Hail to the Chef

CHAPTER 3

“ALL CLEAR?” MRS. CAMPBELL ASKED. “WHAT A relief. Was it actually a bomb? Or was this all just precaution?”

Kevin Martin licked his lips. “We are confident that the White House is currently safe from any explosive or incendiary device.”

We’d made our way into the Center Hall. Mrs. Campbell turned to face Martin. “But earlier you said that a bomb was located on the property,” she said. “Is that true? Was it really a bomb?”

He flicked a wary glance at Sean, who clearly understood his cue. “I have to be going anyway,” he said. “See you both on Thursday. Take care, Ollie.”

Another agent stepped up to escort Sean out, but before I could make my own hasty exit, Kevin Martin answered the First Lady’s question. Incurable snoop that I am, I stayed to listen.

“The device we found was not a bomb.”

“Thank goodness,” the First Lady said. She closed her eyes for a long moment, and I felt as though I could almost read her mind. And, I could totally empathize. The relief washing over me was as powerful as it was sudden. This was Mrs. Campbell’s home, and the president’s. But in many ways, it was my home, too. A bomb had threatened to destroy the world’s symbol of freedom. I’d compartmentalized my fear while we were sequestered-I’d pushed it aside to deal with matters at hand. But now that we were back in the residence, and safe, I felt the full weight of the ordeal we’d been through.

Kevin continued. “The fact that there was never an actual bomb on the premises, coupled with the time crunch the staff is under to prepare for Thanksgiving and Christmas”-he acknowledged me with a look-“has convinced us to allow everyone back into the residence for now. However,” he added, arching his brows, “we are at a state of heightened alert. And we are asking the entire staff to be our eyes and ears wherever possible. We’ll call a meeting later with further instructions.”

“If it wasn’t a bomb you found,” I asked, “what was it?”

Kevin hated when I poked my nose where it didn’t belong-a habit I’d gotten into quite often recently, and one he repeatedly tried to quash.

Before he could tell me to butt out this time, however, Mrs. Campbell chimed in. “Yes, what was it?”

“An apparent prank. We’re investigating it now.” He fixated on some middle distance with such laser intensity that I almost pitied today’s prankster. Knowing Kevin and the rest of the Presidential Protection Detail (PPD) as I did, the guilty party would be found. Very soon. “An alert will be distributed to all departments describing what was discovered, and what to look for in the future. We’re bringing in a team of experts to educate the staff.”

When the First Lady turned the conversation to the happenings at Camp David, I made a polite excuse and hurried off to the safety of my kitchen.

Marcel met me as I walked in, his dark face tight with concern. “Where ’ave you been?” he asked. His French accent was ladled on heavier than normal. “We ’ave been very worried.”

“Long story.” I gave my staff a quick rundown of the past several hours.

Bucky frowned. “That’s nice. They put you in a bunker with the First Lady, and they make us wait out on the South Lawn in the storm.” He shook his head. “And now they tell us it’s safe and we’re supposed to believe them.”

“Outside?” I said. Although we were still in the mid-fifties this late in November, it was pouring rain, and definitely too cold to remain outside for very long. “Kevin Martin told me you were safe.”

Cyan, washing dishes, turned off the water and wiped her hands as she came toward me. “We were safe, Ollie,” she said, glaring at Bucky. Although she was at least fifteen years younger, Cyan was almost as accomplished in the kitchen as our senior chef. And in the past couple of months, I’d watched her confidence grow even more. “We weren’t out on the South Lawn; we walked down to E Street, where we sat on buses until they gave the all-clear.”

“It was still storming,” Bucky said. “And cold.”

When I glanced at Marcel, he shrugged. “Eh, the temperature was tolerable. But the boredom was not. We have much to do and this incident has thrown a… flanquer la pagaille… into my plans for the day.”

“If Henry was still here, he would’ve been out in the buses with us. Not cozying up with the First Lady in the bunker.”

Arguing with Bucky over this matter served no purpose, so I changed the subject.

“There will be another guest at Thanksgiving dinner,” I said. “Sean Baxter is coming after all.”

Bucky snorted and headed back to his station, where I could see tonight’s dinner preparations were already under way. “That SBA chef was due here over an hour ago. I’ll bet she gave up when she couldn’t get in.”

“I’m sure the bomb scare changed a lot of plans,” I said evenly. “But I do hope she shows up. We need another pair of hands here by tomorrow at the latest.” The chef in question, Agda, was the first new recruit sent to join our staff. Service-by-Agreement chefs, or SBAs, worked in the White House on a temporary, contractual basis, until a hiring decision was made, or until the SBA chef found another job elsewhere. I’d been an SBA before I accepted a position here. In my opinion, there was no better opportunity anywhere. I hoped this particular chef agreed-after all, we needed the help.

“We’re already behind schedule,” Bucky said.

I bit back the urge to snarl. Hurling sarcastic retorts at those who reported to me was petty. Worse, it was unprofessional. I was beginning to see why Henry never stooped to fight meaningless battles. It wasn’t worth the effort, and it only accomplished the lessening of oneself.

I forced a placid smile. “You’re right, Bucky. That means that we need to work faster if we hope to get tonight’s dinner together on time. Not to mention all the prep work we need to do for tomorrow and Thursday.”

“And Friday,” Cyan added.

I sucked in a deep breath. Friday promised to be a media circus day. Not only was it the last day the White House would be open to the public before the official holiday season began, it was the date of a long-awaited luncheon. Preparations for Thursday’s intimate Thanksgiving meal paled in comparison to those for Friday’s buffet.

On Friday, Mrs. Campbell would open the White House doors to mothers from all over the country. Her goal was to find commonality among all mothers, whether they be working, single, stay-at-home, or sharing child-care duties with a partner. Almost every state would be represented, and every mom was bringing kids, along with homemade decorations for Christmas, Hanukkah, and Kwanzaa. Each invited child had been sent a template of a gingerbread person on which to base his or her artwork. Continuing the theme of how we are all different, yet we celebrate together, the kids were encouraged to create masterpieces within the template’s parameters. Each hand-crafted gingerbread man-or person, in these politically correct times-brought to Friday’s celebration would be added to the hundreds we received by mail per an open call for participation. I could only imagine how tough this security nightmare would be for our Secret Service personnel.

“And Friday,” I finally echoed.

We weren’t quite sure what to expect. We only knew it would be fun for the attendees, and that the news folks would be all over this one like ants on spilled sugar. Not that you would ever find ants in my kitchen.

“Ollie!”

I looked up. Gene Sculka, our chief electrician, stood in the kitchen’s doorway.

“You heading down?” he asked.

I caught myself before asking, “Down where?” Darn. He was talking about today’s staff meeting. In all the excitement, I’d lost track of time.

“Hang on,” I said, grabbing my notebook and pen. “I’ll go with you.” To Bucky, I said, “If Agda shows up, put her to work.”

“Henry would have insisted on a formal interview first.”

I swallowed my frustration. If Bucky planned to challenge my every move, we were in for a long holiday season. “She’s coming from the Greenbriar, so she’s no slouch. She’s been screened and cleared.” Keeping my tone as nonthreatening as possible, I added, “I’ll risk putting her to work right away. We’ll worry about the interview later.”

He turned his back to me. “Whatever you say.”

“That’s the spirit, Bucky.” Without waiting for a reply, I hurried to catch up as Gene headed toward the elevator.

I would have preferred taking the stairs, but that wasn’t an option for our master electrician any longer. Gray-haired and big-boned, he wore his double chin and spare tire with comfort-as though he’d been born with them. He’d joined the White House staff during the Carter administration, and had worked his way up to the top position with his know-how and can-do attitude. “Can’t believe they’re still holding this meeting, what with all the hullabaloo this morning.”

“There’s a lot to be coordinated, especially over the next couple of days. This meeting is probably just to make sure we’re all on track. I’m sure it’ll be quick.”

“It better be,” he said.

“How’s the knee?” I asked, as we rode one floor down to the basement-mezzanine, often referred to as the BM level.

He slapped his right leg. “Good as new,” he said. “I told those doctors they had to get me back to work here by Thanksgiving. And they did.” With a nod to no one, he added, “Nothing was going to keep me from working on the Christmas decorations. I’ve been running the electric here for who knows how long and I’m not about to let anybody take over during my favorite time of the year. No way.”

“We’re all really glad you’re back.” It was true. During Gene’s knee-replacement recuperation, I’d had the misfortune of having to deal with Curly, Gene’s second-in-command. Although the two men were close in age, Curly was as unpleasant as Gene was friendly. I only hoped that when Gene retired, Surly Curly did, too.

We were the last two to arrive for the meeting of the dozen or so department heads. I couldn’t help but think about how much time I was spending away from the kitchen today-in the bunker this morning, and now here in the lower-level cafeteria, where a few staff members were taking lunch breaks.

Our florist, Kendra, leaned forward to talk to me around Gene’s massive form. “No samples for us today?”

I knew what she meant. Today’s cafeteria offerings were pretty basic. For our standard staff meetings, I usually made sure to have a new creation available for my colleagues to sample. Not today. “Limited facilities in the bunker,” I said as I took my seat. “Unless you’d be interested in a hermetically sealed brownie topped with freeze-dried ice cream.” Not an entirely accurate description of MREs, but it garnered a laugh.

“What kind of floral arrangement do you think I should come up with for that little delicacy?” she asked. “Maybe we ought to consider installing silk flowers in the bunker, huh?”

When we both laughed, I started to relax. Sure, this was our busiest time of the year, but now that the morning’s excitement was over, we could finally get to the work at hand.

Up at the front of the room, Bradley Clarke took a few minutes to get himself organized. I seized the opportunity to talk a bit more with Kendra. “Great theme this year,” I said.

“Do you like it?” Kendra asked, clearly not expecting me to answer. “We’ve been working on this since early summer. I think it’s a good one, given the nation’s climate of fear these days.” She shuddered, then went on. “And I like the way it dovetails with President Campbell’s peace platform.”

The First Lady was always credited with the concept, but the truth was, from start to finish, this was a team effort. It took months for the social secretary, the florist, and a myriad of designers to bring the project to life. Most of the decorations were chosen from a vast collection stored nearby in a Maryland warehouse. Our florist alone had a team of more than twenty-five designers who worked odd hours to assemble wreaths, arrange bouquets, and bring design elements from concept to reality.

“Together We Celebrate-Welcome Home,” I recited. “Who came up with the title?”

Kendra blushed. “I did.”

“I love it. And I love the way we’ve used the theme to pay tribute to diversity.”

She gave a little self-deprecating shrug, but I knew she was pleased. “My team has been working hard,” she said. “They’ve put in a lot of time.”

“It shows. I can’t wait to see it all put together.”

Bradley Clarke cleared his throat and called the meeting to order. Tall, and with a perpetually friendly smile, Bradley was the kind of man you worked hard to impress. After a few brief announcements, he said, “Let’s start with the big-ticket items before we go over this morning’s situation. Thanksgiving first. Ollie?”

I brought the staff up-to-date on our menu and made sure that the waitstaff as well as Marguerite, the social secretary, knew that Sean Baxter would be in attendance. Everyone who needed to scribbled notes, as did I when Marguerite informed me that Mrs. Blanchard had sent her regrets.

“Does the First Lady know?”

“I’m meeting with her right after this.”

“Thanks for the heads-up.” Mrs. Blanchard had been our only dietary-alert guest invited to dinner Thursday. “That opens up some possible last-minute additions to the menu,” I said. As I wrote myself a note, I added, absentmindedly, “We’re going to be heavy on male guests this time. Sean Baxter’s coming alone, and now without Mrs. Blanchard…”

Marguerite interrupted. “Treyton Blanchard is bringing his assistant instead.”

“Bindy?” I asked.

Marguerite nodded. “It will be nice to see her.”

“Isn’t that a little odd?” I asked. “Shouldn’t he be with his wife on Thanksgiving?” I knew I’d blurted my thoughts before corralling them, but this was a staff meeting, after all. It was where we were supposed to air our questions.

“Senator Blanchard’s family is hosting dinner at their home later that night for both sides of the family,” she said with a sniff. “Mrs. Blanchard appreciates the invitation, but she knows the Thanksgiving luncheon at the White House will be mostly business. She’d rather stay home with the kids and keep their traditions alive.” Turning down an invitation to the White House was considered sacrilege. “All of this according to Bindy, that is.”

Bindy Gerhardt had been part of the White House staff until she’d accepted a position on Treyton Blanchard’s team. She’d fast-tracked her way into his inner circle, and I started to hear Sean Baxter’s refrain in my head. These people weren’t coming to share a Thanksgiving meal, they were intending to conduct business.

As a former colleague and White House staffer, Bindy would be uniquely qualified to secure Mrs. Campbell’s ear. I was suddenly glad Sean would be at dinner. And especially glad the president would be there to back up his wife.

Marguerite added, “And you know Helen Hendrickson is bringing Aloysius Fitzgerald, right?”

Her attorney. “Yeah,” I said. “And who is Nick Volkov planning to bring? His financier?”

The other department heads looked at me in surprise. Marguerite’s brow furrowed. “The last I heard, he’s bringing his wife.” She tilted her head. “Is there something I should know?”

I waved off her concern. “Sorry. Stressful morning. My mind took a tangent.” Smiling brightly at the group, I continued my update before passing the floor to the next person.

We were just finishing the meeting when one of the assistants came in with a note for Bradley. “Gene,” he said, after he’d read it. “I thought you said the power to the Map Room had been restored.”

Gene rocked back in his chair. “Yep. Last week, just like you asked.”

“Not according to the cleaning crew. They were just in there and couldn’t get the lights to work.”

Gene sat forward, the front chair legs landing with a whump. “Curly said he took care of it.” Shaking his head, he stood. Like the rest of us in the White House, he knew better than to place blame. “I’ll take care of it right now,” he said, and started out as the rest of us got up to leave.

Bradley held up a finger. “We’re almost done here. Before you go, I want to let everyone know that the Secret Service has arranged for”-he hesitated-“classes to educate the staff in threat assessment.”

From the group: “Does this have to do with the thing they found this morning?”

Someone else asked, “What aren’t they telling us?”

Bradley raised both hands. “You guys know the Secret Service. They’ll tell us when and what they need to tell us. Just be aware that you’ll be contacted soon, and that these classes are mandatory.”

Above the disgruntled murmurs, Kendra voiced the concern we all had. “Don’t they know we’re gearing up for Christmas? Can’t this wait till after New Year?”

“Terrorists don’t care how much work we have.” Bradley said. That reflection sobered us all. “Sorry,” he said. “I know the deadlines we’re all up against. If everyone cooperates, we’ll get through this quickly. Okay?”

Gene had already bolted to the door, muttering something about not being able to depend on his people. Curly was in for an earful when Gene got down to the electrical office. Staff members were rarely caught falling down on the job, and Curly, for all his unpleasantness, was generally quite dependable. I wondered what was wrong.