread men they’ve been working on. It would mean a lot to them to have their work displayed in the Red Room during the holiday opening ceremonies.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Where all the cameras will be?”

“Well, yes…” She punctuated her words with another little laugh. “You know those pictures will be seen everywhere as soon as the celebration is complete…”

She let the thought hang and I finally understood why she was uncomfortable talking with me. Treyton Blanchard wanted his kids’ handiwork plastered all over every newspaper, White House-related Web site, and on TV. Rumor had it that the man was considering a run for the presidency. Getting his kids’ artwork prominently displayed must feel a little like squatter’s rights. A thought occurred to me. “Aren’t his kids kind of young for this?” Blanchard had three little ones, and the oldest was eight or nine.

With a bouncy little so-so motion of her head, Bindy said, “They’ve had help with the project. The gingerbread men are really beautiful, Ollie. I wouldn’t ask you to do this if they weren’t worthy of presentation.”

Sure, she wouldn’t. Treyton Blanchard probably thought his kids’ scribbles with a blue crayon were genius. And I knew that if the powerful senator asked Bindy to do something, she’d do it.

I shuddered inwardly at the thought of what these homemade gingerbread ornaments looked like until Bindy said, “If the kids had actually done all this on their own, they’d be snapped up as protégés.” She laughed. “The family chef did some of the work. He’s amazing.” The spirit with which she added that last remark made me wonder if she and Blanchard’s chef were the new hot item in D.C. I knew the guy. But I couldn’t see them together.

“And the kids think they did it all themselves?”

She bit her lip, nodding.

“I’ll look into it.” I held up my hands, staving off further pressure. “But there’s no guarantee the photographers will snap the right angle to get these in print, you know.”

Tiny shrug. “I realize that. But I just wanted to ask you to do your best. The kids will be so thrilled. They’ve been invited to the ceremony, too. Their mom’s bringing them. Can you imagine how excited they’ll be to see their artwork in the Red Room of the White House?”

Realizing I wasn’t going to get back into the kitchen until I gave her something to take back to Blanchard, I said, “I’ll talk with Marcel and the decorating staff. That’s the best I can do.”

When Bindy smiled, relaxed now, I was taken aback again by the change in her. She’d morphed from ordinary to fabulous in just a few short months. And she seemed to have acquired a new confidence, too. “Thanks,” she said. “It’ll mean a lot to us.”

She turned and headed for the stairs before I could ask whether “us” meant her and the kids, or her and Treyton Blanchard.

I STEPPED OUT OF THE KITCHEN FOR THE dozenth time in the last hour. As Jackson passed me in the Center Hall, I grabbed his arm. “Any updates?”

Headshake. “No word. Nothing.”

Five minutes before one o’clock and Sean Baxter hadn’t arrived yet. We should have begun staging already.

“When do you think we’ll be able to serve?” Visions of wilted lettuce, dried-out turkey, and soggy rolls raced through my mind.

“The First Lady suggested we wait until half past one. If Mr. Baxter still has not arrived, then we will begin without him.”

A half-hour delay. Not great, but it could be worse. “Okay,” I said, heading back in to deliver the news to my group. “Let me know if anything changes.”

Over the next twenty minutes, I divided my time between overseeing progress in the kitchen and the Butler’s Pantry upstairs. We staged our offerings in the pantry, waiting impatiently for the signal to serve our guests in the next room. The Family Dining Room occupies a space on the north side of the White House, with the pantry directly west. The State Dining Room-where most of our larger seated dining events are held-is a large area immediately adjacent to both rooms. In fact, we often used the Family Dining Room for staging when serving in the State Dining Room. The three-room setup is perfect whether we’re serving a hundred guests, or fewer than a dozen.

I maintained a position in the empty State Dining Room, close enough to the gathering to listen and watch without being seen. Although I had every excuse to be there-to gauge how the hors d’oeuvres were going and to determine if I needed to make any last-minute changes to dinner-the real reason I parked myself at the door was pure nosiness. I knew Mrs. Campbell was a strong-minded and resilient woman, but I didn’t know many of our guests. If they were planning on ambushing her, as Sean expected they might, I wanted to help him with information-gathering. I caught Jackson ’s eye. He stood nearby, facing the cross hall. I could tell he and I were on the same page.

I hadn’t met Nick Volkov before, but I recognized him from the recent news items I’d checked online at Sean’s suggestion. Volkov and his wife had had some trouble lately-involving allegedly bogus land deals, kickbacks, payoffs, and property liens. Volkov was a man-whether guilty or innocent-for whom a windfall would be salvation. No wonder he was pressuring Mrs. Campbell for a quick sale.

As they chatted and mingled with the other guests, the couple never seemed to lose physical contact with each other-his arm grazed hers his, fingers skimmed her back. Younger than the First Lady by about ten years, Nick was stout and fair, with youthful Eastern European features and a prominent brow. Mrs. Volkov, by contrast, wore her age like a road map. She looked considerably older than her husband and was a little bit hunched. Maybe all the jewelry she wore weighed her down. I hadn’t seen this much sparkle since I passed Tiffany’s in New York City.

“I don’t understand your reluctance, Elaine,” Nick Volkov said to the First Lady. His voice was even bigger than he was. “The sooner we put your uneasiness behind us, the sooner we can enjoy this blessed Thanksgiving day. Don’t you agree?”

Mrs. Campbell held her hands together, clasped low. She was the only diner in the room not carrying a glass of wine. “Oh, Nick,” she said, with a touch of reproof, “I’m certainly not reluctant to talk, nor uneasy about my position with the company. I just don’t want to discuss things twice. Why don’t we wait for another opportunity, when both my husband and Sean can be here?”

I glanced at Jackson again. He shook his head. Sean still hadn’t arrived.

Volkov lowered his voice. I almost didn’t hear his next words. “If we wait too long, Elaine, we will miss our opportunity. Ten years from now the market may not be as good as it is now.”

“And in ten years the market may be better,” Mrs. Campbell said smoothly. “In fact, my father counted on that. He didn’t want me to-”

“Your father didn’t understand how things have changed.”

“I believe he did.” The First Lady’s lips twitched. “And I certainly do.”

Volkov’s voice rose. “It comes down to this: We need to act and we need to do so right now.”

“Nick,” she said, and I caught the impatience in her tone, “once we sell, everything our fathers worked for will be gone. Zendy Industries will belong to others-to people who might take it in a direction we can’t control.”

“What difference does it make after we’ve been adequately compensated? Our fathers worked hard to provide us with security for our futures. Isn’t this exactly what we’re taking advantage of? Don’t you think they would approve?”

“I don’t think they would approve, no,” Mrs. Campbell answered. She unclasped her hands and gestured around the room. “I don’t think any of us is financially insecure right now. None of us needs the money-not for any legitimate reason.”

Nick Volkov’s face reddened.

He looked ready to say something unpleasant when his wife interrupted. “Where is Sean, anyway?” she asked. “I believe I’ve only met him once before. Such a nice young man.”

Volkov sniffed. “Too young to understand the subtleties of business.”

I backed away as Mrs. Campbell glanced toward the open door. “I don’t know. I’m sure he said he was coming.”

Nick Volkov cleared his throat. “He’s irresponsible, if you ask me.”

I slid around fast enough to catch Mrs. Campbell’s tight smile. “Well, it’s a good thing I didn’t ask you, then, isn’t it?” she said. With a pleasant nod to Mrs. Volkov, Mrs. Campbell excused herself to mingle with the other guests.

Call me Nosy Rosie, but I couldn’t let it go. I continued to watch the interactions in the next room, listening closely to as many conversations as I could. The only people I knew who had the First Lady’s interests at heart were the president and Sean. I hoped to overhear some tidbits of information that I could pass along to Sean later. Again, I wondered where he was. After our conversation yesterday in the kitchen, I couldn’t imagine he would have forgotten the time. But things happen, and I decided that until he showed up, I was on spy duty.

Nick Volkov muttered under his breath. I didn’t catch his words, but I couldn’t miss the grimace he made behind the First Lady’s back. Helen Hendrickson didn’t miss it either. Practically sprinting away from Treyton Blanchard’s side, she hurried over to join the Volkovs. Helen Hendrickson was not a small woman, nor a young one. The quick movement left her breathless. “Did she say she’ll sign?” she asked.

“Hardly,” Nick answered. “She’s unwilling to even entertain conversation until that damn Baxter arrives.” Turning to his wife, he said something else I couldn’t catch. She broke away from him to intercept Fitzgerald, who’d been heading toward them. Mrs. Volkov looped an arm through his and led him away toward the room’s fireplace.

Helen Hendrickson chewed her thumbnail before addressing Volkov. “What can we do?”

Cyan came around the corner from the pantry. I walked over to meet her. “Still no news on Sean,” I said, keeping my voice low. Looking at my watch, I added, “Not too much longer before we serve.”

“I hate this tension,” she said. “Can’t do anything but wait and be nervous. Everything’s ready now.”

“I know, but we’ve been through worse,” I said.

She glanced at the open door where I’d been standing. “Anything interesting?”

“So-so.”

By the time Cyan returned to the pantry and I made it back to my unobtrusive position at the doorway, Treyton Blanchard had joined Nick Volkov and Helen Hendrickson. It was neat to be part of the wallpaper-seen but not noticed.

“What good gossip am I missing here?” Blanchard asked. The junior senator from Maryland had a pleasant face, but his natural charisma and wide smile made him seem even more handsome in person than he appeared on camera. “I hope you two haven’t been talking about me.”

Volkov made a noise. Frustration, it seemed. “We’ve been talking about our… partner.” The way he said it made my skin crawl.

“Give it time,” Blanchard said.

“Time?” Again, Volkov grew red-faced. “We don’t have that luxury.”

Blanchard took a small sip of his wine. “We have time enough,” he said. “Elaine can’t be forced to make a decision without consulting her trusted advisers, can she?”

Volkov sputtered, “Some trusted adviser. That Baxter fellow can’t even make it to dinner on time. How can we expect him to help her make the right decisions?”

“I’ll talk with Elaine one-on-one when I get the chance,” Blanchard said. “I think she’s just overwhelmed right now. She’s still grieving for her father…”

“Her father’s death is what precipitated this decision.”

Blanchard held his wineglass to almost eye level, gesturing with it for emphasis. “Don’t tell me things I already know, Nick. I understand what’s at stake here. But today is Thanksgiving.” He tempered his admonishment with a smile. “Or have you forgotten that?”

From the ping-pong movement of her head as the conversation went back and forth, Helen Hendrickson seemed unwilling-or too mousy-to join in. I was surprised when she focused her attention on Blanchard. “Easy for you,” she said. “Nick and I don’t have the benefit of political donations to help us make our dreams come true.”

Blanchard replied, but I missed it because Jackson was on the move. As he passed me, he whispered, “Showtime.”

I followed. “Sean Baxter?” I asked.

He spoke over his shoulder. “Not yet.”

Within minutes, the guests were seated and we were ready to serve. I had Cyan in the narrow pantry with me and we scrutinized every dish to make certain it was absolutely perfect before one of our tuxedoed butlers carried it into the next room. I heard exclamations of delight as the platters reached the table, and I blew out a breath of relief.

When the door connecting the pantry to the Family Dining Room was open, I snuck a glance. With the president unavailable, the First Lady had taken her seat at the head of the table. Treyton Blanchard sat to her right, Bindy Gerhardt across from him. The Volkovs sat across from each other, too, with Nick next to Bindy. The male-female pattern continued with Helen Hendrickson next to Nick. Helen’s guest, the elderly Mr. Fitzgerald, had settled himself across from her. Only the seat across from the First Lady was unoccupied.

As he passed me on his way back into the pantry, Jackson said, “We will seat Mr. Baxter when he arrives.” A shrug. “If he arrives at all.”

Cyan came close, whispering, “Do you think maybe Sean is with the president? I mean, that’s his uncle. Maybe whatever’s keeping President Campbell is-”

I shushed her. The other room had silenced. No conversation. No movement. Rather than push the connecting door open to peek, I hurried around into the State Dining Room where I could peer in unnoticed. I wondered if something was wrong with the meal. What could possibly have happened to stop everything so completely? I strained to hear, and was rewarded only by the flat-toned words from a voice I didn’t recognize.

In a moment, I understood. Two Secret Service agents had positioned themselves inside the Family Dining Room. One of them had apparently requested Mrs. Campbell’s presence away from her guests. I slowed to a stroll as I made my way across the expansive room, hoping I appeared nonchalant. Pretending I was heading into the hall.

Mrs. Campbell emerged just as I crossed her path. She’d been about to address the taller of the two agents, but stopped me with a hand to my arm. “Ollie,” she said, “dinner is wonderful. I-”

“Mrs. Campbell,” the agent said. He touched her elbow in an effort to guide her toward the doorway to the Red Room. “Please.”

She didn’t move. “What happened?”

Both agents glared at me, making me want to shrink and run, but the First Lady gripped my arm, effectively freezing me in place.

She blinked rapidly, then took a steadying breath. “Is it my husband?”

“No,” the shorter agent said quickly. “The president is safe.”

“Thank God.” Her grasp loosened, but she didn’t completely let go. “Then what is it?” she asked the agents.

The taller one cleared his throat. “Ma’am, perhaps it would be better for you to come with us to the residence.”

“No.” Mrs. Campbell’s jaw flexed. “Just… tell… me.”

The agents exchanged glances.

She gripped me again. “Agent Teska, if you don’t tell me what’s going on-”

The thought hung there a long moment.

“With the president tied up in negotiations… we thought it best to talk to you first.” The urgency in his face settled into the dispassionate expression that always heralds bad news. We waited. I barely breathed.

“There’s been an incident,” Teska finally said. “Please, ma’am. If you’ll come with me…”

Her face was tight. Her voice even tighter. “Just tell me.”

“It’s Sean Baxter, ma’am. He’s dead.”