All the President’s Menus

by Julie Hyzy

  He looked directly into my eyes. “What I want is what’s right for both of us.” He placed his glass down and motioned for me to do the same. I complied. After I did, he took both my hands in his. “I will never ask you to give anything up that’s important to you for something that’s important to me.”

  “But”—I knew I was arguing against myself here—“isn’t that what people do in a marriage? And if we don’t take it on, won’t you be giving up this chance for me?”

  He let go of my hands. “I will never ask you to give up your life here in D.C.,” he began again, “but what if? What if when the next president comes in, you tender your resignation, and he or she accepts it?”

  That was a constant fear I harbored in my heart.

  “Would you be content working in a hotel kitchen?” he asked. “Would you start your own restaurant?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Which is why I’m hoping you and I can talk about this. I can’t work in the field forever. Even though I’m recovered from my recent injury, I know that agents don’t have lengthy careers in positions where physical stamina and prowess are requirements. There are always younger, stronger, savvier young recruits eager to take our spots.” He stared away for a moment, and I wondered what he was seeing. “I would feel claustrophobic in a desk job. I’ve always known that, and I constantly fight the demons that warn that my days are numbered.”

  I reached forward to touch him. “You’re nowhere close to being finished in the field.”

  “I know,” he said, turning to me again. “I plan to push myself for as long as I can. But this recent injury has been my wakeup call. I can’t deny the fact that there will come a time when I’m no longer assigned to hunt down the bad guys. What then? I’ve never allowed myself to think that far ahead.”

  He gave me a sad smile. “Future plans and I never seemed to get along very well.” He grasped my hands again. “Until you came into my life, Olivia Paras.”

  I swallowed at the emotion laid bare in his eyes.

  “Now,” he said, “I’m less afraid of making plans, but I’ve avoided the whole issue for so long that I don’t know where to begin.” His shoulders raised up, ever so slightly. “This situation with Bill and Erma came out of the blue. I need your help to decide what we ought to do about it.”

  I still didn’t have an answer and knew I wouldn’t for what might be a long time. “What will happen if you turn them down?”

  When he let go of my hands again, he smiled. “Apparently, they’ve already written their will, leaving everything to me. Whether I choose to run the winery or not is completely immaterial. They hope I will, of course—they want me to—but once ownership transfers to me, the property is mine to do as I see fit. I can sell it, lease it out, hire others to run it—whatever I choose. They made it clear that this was a gift with no strings attached.”

  “They are incredibly generous people.”

  “And if I had my wish, they would run Spencer’s Vineyards forever. But they’re making future plans, and that’s causing me to assess mine, which means ours.” He lifted my glass and handed it to me, then picked his own glass back up. “For now, we can put this on the back burner. No pressure, Ollie. None at all.” He raised his glass as though in a toast. “To our future together. Whatever it holds.”

  We clinked our glasses.

  “To our future,” I said.

  CHAPTER 17

  “You look exactly like Cyan did when word came down about the sequester,” Bucky said when he walked in the next morning. As he removed his windbreaker and began donning his smock, he added, “She wasn’t thrilled to be temporarily laid off, but she knew this was the kick in the pants she needed to assess her future.”

  Bucky was far more astute than I sometimes gave him credit for. I’d been thinking about my conversation with Gav the night before, but wasn’t ready to share this new dilemma with my assistant. “I desperately want her back,” I said, “but I know that her best direction may lie elsewhere.”

  “Don’t change the subject.” Bucky crossed his arms. “Your eyes are animated, yet your expression says dread.”

  “Is that so strange?” I asked, feigning innocence. “We finally have an event to plan—at Blair House, which makes it special—and Virgil might be gone for good. Why wouldn’t I be upbeat about that?”

  “You skipped over the ‘dread’ part of my comment. What’s bothering you, chief?”

  I told him about Marcel’s chocolate. “I managed to find the leftovers in the chocolate shop. It’s safe in our refrigeration area.” I pointed in the general direction. “Top shelf where no one ever looks,” I said. “I’ll take half of it home with me tonight so that Gav can have it tested.”

  The Saardiscan foursome walked in. “Good morning,” I said, hoping they hadn’t heard any of the prior conversation. What with Marcel’s allegations about Kilian, Tibor’s unpleasantness, and the reluctant cooperation from Hector and Nate, I didn’t fully trust any of them. I made a mental note to pull the chocolate out from its top-shelf position and hide it elsewhere, just in case.

  “Good morning,” Tibor said, surprising me with his cheery tone and the hint of a smile on his craggy face.

  Three of the men appeared to be in particularly jovial moods. Kilian was the lone exception. He barely met my eyes. I wondered what was up. “How are you all this morning?”

  With their backs turned to me, the others donned aprons and I couldn’t see their expressions, but Tibor continued the conversation. “Today is looking to be a strong and good day,” he said.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  Tibor scowled. “Nothing of consequence to you.” He must have read my reaction because he hastened to explain, “We are happy because we have successfully completed our first week. Kilian has submitted reports to our superiors, and all have been approved.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” I said. “That must be a relief. Is it, Kilian?”

  The doughy-faced man glanced up, his normally pink cheeks pale and damp. “Yes,” he said. “Yes.”

  * * *

  Later that morning, after we’d finished preparing breakfast, I pulled them all together. One of the items we intended to serve at Kerry Freiberg’s dinner was a traditional Saardiscan dish that, based on the ingredient list Kilian had provided, resembled a version of my squash soup.

  “The Secret Service delivered the final ingredients we needed,” I said to Kilian. “Apparently the first several establishments they visited were out of pears.”

  “I am looking forward to instructing you both.” His mood had not improved greatly. As he addressed his colleagues, I got the impression he had his game face on. “We have all made a variation of bazadyn, no?”

  The three men nodded.

  “And we all have our unique touches that make bazadyn our own.” Kilian held a pencil aloft, like an orchestra conductor holding a baton. “We will all share our secret ingredients and methods so that we are all bazadyn brothers.” He nodded to me. “And sisters.”

  The men nodded again, though I noticed Nate did so hesitantly. The peculiar look in his eyes led me to believe that he was worried. I would even go so far as to say there was a flash of terror there. A chef caught without his tools. As though he didn’t have a secret ingredient or method to share with his brethren and was worried they might think less of him.

  We took up positions around the central counter, forming a rough circle. This way. we could follow along with every step and be able to compare, contrast, and learn as we went along.

  Kilian stood with his back to the westernmost door and I stood directly across the stainless steel workspace. Bucky and Nate were to my left along one side, Hector and Tibor to my right. “Shall we begin?” I asked.

  Kilian’s chubby cheeks, still pale, grew ever more pink as he began the instruction. “Have you ever appreciated the beauty of the lowly squash?” he asked as he hefted a ridged green globe. “You Americans call this the acorn squash. And thi
s”—he picked up one of the other gourds in front of him—“the butternut squash, yes?”

  He looked to me for acknowledgment. I nodded.

  “As ingredients go, the squash is not especially attractive. But it is solid.” He knocked his knuckles against the pale sitar-shaped vegetable. “And delightfully versatile.”

  If Kilian planned to wax poetic about every ingredient and every step, we could be at this countertop all morning. Good thing the First Lady was out today, and the president was lunching in the Navy Mess. There were still a few things I needed to do before dinner tonight, however. I made a mental note to keep an eye on the clock.

  The rotund man leaned forward, eager to corral our attention. “Let us talk further about these menu mainstays. As our esteemed hosts know, there are many varieties to choose from.” He smiled at me and at Bucky, then turned his attention to his colleagues. “I have tasted Tibor’s version of bazadyn but have not had the pleasure to sample yours, Nate. Nor yours, Hector.” His head turned from side to side as he addressed the men. “I know that your provinces are not always as well stocked as ours. Which types of squash have you had the opportunity to work with?”

  Put on the spot, Hector opened his mouth. Instead of an answer, he made a strange gargling noise. His eyes went wide, and he grasped at his neck.

  “Are you all right?” Kilian asked.

  I started for Hector, who was now gasping and coughing. He sat on the floor, one hand still at his neck, the other pressing against his forehead. “I’m all right,” he managed to say. “I was dizzy for a moment there.”

  “Do you need us to summon the doctor?” I asked.

  “I will be fine.” He put his face down and wrapped both hands around the back of his head. “Please. I need only to sit.”

  I crouched next to him. Bucky came around the other side. “Let’s get you somewhere more comfortable,” he said.

  Kilian came around the counter. “What is wrong?”

  “Have you eaten today?” I asked Hector.

  He shook his head. Swallowed, with difficulty.

  Kilian lowered himself to the floor. “You had only coffee this morning, yes?”

  Hector nodded.

  “Maybe he’s feeling faint then?” I asked. Turning to Bucky, I said, “You’d better get the doctor here, just in case.”

  Hector put a hand out as though to stop him, but Bucky paid him no mind.

  In an effort to keep Hector alert and talking, I asked, “Nothing besides coffee? Do you need to eat?”

  Kilian answered for him. “We all had coffee. At the hotel. Nothing more.”

  “Were you feeling ill this morning?” I asked. “Is that why you didn’t have breakfast?”

  Kilian was perched on the balls of his feet, knees bent, so close I could touch him if I wanted to. He leaned forward, pressing a hand to the ground in front of him, as though stopping himself from losing his balance. “Oh,” he said.

  His face had gone white as bleached flour.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  He didn’t answer. Struggling not to topple over, he thrust a hand upward, grasping the side of the countertop. “I must have moved too quickly,” he tried to say. “My head.” But his words had begun to slur.

  “Kilian,” I said. “What’s going on?”

  I looked around for help. Tibor edged away and Nate stared down at me, blinking as though confused. I was crouched between two ailing men in a particularly narrow portion of the kitchen, wedged between stainless steel cabinets. To my right, Hector groaned. His head dropped forward, and he toppled sideways.

  Kilian coughed, then sat on the ground, hands at his head. He’d grown even more pale and his skin was shiny with sweat. His mouth opened and a deep gurgle erupted from within. “I am—” he said, then froze.

  “Kilian,” I said, but the unfocused look in his eyes stopped me. I reached to grab him as I called to Nate to come around the other way. “Help Hector,” I said. “Get behind him and pull him into the corridor. We need to get him some air.”

  Tibor had backed into the doorway, the horror in his expression making it clear that he’d be no help at all.

  Nate was attempting to drag Hector out where he could be more easily administered to, whispering what sounded like assurances to the stricken man.

  Hector was conscious at least, looking frightened, but alert.

  I couldn’t say the same for Kilian. The portly man had passed out, falling backward and hitting his head against a metal edge. He’d clutched his chest with one meaty hand, but as I leaned over him, his grip loosened and his arm fell slack to the floor.

  I turned Kilian’s face toward mine, but his fixed gaze confirmed the worst. Bucky rushed in with the doctor close behind, as I desperately tried to bring Kilian back by sheer force of will. “Kilian.” I leaned forward to begin CPR. “Breathe,” I ordered him.

  The doctor pulled me to my feet, taking my place in the small space between cabinets. He began CPR compressions as he called for resuscitation equipment. I stared down at the motionless chef at my feet.

  Kilian was gone. I had no doubt.

  Shaking myself back into awareness, I forced myself to think, to prioritize. “Hector was struck down, too,” I said to the doctor. Pointing toward the small group now outside the kitchen’s walls, I added, “He’s still alive. Help him.”

  The doctor acknowledged me. He continued to try to revive Kilian, as I knew duty required, while I made my way to where Bucky was helping Hector. To my great relief, the young Saardiscan was still alert. Someone had brought him a glass of water, and although color hadn’t returned to his face, he was able to answer each of the medical assistant’s questions.

  Bucky nudged my arm. “Kilian?” he asked.

  I kept my lips tight and shook my head.

  “First Marcel, now this. What is happening here?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Hector was back on his feet by the time the Secret Service took Kilian’s body away. Nate stayed next to his shaky colleague, looking ready to leap into action if Hector so much as swayed. Tibor steered clear of them both, informing us that if they were contagious, he didn’t want to get close.

  It took some time, but staff members who’d come running finally dispersed, with strong admonitions from Tom and the other Secret Service agents to avoid discussing the incident with the press.

  Tom pulled me aside before he left. “Let us handle this, Ollie,” he said.

  “A man dies in my kitchen, another is stricken and almost passes out, and you expect me to pretend it didn’t happen?”

  “I’m not asking you to pretend anything,” he said. “Let’s just try to keep things quiet.”

  “What about the chocolate?” I watched his face as I pressed the issue. “After this, don’t you think we ought to put a rush on the test?”

  He stepped closer, giving quick looks around to ensure no one could listen in. Quietly, he said, “I have already asked them to run scans on Kilian’s body for GHB, is that what you want to hear?”

  “Good,” I said. “It’s too much of a coincidence. There has to be a connection.”

  “For all our sakes, I hope there isn’t. I intend to check.” He started away just as Peter Everett Sargeant approached.

  Following Tom, I asked, “What about Hector? What did he tell you?”

  “He takes medication and believes he may have accidentally double-dosed this morning. Exactly the way Marcel did.” Tom raised both eyebrows. “Does that satisfy you, Sherlock?”

  I was about to ask Tom what kind of medication, but he anticipated the question.

  “The man’s medical history is not my business,” he said. “I didn’t ask because I don’t need to know. Neither do you.”

  “Wait,” I said, as he turned to leave again. “What about GHB? You’re having Hector tested for that, too, aren’t you?”

  Tom worked his jaw, settled himself, then said, “The only reason I’m answering is
because I know how difficult you can be when you think people are hiding the truth from you. Yes, we will request that he submit himself for testing.” Tom straightened to his full height, towering over me. “Anything else you need to know?”

  “No,” I said coolly. “Thank you.”

  “Ms. Paras,” Sargeant said when Tom was out of earshot, “marriage hasn’t changed you a bit, has it?”

  I graced him with a withering glance, which he chose to ignore.

  “Yet again we have an international crisis on our hands,” he said. “The Saardiscans may be surprised to find the White House chef at its epicenter, but clearly, no one here is even raising an eyebrow.”

  “What do you need, Peter?”

  He scratched the side of his mouth. “Your cooperation, of course. There will be questions, many of them. I wouldn’t be surprised if the Saardiscan government ordered its delegates home immediately.”

  “I hope they do,” I said under my breath.

  “Oh? And why is that?”

  I obviously hadn’t muttered quietly enough. “It wasn’t until these chefs showed up that strange things started to happen.”

  He almost smiled at that. “The same could be said of you, Ms. Paras.” Without giving me opportunity to respond, he went on. “You and I will need to discuss all that transpired here, but first I need to contact the Saardiscans and offer our sincere condolences. I have no idea how this incident will affect their decision to allow Ms. Freiberg to return.” He sniffed, glanced around the room, and added, “Margaret will be in touch with you to set up a meeting time. I trust you will make yourself available.”

  With that, he turned and left the kitchen.

  When he was gone, I made my way into the middle of the room, where Nate and Bucky kept watch over Hector. Tibor studied them from across the room. Kilian’s death, so sudden, and in my kitchen, made my knees weak with sadness, but there wasn’t time to grieve now.

  Nate and Hector were talking quietly in Saardiscan when I approached. Although I couldn’t understand their words, I sensed the tone and could read their body language. It seemed to me that Nate was warning Hector to be more careful, or perhaps to take the day off. Hector wore a distressed expression, and nodded a lot.