Hail to the Chef

CHAPTER 6

BY THE NEXT MORNING, A GREAT PALL HAD settled on the White House. As I shredded sharp white Cheddar for our baked farfalle, I tried without success to fight the sadness. Today hardly felt like the day before a holiday. Although Cyan, Bucky, and I went through the motions of preparing this year’s Thanksgiving meal, we did so with little of the joy that usually accompanied our planning. There was no banter, no chitchat. Conversations were brief, and even our more fun-loving assistants kept to themselves when stopping in to pick up or drop off necessary items. Agda, of course, remained unaffected by the situation’s gravity, but as she kneaded dough that would later become tiny rolls, she must have sensed our collective sadness because she gave us sympathetic glances whenever she looked up from her work.

“We have another SBA chef coming in today,” I told the group.

Bucky had been adding chunks of pork roast to an open pan on the stove. We always prepared the meat filling the day before assembling tamales. He turned. “Did you bother with an interview this time?” he asked with a pointed look at Agda.

“As a matter of fact, I didn’t,” I said. “We were able to get Rafe.”

“Rafe!” Cyan said, exhibiting the first cheer this kitchen had seen all day. “That’s perfect. He’s a genius with sauces.”

“Hmph,” Bucky said, which I took as his version of support. Without an opening to badger me, he returned to his task, covering the pork with water and setting the flame below the pan to medium. Before long the kitchen would be filled with the succulent, roasty smell of the simmering meat. Keeping his back to me, Bucky asked, “Did you talk to Henry? About Gene, that is.”

“I called him last night before I left here,” I said. “Henry’s planning to come to the wake.”

“I figured he’d want to know.” Despite Bucky’s persistent crankiness and his singular ambition to prove himself right in all instances, he wasn’t a bad fellow. His shoulders and arms moved around a lot as he worked-as though in an animated conversation with himself. The back of his bobbing head, freckled in the small patch where he’d begun to lose his hair, looked suddenly vulnerable and weak. He shrugged to no one, talking softly. “Hell of a way to go.”

I was about to agree, when I thought about my conversation with Henry. He’d been shocked and saddened by the news of Gene’s death, but then what he’d said next struck a chord with me. “I’ve had friends at the White House pass away before, but never like this. Never had to deal with an accident of that magnitude. I give you credit, Ollie. I don’t know how I would cope.”

I’d demurred, knowing full well that Henry always found ways to deal with new situations. He’d have certainly found a way to cope.

I stopped shredding the Cheddar to take a look around my kitchen. Agda kneaded her dough at one corner of the center workstation, humming softly. Cyan slumped before the computer, an open cookbook on her lap. Bucky moved as though by rote.

“Before Rafe gets here,” I said, clearing my throat, “I think we all need to-”

“Talk?” Bucky asked. “Share our feelings? Should we stand around the countertop, hold hands, and sing ‘Kumbaya’?” He blew out a breath, raspberry style. “This is a kitchen, not a grief support group.”

Cyan looked taken aback. So did Agda, whether she understood or not.

But I’d caught the look in Bucky’s eyes before he’d masked it with sarcasm. I realized our resident curmudgeon was afraid we’d see that he was hurting, too. If Henry had been here, male camaraderie might have allowed him to pat Bucky sympathetically on the back. Maybe that would’ve started the healing process. I didn’t know. All I knew for certain was that I wasn’t Henry. So I’d have to do what I felt was best, given the circumstances.

“I think we all need to recognize something.” I wiped my hands and came around to his side of the kitchen. Cyan rounded in, too. Bucky took a step back, looking as though he expected bodily harm. I continued. “Gene was where he wanted to be when he died. He loved the White House more than he even loved his own home. Ever since his wife died, Gene’s been more than a fixture here; he’s been the embodiment of the White House itself.” Cyan stared downward. Bucky’s mouth twitched and he looked away. “If anyone else had just gone through knee surgery, they would’ve been slow coming back. But Gene wanted to be here for the Christmas preparations.”

Cyan nodded. Bucky worked his jaw.

I lowered my voice. “And he was here. Doing what he loved most.”

Arms folded, Bucky finally met my eyes. “I don’t believe he was being careless.”

For once he and I agreed. “Neither do I.”

“That’s what they’re saying.”

“Who?”

At that moment, Special Agent-in-Charge Gavin stepped into the kitchen, stopping just as he entered, holding his hands behind his back, surveying us. “Good morning,” he said.

I started to make introductions, but he held up an index finger. His other hand swung around, holding a leather portfolio. “As you were,” Gavin said. He eased over to where Agda was working, smiling as though engrossed in what she was doing. “Pretend I’m not here.”

Oh, sure. Like that was possible. I focused my attention back on Bucky and spoke quietly. “Who’s saying Gene was careless?”

Bucky lasered his gaze on Special Agent Gavin. “His guys.”

Realizing our “Kumbaya” moment was over, I sent Cyan and Bucky back to their stations and returned to my shredding, my attention taken not by the hunk of cheese in my hand, but by the chunk of agent in my kitchen.

Agda offered Gavin a tentative smile. He smiled back. This happened several times while he stood next to her. She may not have known who he was, or what a man in a suit was doing in our kitchen, but she was clearly uncomfortable. She inched away. The two were close in height, and every time she looked at him, he nodded encouragingly. Whether he was trying to ingratiate himself here because he was on a get-to-know-the-staff mission, or because he wanted to ask my new assistant chef out on a date, I didn’t know.

I was about to break up this little meeting of the eyes when he spoke. “That smells delicious. What is it you’re making?”

Agda nodded, smiled, and continued to knead the dough.

Gavin’s grip tightened on his portfolio. He used his index finger to point. “What is it?” he asked again. “It looks good.”

Agda kneaded harder, nodded harder. Her cheeks pinkened and her brows shot up.

Bucky exhaled loudly. “She’s Swedish,” he said. “She might not understand.”

“ Sweden?” Gavin asked. “I visited Göteborg last year.”

“Göteborg!” Agda brightened. She exploded at once, chattering, speaking in lilting, excited, rapid Swedish, making me wonder if the famous Muppet might not have a human cousin counterpart after all.

“Sorry,” Gavin said, backing away. Then to me: “She doesn’t understand English?”

“Not much,” Bucky and I said in unison.

Perplexed, Gavin asked, “Then how does she-”

I’d had enough of Gavin’s kitchen inspection, and I was still more than a little annoyed with his belittling me on-stage yesterday. This was my territory and unless he was ready to start sniffing for bombs himself, I wanted him out of here. “Was there something you needed?”

Realizing she didn’t have anyone to talk with after all, Agda’s shoulders slumped and she moved back into her kneading rhythm.

Gavin licked his lips. “Your department was inadvertently left off the schedule for today’s classes. I’m here to ensure you take the necessary steps to get all your employees to training.” He shot a thumb toward Agda. “I don’t know what to do about her. Don’t you see her lack of communication as a security threat?”

“My job is to bring the best food to the table every time the president, his family, and his guests sit down to dine. Isn’t it your job to ensure our safety?”

He waited a beat before answering. When he did, his words were clipped. “I’m glad you realize that. Makes things easier for me.” His chin came up, surveying us once again. “We will call you out one at a time so as not to unduly burden your staff. Since there are four of you-”

“Seven.”

Our man here didn’t like being interrupted. Maybe that was why I enjoyed doing it. I explained: “Our pastry chef and his assistant are elsewhere at the moment. And we have another chef joining us later today. But the new chef and Agda”-I pointed-“are SBA chefs, which means they are not permanent employees of the White House. I don’t know if they should be counted. Does that make a difference?”

“How long will they be in service here?”

“As long as we need them. Given that we have Thanksgiving tomorrow, the Mothers’ Luncheon on Friday, and a couple of other events over the next week, I see them both staying until at least next Thursday. If the social calendar changes, I may keep them on longer.”

Gavin shook his head. “Neither will be required to participate in our training sessions. Just send your permanent employees down. Here’s the schedule.” He pulled a copy from his portfolio and wiped the already sparkling countertop clean before he put it down. “All personnel are required to attend three sessions, designated A, B, and C. We will commence this afternoon and we expect to have everyone sufficiently trained by the weekend.”

“This weekend?”

Gavin spread his hands and gave me a look that said, “Duh.”

“Is there a problem?” he asked.

I bit back a retort. “No,” I answered, deciding right then that I’d wait until Saturday to send any of us in for training. I’d consult with Marcel, of course, but I knew he’d agree. We faced an already hindered, overpacked schedule, and the next two days would be backbreakers. There was no way I could spare even one person. “How long are the classes?” I asked.

“Depends on class participation. Could be as short as an hour, could be as long as three. If people catch on quickly, we’ll move quickly.” Holding up a finger, he said, “But we can only move as fast as the slowest man. Er… woman.” He smiled, like he expected me to laugh.

I picked up the schedule, glanced at it, and placed it with the rest of my important papers in the already overflowing computer area. “Got it,” I said. “Thanks.”

He tugged at his collar. He hadn’t expected to be dismissed.

Recovering, he nodded. “As you were,” he said, then left.

I WAS HEADING TOWARD THE FLORAL DEPARTMENT, just passing the basement bowling alley, when Curly Sheridan emerged from the long hall that led west to the carpenter shop. Manny shuffled behind him. They both wore workpants and chambray shirts with rolled-up sleeves. Manny was only a few years older than I was, but he seemed to have aged in the past couple of days. He grunted hello and turned away, but I stopped Curly. “How’s your wife?” I asked.

He squinted at me. “How do you know about my wife?”

“Gene…” I started to say. My voice faltered. For the briefest moment I’d forgotten all of yesterday’s horror. “Gene… He told me you’d been called to the hospital. Is she all right?” I’d met Mrs. Sheridan a couple times. Sweet woman. Tiny and dark-haired, she didn’t talk much. I attributed that to her being foreign-born and the fact that she was married to truculent Curly.

He grimaced. “She’s having a rough time.”

I didn’t know quite what to say to that. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah.”

Not for the first time did I question Curly’s nickname. The man was mostly bald, with a long scar like a J around his left ear, stretching up and across his shiny pate. It dawned on me suddenly that with Gene gone, Curly was next in command. Manny mumbled, letting Curly know that he’d be upstairs in the Blue Room. Curly started to leave, too, but I stopped him with a hand to his bare forearm. He reacted as if burned.

“What do you want?”

“What really happened yesterday?” I asked. “I mean, Gene was always so careful…”

The squint came back. “Why you asking me?”

“You know these things. You understand them better than I do.”

His perpetual scowl deepened and he shook his head, blowing out an angry breath. “Why does everybody think I know what happened there? I wasn’t with him. I wasn’t there. You were there.”

I felt suddenly small, and the words came out before I could stop myself from asking, “Could I have done something more? Could I have saved him if I’d done something differently?”

The scowl moved, fractionally. Enough for me to wonder if he harbored any sympathy at all, or if he was just trying to decide if I was a crackpot.

“Listen, I’ll tell you what I’ve been telling everybody, including those explosives guys. What are they, anyway? Secret Service? Or military?”

I shook my head. “Not sure.”

“Whatever.” He took a plaid handkerchief out of his back pocket and wiped around the scar. “Gene hit something hot, that’s for sure. I’m working on figuring out exactly what happened. That’s my job today. That, and getting a million other things done.” He grabbed at his empty shirt pocket, as though reaching for phantom cigarettes. Another grimace. “Gene was a big guy, and if you want to know what I think, I’m guessing he leaned up against something metal when he hit the power. He knew better, yeah, and there shouldn’t’ve been enough juice to kill him, but he was using a bad drill. And Gene was always sweating. I think it just all added up to him being careless.”

“You really think so?”

Taking offense to my skeptical tone, he said, “As a matter of fact I do, missy. You asked your question. You got my answer. Now go take care of the food handling and let me do the job they pay me for.”