Hail to the Chef

CHAPTER 9

THE FIRST LADY MANAGED TO FIND HER WAY back to her chair in the dining room, waving away those of us trying to help her. She sat for a long time, eyes covered, head down.

There was no recovering from news like this-not surrounded by colleagues who had planned to enjoy Thanksgiving dinner and who all now sat, staring. Doing the best they could, Secret Service agents quietly ushered the guests out to waiting limousines. Helen Hendrickson broke away from the group long enough to press Mrs. Campbell’s hands between her own and hug the First Lady, blinking back tears and murmuring condolences. All the guests were gone in minutes. Their sudden departure left us in suffocating silence.

Inexplicably, the First Lady asked me to stay with her after the guests were gone. I had a tremendous desire to beg off, but one look at the sadness in her eyes convinced me otherwise. “Of course,” I said. My staff would handle whatever cleanup and storage needed to be done, and though they’d wonder at my absence, they’d certainly manage without me.

Jackson brought Mrs. Campbell a glass of water, which she took but didn’t sip. She held it in both hands, almost prayerfully, still staring downward. “Thank you,” she said to the butler, and when he inquired what else he could get her, she said, “Nothing. Nothing now.”

The two Secret Service agents remained: Teska and a female agent, Patricia Berland. They seemed perplexed by my presence. I couldn’t blame them. I’d taken the seat vacated by Blanchard, my mind racing a hundred thoughts at once: how badly I felt about Sean, what I could do for Mrs. Campbell right at the moment, why she had asked me to stay, how soon I could get back to the kitchen, and why this had to happen today. Of all days.

Sean, who had been working in my kitchen just twenty-four hours ago-was dead. I couldn’t get my mind around that. I couldn’t grasp how he could have been here, so alive, so much fun, and now no longer exist. But I also knew I couldn’t dwell on that right now. My first duty was to Mrs. Campbell.

She finally raised her head to face Teska. “You said, ‘incident. ’ What do you mean?”

The two agents exchanged a glance. Teska squinted, as though he were fighting a hard internal argument. “His death is under investigation.”

“What are you not telling me?”

Teska’s face twitched. He spoke slowly. “Sean Baxter may have taken his own life.”

“No!” Mrs. Campbell said, starting to stand. “I don’t believe that.” Berland’s gentle touch on the First Lady’s shoulder was enough to keep her seated. “What happened? Where is he?”

At this point the two agents seemed to forget I was there. But the First Lady hadn’t forgotten-she reached out and clasped my hand with hers. It was very cold.

Berland spoke. “Preliminary reports suggest that Mr. Baxter shot himself.”

“No,” Mrs. Campbell said again. This time, however, it was not an exclamation of disbelief, it was a flat refusal. “Sean didn’t like guns. He never would have done that.”

“Let me assure you, ma’am, the Metropolitan Police will fully investigate this as a homicide until the evidence proves otherwise. But…”

“But?”

“He left a note, ma’am.”

Mrs. Campbell crumpled in on herself, her silent crying more poignant than if she’d wailed and screamed. I reacted instinctively, forgetting this was our nation’s First Lady and seeing only a woman who’d suffered immeasurable loss. I stood next to her, putting my arm around her shaking shoulders, murmuring how sorry I was.

Berland’s eyes met mine. “Let’s get her upstairs,” she mouthed.

I leaned in to whisper to Mrs. Campbell that it might be best to return to her own rooms. She nodded and stood, keeping her face covered with one hand, grabbing my arm with the other.

“We’ll help you,” Berland said, stepping between me and the First Lady.

She didn’t release her hold. Instead, she tugged me close so that her whispered words were almost inaudible. “He cared about you, Ollie. He told me he saw a future with you.” Though tears raced down her face, she managed a wobbly smile. “He asked me to fix you two up.”

I opened my mouth, but no words came out.

“He would have wanted you to know,” she added, and she finally let go of my arm. Turning to face Berland, she gave a quick nod. “I’m ready now.”

For the second time that week, I fought scalding pain in my throat, my eyes, and my heart.