Hail to the Chef

CHAPTER 11

FROM THE FRYING PAN STRAIGHT INTO THE fire.

That’s how I felt at Gene’s wake. I’d been here for about fifteen minutes, but couldn’t help but believe I’d inadvertently thrown myself into the flames just by showing up. I hadn’t anticipated the enormous impact my presence might have. Standing next to the casket, I hadn’t expected to be surrounded by Gene’s well-meaning relatives, all asking me what really happened, what I’d seen, what I’d done, and did I think Gene had suffered? With everyone asking at once, it was difficult to know exactly what to say to give each of them the most comfort. Above all, I wanted to be helpful.

Try as I might, I couldn’t keep the family straight. A tall woman rested her hand on my right shoulder, turning me to meet yet another relative. An elderly, suited gentleman. “This is the girl who found Gene,” she said by way of introduction.

She was about to continue when a man to my right tapped my arm. He, too, wore a suit-and the look of a successful businessman. “What was done for him?” he asked. “I mean, on the scene. Did you administer CPR?”

The woman to my right tugged me again, trying to pull my attention back to the elderly fellow, who I now learned was Gene’s older brother. “I’m very sorry,” I said, taking his hand in both of mine.

His eyes sagged under the weight of unshed tears. “Thank you.”

“Excuse me,” a familiar voice said. A big hand clamped my left shoulder with solid authority. “Ollie,” he said, “I need to talk with you.”

I turned to see a very welcome and familiar face. His hair had gone almost completely gray, but his customary cheer sparkled from those blue eyes. I started to smile, but remembered where I was and immediately tamped down my reaction. “Henry!” I reached to give him a big hug. Relieved to have an out, I turned back to the family. Again I offered my condolences-and then apologized for having to leave so soon.

“Thank you,” I said as we moved to the lobby. “I didn’t know how to answer them.” I shot a look back into the room as the group clustered together again. Circling the wagons, as it were. “It’s so difficult to know what to say. And what not to say.”

“It’s always hard,” he said, his eyes scanning the large vestibule. “And a situation like this one makes it worse.” He winked at me. “I’ve been waiting for you. I knew that unless there was some emergency, you’d be here tonight.”

Henry had lost some of the weight he’d put on in his last few months as executive chef, and his face looked less flushed. Although his waistline would never be characterized as trim, it was certainly under control. In fact, the suit he wore gave the impression of being almost saggy. “You look good,” I said.

He blushed. “How’s your kitchen?”

“Our kitchen?” I asked.

That made him smile.

“I’ll tell you all about it, if you want to go for coffee.”

Henry’s eyebrows lifted. “Such a beautiful young lady asking an old man like me out for coffee? I would be a fool to refuse.”

I placed a hand on his arm. “With an attitude like yours, Henry, you will never be old.”

There was a Starbucks half a block away, and though it was cold outside, we walked. I knew it wouldn’t be long before Henry started peppering me with questions. He didn’t disappoint. As soon as we’d settled at a small table, him with a cup of coffee, me with a caramel apple cider, he asked, “So, how are the holiday preparations progressing?”

I told him, then said, “You heard about Sean Baxter?”

His eyes, which had crinkled up at the corners when I’d talked about the menu, now drooped. “How could I not? It’s been on every news station.” He shook his big head. “I’ve often wondered why anyone would choose to be president. You lose all privacy.” Waving a hand in the direction of the funeral home, he said, “Gene Sculka’s family has had to deal with some reporters asking questions, but for the most part, they’re allowed to grieve privately. They can be family to one another. They’re able to hold one another up without worrying about the world staring in on them.”

When he sighed, I picked up his train of thought. “I know. I’ve seen the papers. Any move the president or Mrs. Campbell makes is scrutinized and analyzed ten times over.”

His eyes didn’t hold the twinkle they usually did. “Sometimes the news needs to step back and let people just be.”

We were silent for a long moment. I took a sip of my frothy concoction, and enjoyed the sweet, hot trickle down the back of my throat. “You’ve heard about the bomb scare, too?” I said, knowing he had. In this day and age, one would have to be as hermitlike as the Unabomber to avoid the deluge of news that constantly sluiced over us.

“Were you evacuated?”

I told him about being sequestered in the bunker with the First Lady and Sean. I watched emotion tighten Henry’s eyes, and I shared with him my impression that Mrs. Campbell had intended to set me up with Sean.

Henry patted my hand. “This has been hard on you, too.”

I swallowed, finding it a bit more difficult this time. “Yeah.”

We talked about Bucky’s constant temper tantrums, Cyan’s burgeoning talents, and Marcel’s quiet genius. When I told Henry about Agda, he laughed.

“Bucky was quick to remind me that you would never have hired her with such a language barrier.”

Henry stared up toward the ceiling, as though imagining the kitchen. “He’s wrong about that. We aren’t there to talk. We’re there to create superb food. To make the president of our United States forget his troubles long enough to enjoy a wonderful meal.” He launched into one of his patriotic speeches. I smiled as he waxed poetic on the virtues of a good meal and how national leaders made better decisions when they were well cared for. I’d missed Henry’s pontifications. “We’re there to contribute to our country’s success. We aren’t there to make friends.”

Now I rested my hand on his. “But sometimes we make lifelong friends anyway, don’t we?”

He grabbed my fingers and held them. The twinkle was back in his eyes. “That we do.”

Walking to my car after saying good night, I blew out a long breath, watching the wispy air curl in front of me on this cold night. Partly a reminder that I was alive, partly a sigh of frustration, I realized that, despite being able to visit with Henry, I was happy to be on my way home.

Back at my apartment building I wasn’t terribly surprised to find James napping at the front desk. I tried sneaking past without disturbing him, but he woke up when the elevator dinged.

“Ollie,” he said, getting up.

Politeness thrust my hand forward to hold the elevator doors open. “Hi, James,” I said. “How are things?”

Making his way over, he waved his hand at the open car. “Let that one go. I’ve got some information for you.”

Reluctantly, I let the doors slide shut. “Information?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said quickly. Still blinking himself awake, he amended, “Well, I guess I mean Stanley has information for you. He told me to let him know when you got in.”

“Did he say-”

James raised his hand, and looked both ways up and down the elevator corridor. “It’s about that incident the other day. You know, the one where you work?”

“The electrocution?”

James nodded, shooting me a look of mortified annoyance.

My curiosity piqued, I thanked him and pushed the “up” button again. “I’ll stop by his place. He’s on eight, right?”

The same elevator opened.

“Ah… you might try him at your neighbor’s… Mrs. Wentworth’s.”

“Okay, thanks.” I got into the car and wondered what electrical issues were plaguing my neighbor’s apartment that required attention this late at night.

James blushed scarlet as the elevator door closed and it wasn’t until Mrs. Wentworth opened her door, dressed in only a bathrobe-with Stanley behind her similarly attired-that I understood.

“Oh,” I said. “I… I heard Stanley was here. Hi, Stanley.”

“For crying out loud, Ollie, don’t stand there gaping like a grouper,” Mrs. Wentworth said. “Come in here. Stanley has lots to tell you.”

They settled themselves together on Mrs. Wentworth’s flowered couch and I suddenly realized I didn’t know her first name. Stanley was always Stanley to me. She was always Mrs. Wentworth. Not knowing how to address them together added to the discomfort I was feeling right now, facing these two sleep-clad seniors, both wearing a contented sort of glow…

“I had a thought, Ollie,” Stanley said, breaking into my thoughts. Thank goodness. “Remember the day of the accident? It stormed that day, right?”

It had. I remembered Stanley commenting on it. “Yeah…”

“Well, I got to thinking that your electrician there-what was his name?”

“Gene.” My voice caught as I relived the past few hours and Gene’s wake.

“That’s it.” As Stanley talked, Mrs. Wentworth smiled up at him in the way lovestruck teenagers do. All of a sudden, my discomfort vanished. They weren’t bothered by my interruption, so why should I be? These two were adorable. “Yeah, I wager he didn’t get to be the top electrician at the White House by being stupid. If he knew he was going anywhere near high voltage, he would’ve taken precautions.”

“Gene knew the layout of the electricity better than anyone.”

“Exactly my point,” Stanley said. “Which is why I’m betting Gene was killed by a floating neutral.”

“A what?”

“A floating neutral,” he repeated. “Dangerous, and unpredictable.”

Mrs. Wentworth patted Stanley ’s knee. “Show her the thing you made.”

Stanley blushed. “I put together a mock-up to explain it better.” He padded out to the kitchen, with Mrs. Wentworth watching him until he was out of earshot.

“He’s been at this all day making the mock-up to show you. And he’s really proud of himself. Even I understand these neutral thingies now.”

When Stanley returned, he carried a board, about eighteen by twenty-four inches. On it, he’d mounted five sockets. Two held forty-watt bulbs, three held fuses. In the center was an on/off switch. All of the parts were connected to one another with wires and the entire contraption was attached to a scary-looking triple-thick gray cord that sported a round plug as big as my palm. On it were three very long, odd-shaped metal prongs.

“This is a 240 plug,” he said, holding it up. “You don’t see too many of these around the house. But I bet you got one on your dryer.” He waited for me to shrug-I had no idea. “No matter. Some appliances need 240 instead of the regular 120 volts. Like dryers. Check it out when you get back, you’ll see.”

“I will.”

“I’m going to keep it short and simple, but you stop me if you got questions, okay?”

I promised I would.

“Storms can knock out your neutral-your ground. And that’s a bad thing, because your ground is what keeps your house from catching on fire from too much voltage.” He licked his lips. “You got a curling iron?”

“A couple of them,” I said, even though lately I’d been foregoing using them in favor of a quick ponytail.

“Curling irons don’t produce enough heat to catch your house on fire. So if you ever get worried you forgot to shut it off, don’t sweat it.”

“I have one of those auto-shut-off ones-”

“Even better.” He waved that away. “But you most likely don’t ever have to worry. Because your appliances are using 120 volts, and most of the time, if everything’s working right, that ain’t going to give you any headaches. But,” he said, warming to his subject, “your house has to have 240 volts coming in so you can run your clothes dryer. It’s too dangerous to send in 240 at once, so you got two wires coming in sending 120 each. Follow?”

“So far.”

“The neutral acts like a buffer between them. I could get really technical here, but there’s no need. All that’s important to know is that if your neutral is broken, then the two 120s don’t have anything keeping them apart. Your curling iron or your heating pad or your toaster can go crazy and heat up hot enough to catch fire.”

He gestured to me to follow him. Mrs. Wentworth got up and came along, too. Stanley led us into the small closet that housed the furnace, washer, dryer, and slop sink. I was amazed at how pristinely clean the tiny room was. I sincerely hoped Mrs. Wentworth would never see the need to visit mine. She’d see delicates hung from cabinet handles, and to-be-washed items lying in piles on the floor.

The Lysol-smelling room was tight with the three of us, but Stanley urged me to lean over the back of the dryer. “See that?” He pulled the plug from a special outlet on the wall. The plug was a near duplicate of the one he’d attached to the board-contraption. “Now, I’m going to fire up my mock-up and I can show you what probably happened to your friend.”

I stepped back, fearful of some explosion or something. Mrs. Wentworth hovered close, blocking the doorway.

When he plugged it in, the two lightbulbs went on. “Looks normal, right?” He flicked the switch, which I now noticed was labeled ON- NORMAL, OFF-OPEN. Nothing happened.

“These two lightbulbs take the same voltage,” he said. “They keep things balanced. Even when the neutral is missing, you’re not going to notice anything wrong.” He unplugged the cord. “Now, watch what happens when we have an imbalance.”

He replaced one of the forty-watt bulbs with a big spotlight version, turned the switch to “on”-meaning normal-and plugged it back in.

Both lights lit-the spotlight was, of course, brighter than the little forty-watt bulb in the accompanying socket, but I couldn’t see anything amiss.

“Ready?” he asked.

Mrs. Wentworth stepped back. I said, “Ready.”

“I’m now eliminating the neutral,” he said, and flipped the switch.

“Whoa!” I said, raising my hand to protect my eyes.

Stanley pointed to the spotlight. “Big difference, huh?”

There was. The spotlight glowed so brightly I couldn’t look at it. The light was so intense, the beam so strong, I felt as though the bulb was barely hanging on. At any moment I expected it to explode.

“Now, y’see, this here is an imbalance,” Stanley continued in his unflappable manner. Mrs. Wentworth had backed out of the tiny room completely. I didn’t want to be rude, but the bulb in the socket was unnervingly bright.

“Is it safe?” I asked.

Stanley made a so-so motion with his head. “You don’t want to keep this on for long,” he said. “Playing with neutrals is never a good idea. That’s why this is all mounted on a wooden board. You see how I’m being careful not to touch anything metal? I’m sure it’s not dangerous at the moment, but I like to take extra precautions just the same.”

He must have noticed me squinting, because he reached into the center of the board and flipped the switch to “on.” Immediately, the two bulbs resumed their normal brightness.

“Does that mean that all 240 volts were in this bulb?” I asked.

“Not quite. Can’t say for sure how much was feeding into here. Maybe 220, maybe a little less. But that’s the thing with neutrals. You gotta have ’em. Things are too unpredictable if you don’t.”

“So you think Gene was killed because of a floating neutral?”

Much to my relief, Stanley unplugged the contraption before answering. “Again, I can’t say for sure. Something got him-and I’d be willing to bet it was something he didn’t expect. If there were 240 volts flying through those lines, the man didn’t stand a chance.” He gave me a wistful look. “I’d know it if I got a look-see, but that isn’t going to happen, is it?”

“Doubtful.” I smiled. “The electricians on staff probably thought of this, right? I mean, this is something you’d look for in an electrocution.”

Stanley cocked a white eyebrow. “Might be worth talking with them just to be sure. Floating neutrals aren’t real common. People don’t think to look for them. And I could be wrong about this-could be something else entirely that shot all that voltage into your friend. But storms are notorious for wreaking havoc with your wiring, including unpredictable damage-grounds, neutrals-you get the idea. I think it’s worth a mention.”