Hail to the Chef

CHAPTER 18

I MADE MY WAY TO THE FIRST FLOOR TO TAKE a look at the decorating in progress. Most days of the year we had crowds wandering through the White House to tour the public rooms. But today and tomorrow would be quiet now that the Decorator Tour had been canceled. I wanted to steal a selfish minute to breathe in the beauty of the holiday before things got crazy again tomorrow. I wandered through the Entrance Hall and, as always, appreciated its grandeur. While the White House was permanently a show-place and forever gorgeous, this time of year the mansion sparkled with holiday spirit.

I crossed the plaque in the floor that commemorated the White House’s original construction and all the renovations that had taken place since-1792, 1817, 1902, 1952-and found it curious that most of the construction occurred in years ending in two. The building’s most recent renovation, during Truman’s tenure, had been so comprehensive that I couldn’t imagine another one occurring in my lifetime.

Just ahead, Mrs. Campbell stood in the Blue Room, her back to me. She watched as one of Kendra’s teams put the finishing touches on the tree. Hundreds of gingerbread men decorated the branches, peeking out from behind the white poinsettia blooms that sharpened the Fraser fir’s intense green.

All the president’s gingerbread men, I thought.

I wondered what the First Lady was thinking about right this minute. With all the beauty and cheer going on around her, it had to be difficult to face this happy time of year knowing Sean would not be here to celebrate. Not wishing to disturb her, I walked very softly to the adjacent Red Room.

One of the White House state reception rooms, the Red Room was always impressive, but decorated as it was today, with lighted garland surrounding the fireplace, handmade gingerbread men in every possible corner, and wreaths hanging in the tall windows, it was breathtaking. In prior years, the gingerbread house was showcased in the State Dining Room, but Mrs. Campbell had requested the change. This year, we had originally intended to use the State Dining Room for the very large, very busy reception following the Decorator Tour this afternoon. Now those plans had changed, too.

I scratched my forehead, assessing this last-minute rearrangement. The reception, rescheduled for Tuesday, including both days’ invitees, would be larger in scale than anyone had anticipated. Maybe it was a good thing the house was set up in the Red Room after all. But I did find myself curious about all the power outages. Could it be that the Red Room wasn’t electrically equipped to handle everything? Was that why we were having so much trouble?

The gingerbread house sat between the room’s windows. Their swooping gold draperies, topped with fringed red swags, framed Marcel’s creation to perfection. I sighed. Despite all the crazed goings-on these past few days, the comfort of this room filled me with a warm sense of contentment.

Opposite the wall with the fireplace, the waitstaff had set up a champagne fountain. Dry now, it would be primed and ready to go before the reception on Tuesday. Two of our butlers would flank it, serving directly from the cascading fountain, so that none of our guests would get his or her fingers sticky.

Everything sparkled, looking warm and wonderful. Standing by the fireplace, I ran a finger along the edges of some of the gingerbread men turned in by our nation’s kids. These simple, homemade decorations added just the right touch.

I wandered into the State Dining Room. Decorated trees in the room’s corners were heavy with dazzling white and silver decorations. Matching ribboned arrangements hung from the wall sconces and draped the fireplace. A long table ran down the middle of the room, topped with complementary centerpieces. And everywhere I looked-on the trees, the walls, hanging from sconces-were more gingerbread men. Kendra was on her knees in the room’s far corner, strategically arranging two more little men on the lowest branches of a tree.

“This is gorgeous,” I said.

She turned, her flushed face breaking out into a huge smile. “It does look good, doesn’t it?”

“That’s an understatement.” Standing near her, I turned, slowly, in order to take in the whole display. To just appreciate the beauty of it all.

“I’m relieved to have the extra time,” Kendra said, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. “We would have had everything done by noon if we needed to.” She glanced at her watch, then grimaced. “But I’m happy for the breather. Gives me the chance to do a little extra.”

“This theme is fabulous,” I said, stepping close to the east wall and touching one of the gingerbread men’s arms. “It gives the White House such a cozy feeling.”

“This is a first for me. I didn’t know how hard it would be to sort through submissions from all over the country.” Her eyes widened and her voice lowered. “It was a nightmare,” she said. “Which is why we’re running later this year than I expected. There’s so much more involved with accepting decorations for the White House from people. Everybody has to be checked out thoroughly before we even think about using their pieces.” She took a slow look around the room, a satisfied smile on her face. “But it was sure worth it.”

“Did you turn anyone down?”

She wrinkled her nose. “A few. Some arrived broken, some didn’t follow directions and sent gingerbread men that were the wrong size, or the wrong shape. Part of what makes an overall design work is consistency in the right places.” She shot me a conspiratorial grin. “Of course, we don’t tell people that their kids’ artwork has been relegated to the basement cafeteria. We just send them the official thank-you letter and let them know their efforts are appreciated. They’ll never know.”

“Speaking of gingerbread men,” I said, “I gave Marcel some from the Blanchard kids. I didn’t see them in the Red Room like Senator Blanchard requested.”

Kendra’s eyebrows raised. “Preferential treatment?”

“You know it.” I ticked my fingers. “One, he’s a senator. Two, he’s a special friend of the First Lady’s, and three… the decorations are really well-done.”

A skeptical look. “From Blanchard’s kids?”

I winked as I started back to the Red Room. “Rumor has it the Blanchard chef put them together.”

She shook her head. “Why am I not surprised?”

Back in the Red Room, I happened upon Yi-im, who was touching up the house with a cup of powdered sugar and a tiny paintbrush. “Did the house survive the move all right?” I asked.

He canted his head, nodded, then went back to work.

After a few minutes of checking the room, I approached him again. “Where are the gingerbread men from Senator Blanchard?”

Yi-im’s jaw moved sideways, as though he were considering my question. Finally, he shook his head and shrugged. Did this man never talk?

Just as I was about to ask him again where they might be, Marcel came in, his face shiny from exertion, but his demeanor high and cheerful. “She looks marvelous, no?” he asked us.

Yi-im straightened and I told Marcel how fabulously things were coming together.

He beamed. “It is time to ensure that my masterpiece is fully functional,” he said, moving to the rear of the platform upon which the house sat. He plugged it into the wall. “We must see.” Turning to Yi-im, he waved his hand, one finger aloft, encompassing the room’s illumination. “Please lower the lights.”

Yi-im obliged. The moment the room was darkened-not terribly dark since daylight still brightened the windows- Marcel stepped back and rested his hand on the switch located behind the gingerbread building. “We are ready, yes?”

I nodded.

When Marcel flicked the switch, the gingerbread White House lit up from the inside. A warm, golden glow emanated from each frosty window and suffused the creation with a curious joy.

“Oh,” I said, unable to conjure up anything else.

“But wait,” Marcel said. “As they say on the television-there is more.” He fiddled behind the structure for a moment. “Yi-im is seeing to it that the First Lady will be able to light this with a single control, aren’t you, Yi-im?”

The smaller man nodded.

Marcel flicked a second switch and the corner poles I’d asked about before came alive with sudden brightness. “Sparklers?” I asked.

He shook his head. “No, but they mimic the illusion, do they not?” He drew me closer. “They are able to continue sparkling for hours by using a method of constant feed.” He pointed to the bottom of one of the corner poles. “I have added these-they are spring-loaded to provide… what is the best word? Fuel? To each little flame.”

“Aren’t these a fire hazard?”

Marcel fixed me with a frown. “Do you not think that I have made certain to clear this with our Secret Service?” He shook a finger at me. “This is very low-grade. And not hot. Try touching it.”

I waved my finger over the top of the bouncing brightness. “It’s cool,” I said, surprised.

“But of course.”

“I’m impressed, Marcel. As always.”

He smiled, the feathers I’d unintentionally ruffled back in place. Clicking the house “off” again, he asked Yi-im to restore the lights. When he did, Marcel explained, “I have more of this fuel in my kitchen to replace as necessary.”

“Sounds like you have everything covered.”

“Again I say: But of course.” Big grin this time.

“By the way,” I said, when Yi-im resumed his sugar painting, and Marcel started his own personal inspection, “have you seen the gingerbread men the Blanchard children made?”

“The children?” he said, with a snort. “Certainly not. But I do have the gingerbread men sent to us from the Blanchard household, if that is what you are asking.”

I smiled at his clarification. “It is.”

“We will incorporate those with the house.” He pointed to a position on the wall just above the gingerbread building. “They will be placed there,” he said. “I wanted to fully test my house first and then we shall add in finishes as necessary.”

A soft voice from behind us. “Oh, Marcel.”

We turned. The First Lady had come in from the Blue Room, her hands clasped high to her chest. “How exquisite.”

Marcel’s dark face blushed and I noticed a drip of perspiration wend its way down near his ear. For all his bravado and bluster, Marcel was just as nervous as the rest of us to make sure everything went perfectly well. “Thank you, madame.”

Yi-im scampered out of the way as Mrs. Campbell made a slow show of inspecting the gingerbread house. “I am in awe,” she said.

Not wanting to disturb her while she talked with our pastry chef, I began to back out of the room.

“Just a moment, Ollie,” she said, holding up a finger. “If you don’t mind.”

What could I do? I mumbled acknowledgment and stood near the door to the cross hall, watching.

Mrs. Campbell took a few long moments to study the frivolous yet inspiring details worked into the piece. She smiled, but I thought it a sad smile. “At a time like this, it is good to be reminded of beauty. I am humbled by your talent, Marcel.”

Marcel gave a little bow. “You honor me, madame.”

“Thank you,” she said, in a near-breathless voice. Nodding to Yi-im, she made her way to me and guided us both into the cross hall. She didn’t stop there, however, instead waiting until we were in the center of the Entrance Hall to talk.

“Would it be too much trouble to arrange for a dinner tomorrow evening?” she asked.

“Of course not,” I said quickly. When the First Lady asks for anything, the answer is always an enthusiastic yes. “For how many?”

“Four,” she said. “My colleagues Nick Volkov, Senator Blanchard, and Helen Hendrickson will be joining me here.”

I opened my mouth to say something, thought better of it, and clammed up again.

Mrs. Campbell blinked moist eyes. “You have been privy to a great deal of information lately,” she said. “I apologize for that. I sense your apprehension.”

“It’s not my place…”

“Perhaps not, Ollie, but I plan to get this matter settled once and for all.”

I couldn’t stop myself this time. “Have you decided to sell?” Horrified that the question popped out, I raised my hand to my mouth. “Sorry.”

She didn’t appear to get angry. Rather she smiled, then sighed, deeply, looking away, as though speaking to herself-convincing herself of what she planned to say to her three friends. “No matter what they tell me, I can’t believe Sean took his own life. I also cannot believe that he gave me bad advice. I trusted Sean.” She met my eyes again. “I can’t make such a monumental decision with so much that hasn’t been explained.”

I hesitated, but knew that if I didn’t speak up now, I’d be sorry later. “I have a letter,” I said, “from Sean.”

My words puzzled her. “What are you talking about?” she asked. “He sent you something? When?”

“He left it for me, on my computer,” I said, explaining how I’d found it, and what the letter had said. I finished by adding that I was also convinced that the letter’s tone was such that I couldn’t imagine Sean taking his life either.

“Where is it?” she asked.

“I still have it on my computer,” I said, pointing down toward the kitchen. “But I gave a copy of it to Special Agent-In-Charge Gavin.”

She considered that. “Would you please make a copy for me?”

“Of course,” I said, starting for the stairs. “I’ll do that right now.”

“I’ll come with you.”

Everyone in the kitchen stopped what they were doing to welcome the First Lady. Her visit wasn’t completely without precedent, but it wasn’t the norm. “Thank you,” she said, with her characteristic grace. “I won’t be in your way for very long. Ollie has something of importance to share with me, and then I’ll be out of your hair.”

When her back was turned, Bucky’s eyes rolled so far up into his head I thought he might be on the verge of collapse. I warned him with a glare.

Mrs. Campbell took time to speak with Cyan, Rafe, and Agda while I pulled up my files. Bucky whispered close: “Always nice to cozy up to the First Family, isn’t it? Lots of perks can come your way when you’re buddy-buddy with the boss.”

“Back off,” I said.

He did, but took a long moment to stare at me. I couldn’t tell what crazy thoughts danced behind those murky eyes. I could tell he’d been surprised by my sharp retort, but I wasn’t sure if the added emotion was amusement or fury. And I didn’t have time to bother.

As I clicked at my keyboard, my stomach jittered. What if it had been deleted? Or what if someone else had come across Sean’s letter and modified it? I eyed Bucky, who I discovered was eyeing me back. It would be just like him to think he was funny by messing with my stuff-and I remembered Sean’s concerns about Bucky being annoyed with him for accessing my computer.

My head pounded with worry and potential embarrassment as I pulled up a list of recent documents. Even as I rationalized that a true copy still existed-with Gav-I worried that this one would be gone and I’d be the laughingstock once again. After the bomb incident-the bomb that everyone believed was fake, but I knew to be real-even I thought I was starting to sound like Chicken Little.

“Come on,” I whispered, urging the computer to move faster. I double-clicked on the file, exasperated when I was rewarded by the little hourglass that warned me to wait.

The computer made that unwelcome and not-very-nice sound when it can’t find what it’s looking for.

“No,” I said, softly.

Cyan broke away from the First Lady. “Are you looking for what I think you’re looking for?”

Her eyes today were amber brown. I stared into them. “It’s not here.”

“Hang on.” She leaned in to where I was working and commandeered the mouse. She double-clicked on a file titled “YEO” and then typed in a password when prompted. Winking at me, she whispered, “Buckminster.” Bucky’s full name. Good choice, I thought.

A split second later, Sean’s document was on the screen.

“There,” she said.

Amazed by her foresight, I thanked her. “YEO?” I asked.

“Stands for ‘Your Eyes Only.’ In my culinary school, students were always trying to steal one another’s ideas. I learned to password-protect early.” With a shrug, she started back toward the counter, but leaned forward to add, “I thought this one was worth protecting.”

“You’re good,” I said, clicking the command to print.

“Just watching your back.”

Mrs. Campbell continued talking with the other chefs as I pulled Sean’s letter from the printer. When I had it in hand, she turned to me. “A moment, Ollie?”

We walked out across the Center Hall into the Map Room, where Mrs. Campbell read the letter. I would have preferred to allow her to read it by herself, but she asked me to stay when I offered to give her privacy.

When she looked up, her eyes were shining. “Thank you,” she said. “I know just what to do with this.”

“You know that Gav has a copy, too?”

She smiled. “I’m certain he’s doing the best he can. But one of the benefits of my position is that it allows me to cut through red tape when I need to. You have done me a great favor, Ollie. And you’ve done the president a great favor as well.”

I felt myself blush.

“I know you have a lot to do, so I won’t keep you longer, but I want you to know that my husband and I appreciate all you do for us.” She looked down at the letter, then up at me. “Today… and every day.”

ON MY RIDE HOME, I STAYED HYPER-ALERT FOR any sign that I was being followed-any hint that people were out to get me. Today’s stand-down on the reception, however, meant that our work load lessened and my commute home was at a more busy time than when I’d been attacked. It was getting dark, but it wasn’t terribly late. There were people everywhere-and so many on the Metro that I had to stand for part of the trip. I didn’t mind. Oblivious humanity provided a degree of comfort.

I reached into my replacement purse and smiled. How appropriate, I thought-the chef carrying pepper spray to defend herself. After my last altercation, I realized I needed to take a more proactive approach to guarding my safety.

I had to admit that I didn’t expect to be attacked again, but what I really didn’t expect was a reporter outside my apartment building. I didn’t realize at first that the woman sitting alone in an idling Honda Civic was waiting for me.

“Olivia Paras?” the woman asked too eagerly as she alighted.

My stomach squeezed. What now? There were so many things going on-the two recent deaths, the fake bomb, the real bomb, the cancelation of today’s event at the White House-that I couldn’t begin to guess what this lady wanted to talk with me about.

I tried getting past her but she stepped in front of me. She spoke into a handheld microphone that appeared to be connected to a recorder on the hip of her fur coat. “Olivia Paras, you’re the White House executive chef…”

Tell me something I don’t know.

“What can you tell us about tomorrow’s dinner?”

She shoved the microphone at me. I blanked. “Dinner?”

“We understand that the First Lady is meeting with Nicholas Volkov.”

As she said Volkov’s name, she widened her eyes and slowed her speech, giving the name additional weight.

The microphone popped in front of me again. “I’m sorry. I’m going in now.” I pointed up toward my floor. “And I’m cold.”

“But don’t you think the American public deserves to know if the First Lady is planning to meet with an accused murderer?”

My jaw dropped. I started to say, “What?” then thought better of it. Although I wanted to ask a million questions, I said, “I have nothing to say.”

The reporter’s shoulders drooped. “Ms. Paras, please,” she said, her voice quietly entreating. “My name is Kirsten Zarzycki. I’m with Channel Seven News. May I call you Livvie?”

Livvie? My reaction must have shown, because she started to apologize. “Channel Seven?” I said, my eyes raking the Honda behind her. “I-”

“You’ve never seen me. I’m new,” she said. “But I’ve been looking into all this for a while now and I think I’m onto something.” She lifted one shoulder. “I can’t get clearance to talk to any of the big shots involved, but I thought that maybe, since you’re planning the dinner, you might have some insight into what’s going on there.”

I rubbed my forehead and stared at this girl. Kirsten Zarzycki was younger than I was, by at least five years, and taller than me by at least five inches. Blonde, eager, and looking as though the high-rise pumps she wore were squeezing her feet, she pleaded, with both her eyes and her words.

“Listen, I’m trying to make a name for myself here,” she said. “You’ve got to be able to share something with me.” Now both shoulders shrugged and I wondered how many innocent foxes gave their lives for her protection against the night’s chill.

“I don’t have anything, and even if I did…” My mind raced. Volkov accused of murder? Could he have been the one who-

“That’s it,” she said, the excitement in her voice pushing it up an octave. “I see it in your face. You do know something. I know you do. You just might not realize how much you know. Come on,” she said, blinking rapidly. “You’re where you want to be in this world. Can’t you give a hand up?”

Plying me with almost the same argument Bindy had, she blinked again. I wondered if this tactic worked to better effect on men. I hoped not.

“Sorry,” I said, starting for my front door. My woolen coat was no match for the cold air, although little Miss High Heels seemed toasty in her fur.

“What about Zendy Industries?” she asked, desperation shooting her voice even higher. “I hear that Mrs. Campbell refuses to sell out. But does she realize how much Volkov’s involvement will hurt her investment?”

“Mrs. Campbell’s investments are none of my business.” I smiled. “Nor are they yours.”

She called after me. “Don’t you think this makes Mrs. Campbell a target now?”

I turned to face her. Anticipation sparked Kirsten’s eyes.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“I’ve been doing some research into Zendy,” she said. “I’m trying hard to make this into a story. But nobody seems to care.”

I shivered and wanted her to get on with it. “What did you mean when you said that the First Lady was a target?”

“It all revolves around Zendy.” She bit the insides of her cheeks and I could tell she was weighing how much to share. “Volkov needs the money from the sale of the company, right?”

I shrugged.

“It’s in the news. No secret there. His legal troubles are no secret either. The other thing that’s only slightly more confidential is that the company can’t be sold unless all four of the heirs vote unanimously to sell it.”

I knew that much. This girl wasn’t going to make it big in the media unless she could come up with something hotter than that.

“Who did Nick Volkov supposedly kill?” I asked.

“You don’t know?”

I saw my capital dropping fast in her estimation. I shook my head.

“Mrs. Campbell’s father.”

That took me aback.

She frowned. “You really don’t have any information, do you?”

“And you think Mrs. Campbell is a target because…”

“With her father dead, she’s the only person standing in the way of the sale of Zendy Industries,” Kirsten said with exasperation. “I’m connecting the dots here. I think when Volkov killed Mrs. Campbell’s father, he assumed she’d be ready to just sign everything away.”

I decided not to remind her that in America people are innocent till proven guilty. That wouldn’t have stopped this girl’s cascade of information. By the way her breaths spun out into the night in short, agitated spurts, I could tell she was so tightly wound up with this story that the truth wouldn’t stop her now. “But if you’re right,” I said, “and Volkov is arrested, then the danger’s gone, isn’t it?”

“Maybe,” she said. “But I have to convince someone he’s guilty.”

“What else do you know?” I asked.

She twisted her mouth. “You’re getting more out of me than I’m getting out of you.”

“Maybe that’s because there’s no story here.” I started for my front door again, not acknowledging any of the questions she shouted to my back. I waved without turning, and called, “Good night!”