The Fixer

by Jennifer Lynn Barnes

  You aren’t the enemy. That doesn’t mean our goals are aligned. Henry had a goal. He had an agenda. He had a reason for going tonight that had nothing to do with his mother.

  “You have a plan,” I said. “And given that it’s a plan that involves rubbing elbows with several hundred of the city’s most politically powerful people, I’m not feeling very comforted at the moment.”

  “Rest assured, Tess. I can take care of myself.”

  Until he told me that he could take care of himself, it hadn’t occurred to me that whatever he had planned for tonight might be dangerous.

  “What are you going to do?” I asked softly.

  “I’m just going to show up. See people. Be seen.”

  Be seen. Why would Henry want to be seen?

  “Henry, either you tell me exactly what you’re doing, or I’ll tell my sister you’re up to something.”

  The silence on the other end of the phone line grew decidedly chillier. “Fine,” he said stiffly, glaring at me through the phone. “I’m simply interested to see if Carson Dweck has gone back to his source in the West Wing for information on my grandfather’s murder, and if that source is at all curious about how Carson got his information.”

  It took me a few seconds to process that statement. Henry had told the reporter everything we knew. I’d taken him at his word when he’d said that he’d done it so that Ivy wouldn’t be the only one looking into this.

  But if the reporter went back to his source, if his source was in any way involved in the conspiracy . . . My mind raced.

  “You’re trying to draw the third player out,” I realized.

  I wanted to believe that Dweck wouldn’t reveal Henry as the source of his information about the justice’s assassination. I wanted to believe that hadn’t been Henry’s plan all along.

  “So that’s it?” I said. “You start making noise, then parade around at a state dinner and see who takes the bait?”

  “I assure you, I have no intention of parading.”

  “I assure you,” I replied, “that this isn’t going to work. Even if our missing conspirator has heard that you’re asking questions, even if he or she thinks you know too much, they’re not going to make a move in front of three hundred of the president’s closest friends.”

  I could practically hear Henry’s subtle, pointed smile in response to those words. “Then you don’t need to worry about me,” he said. “Do you?”

  I hung up the phone. I took a second to tamp down on my temper, to think this through. In a crowd, with security, Henry would probably be fine. But I couldn’t help thinking that Henry’s grandfather might well have been poisoned at an event just as posh and secure as this one.

  Biting the bullet, I did the only thing I could do. I called Ivy. No answer. I called Bodie. No answer. Where were they? I called Adam. No answer. Ivy again. No answer. I kept calling.

  It was four o’clock. A quick internet search told me the state dinner, honoring the queen of Denmark, started at 7:30 p.m.

  Another call. Still no answer.

  Henry was going to do this. I wasn’t going to be able to stop him. Fine, I thought darkly. I called him back.

  “I’m going with you.” My words came out equal parts promise and threat.

  “As whose date?” Henry asked. “Unless your sister is willing to rustle you up a last-minute invitation—and I think we both know she is not—you have no way in the front door.”

  He was right. Sneaking into a state dinner wasn’t like sneaking into a movie. It was probably a felony.

  “This is a big mistake, Henry.”

  He was quiet for a moment. “I suppose,” he said finally, “that is the only kind of mistake I make.”

  He hung up the phone. I tried Ivy again. Bodie again. Adam again. Where were they?

  Finally, I called Asher back. “We have a problem.”

  “I won’t say I told you so,” Asher replied. “But let’s just take a moment of silence to think about the fact that I was right.”

  I didn’t have time to acknowledge the quip. “What does a person wear to a state dinner?” I asked.

  “Why?” Asher said. “Are we invited?”

  “You aren’t,” I told him. “But with a little luck, I might be.”

  “I’d tell you that was pretty much impossible,” Asher replied, “but you’re Tess Kendrick. My spidey senses tell me that impossible is kind of your thing.”

  After I got off the phone with Asher, I tried Ivy one last time. Wherever she was, whatever she was doing, she still wasn’t picking up. I’d written down a phone number Asher had gotten for me, and I pulled the trigger and called it.

  “Hello?”

  “Anna?” I said. “It’s Tess Kendrick.”

  “Tess!” The vice president’s daughter sounded delighted to hear from me. “What’s up?”

  I walked to the window and stared out at Ivy’s front lawn. “I need a favor.”

  CHAPTER 50

  Asher was supposed to bring me something to wear. Instead, he brought me his twin.

  “I’m not doing this for you,” Emilia told me, thrusting a trio of garment bags at her brother, who obligingly took hold of them. “Asher seems to think your presence at this state dinner is essential for Henry’s continued well-being.” She eyed the foyer, seemingly decided it would not do, then marched up the spiral staircase. She set up camp in my bedroom and pulled out my desk chair. “Sit.”

  I cast a pained look at Asher, then sat.

  “We don’t have much time,” Emilia told me, opening what was apparently not a toolbox, but some kind of makeup kit. “Don’t flinch.”

  Over the next hour and a half, I came to the conclusion that Emilia Rhodes was either the devil incarnate or the second coming of Coco Chanel.

  She suggested the second option herself.

  Emilia threw Asher out of the room around the time she had me start trying on dresses.

  “You’re lucky Di goes to a ton of these things,” she told me. “And that she’s about your size.”

  I was not lucky, however, when it came to the ambassador’s daughter’s views on cleavage. After I’d nixed a second dress for being too low-cut, I thought Emilia might exact vengeance with an eyelash curler, but she just nodded to the third garment bag.

  “It’s that one or nothing,” she told me.

  The dress was sapphire blue, dark enough that I could almost tell myself it was navy. It was full-length, with a fitted bodice and flowing skirt. I eyed the neckline.

  “Here.” Emilia slipped it off the hanger and ordered me to turn around. She helped me step into the gown, then fastened it up the back. I glanced down at my chest, and seeing it tucked firmly away, allowed myself to be turned toward the full-length mirror.

  The sheen off the sapphire fabric made it look almost like flowing water. There were gathers at my waist, and the bottom half of the dress rippled to the floor, arcing out around me in a full skirt that swayed slightly as I turned. The bodice fit perfectly, clinging to every hint of a curve my body had to offer. A light scattering of beadwork caught the light just so.

  “Well?” Emilia said.

  I forced myself to stop staring at my reflection. “This will work.”

  Emilia stepped in front of me and examined her handiwork. She reached a hand out to rearrange a tendril near my face.

  “Why are you doing this?” I couldn’t help asking the question.

  Emilia gave me a look I couldn’t quite read. “Asher’s the nice twin. He’s the one people like.” She paused. “I’m the one who gets things done.” She handed me a tube of lipstick. I stared at it like she’d handed me a snake.

  “In case you need to reapply,” she said briskly. Clearly, she’d shared as much of her motivation as she was going to share. The doorbell rang downstairs. I took a deep breath.

  On my way out the door, Emilia’s voice stopped me. “If I asked you what was going on, would you tell me?”

  I glanced back at her.

&nbs
p; “That’s what I thought,” she said, averting her eyes. “Don’t worry about it. Asher’s the one people confide in, too.” The doorbell rang again, and Emilia walked past me. “Whatever you’re doing,” she told me, “don’t mess it up.”

  I managed to walk down the stairs without killing myself, but it was a near thing. Emilia hadn’t brought shoes, so we’d borrowed a pair of Ivy’s. Luckily, my sister seemed to have a fairly elaborate collection.

  When I reached the front door, Asher opened it for me. A man in a navy suit stood there. He held out a card to me.

  “Special delivery,” he said. “Courtesy of Vice President Hayden.”

  The invitation was engraved on white linen paper. At the top, there was a gold seal, an eagle surrounded with stars, so intricate in detail that it looked as if it had been painted on by hand. Below that, black-inked calligraphy declared, The President and Mrs. Nolan request the pleasure of the company of Theresa Kendrick at a dinner in honor of Her Royal Highness, Queen . . .

  I stopped reading when I reached the word Queen.

  The man who’d delivered my invitation gestured toward the car he’d driven here. “Miss Hayden also thought you might appreciate a ride.”

  I glanced back at Asher and Emilia.

  “Like I said,” Asher told me, slinging an arm over his sister’s shoulder, “impossible is kind of your thing.”

  CHAPTER 51

  Walking in heels while wearing a ball gown was, as it turned out, more difficult than finagling an invitation to a state dinner. I made it past White House security without incident but had to fight to keep my balance. Head held high and trying not to grind my teeth, I strode past the photographers documenting the arrival of the president’s guests, my heels clicking audibly against the marble floor and my heart thudding inside my rib cage. The gown swished lightly around my legs as I was ushered into a long hall lined with massive columns. A red carpet the length of Ivy’s house separated me from my destination. Crystal chandeliers hung overhead.

  No pain, I thought, no gain.

  I walked the length of the carpet, one step after another, my eyes on the prize. When I stepped into the expansive receiving room at the end of the hall, few of the president’s guests marked my entrance—but one who did went ramrod stiff.

  To say that Henry Marquette was surprised to see me would have been an understatement. As the shock wore off, he began making his way toward me, weaving through the designer gowns and tuxedos, a polite smile on his face and murder in his eyes. I took possession of the card with my table assignment on it and awaited his arrival.

  I didn’t have to wait long.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked me sharply. I took his arm as if he’d offered it to me—partially to irritate him and partially for balance.

  “I told you I wasn’t letting you do this yourself,” I replied, my smile just as perfunctory and polite as his own. “I’m at table twelve. Where are you?”

  He walked me along the edge of the vast, oval-shaped room. “I do not even want to know how you managed this,” he said. Dressed in a long-tailed tuxedo, his resistance to using contractions didn’t seem as out of place as it would have in the halls of Hardwicke.

  A waiter came by and offered us appetizers. I spotted the president and First Lady on the other side of the room, near a quartet of windows that looked out over the White House lawn. They were standing next to an older woman wearing a sash and crown, who I could only assume was the queen of Denmark.

  “I deeply suspect this is a bad idea,” I told Henry.

  He executed an elegant shrug. “The room is crawling with Secret Service. What could possibly go wrong?”

  Before I could answer, his mother approached the two of us, clothed in a deceptively simple black gown with sleeves that hugged her shoulders. “Tess,” she said. “We thought that was you. Is your sister here?”

  She looked around, as if Ivy might materialize at any second.

  “No,” I said. “A friend from school was supposed to come, but she got sick at the last minute, and she thought I might enjoy taking her spot.” I couldn’t help looking back to the president and First Lady. “Apparently, I’d already been cleared to visit the White House.”

  “Of course you had,” Henry said dourly.

  Across the room, the Nolans spotted us and began making their way through the crowd. I tried not to read anything into that but found myself taking a step closer to Henry.

  The president stopped in front of Henry’s mother. “Your Highness,” he said to the older woman on his arm, “may I present to you Pamela Abellard-Marquette?”

  The queen peered at Henry’s mother. “I believe I know your father,” she said in faintly accented English. “Louis Abellard, yes?” She saw Henry and processed Mrs. Marquette’s married name. A fleck of sorrow crossed her eyes.

  Henry’s mother saw it, too. Appreciation flickered briefly across her features as she offered a curtsy so naturally that it didn’t even strike me as odd. “And this is my son, Henry,” she said, “and his friend Tess.”

  Georgia Nolan looked at Henry and me with a gleam in her eye. “The Marine Band will be playing later,” she told Henry. “You and Tess will have to dance.”

  Those sounded more like the words of a matchmaker than someone who, in any way, considered Henry or me a threat. The president didn’t address either of us at all. As the Nolans continued greeting people, I exchanged a glance with Henry.

  Either they’re excellent actors, I thought, or they have no idea that we went to the press.

  Henry read my expression, then arched an eyebrow slightly in return. Wait, I could almost hear him saying, and see.

  Soon, we were herded toward the Grand Staircase. The president and First Lady, as well as Her Highness, were announced. Slowly, the rest of us descended into the State Dining Room, like Cinderella walking into the ball.

  After dinner, there was indeed dancing in the East Room. Music echoed off the twenty-foot ceilings, a trio of chandeliers casting light on the gathered Washington elite below. I caught sight of a graying A-list actor leading his philanthropist wife out onto the dance floor. As others followed suit, a somewhat reluctant Henry offered me his hand.

  “I don’t dance,” I said flatly.

  “You do,” he replied, “if you want to get a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of the room with no one the wiser.”

  I gave him my best thousand-yard stare. He was undeterred. “Henry,” I bit out his name.

  “Yes?”

  I gave in to the inevitable. “Would you like to dance?”

  Henry walked me onto the floor. He settled one hand near the small of my back and used his other hand to take mine. After a moment’s hesitation, I wrapped my free arm around his waist.

  As we began to move, I tried my best not to step on his toes. He went left. I went right.

  “Just follow my lead,” he said.

  I got the sense he wasn’t just talking about the dancing. Slowly, we found our rhythm.

  “What are we looking for?” I asked as we spun.

  “Anyone who’s watching us,” Henry replied.

  I caught sight of the Nolans again. The president’s arm was around his wife’s waist. Behind them, I saw a trio of Secret Service agents doing their best to fade into the background. A dozen yards away, William Keyes was talking to a man in his early forties. Every once in a while, Keyes cast a subtle glance away from the conversation he was having, but it wasn’t to look at Henry and me.

  Each glance was aimed at the president and the First Lady.

  “Smile,” Henry murmured into my ear. A photographer snapped a photo of the two of us, then moved to get the money shot: the president leading the First Lady out onto the floor. For a couple in their sixties, they moved with easy grace.

  “What now?” I asked Henry as he led me off the floor.

  “Now,” he said, “I go for a little walk.”

  Before I could respond, Henry was ducking through the crowd, toward t
he balcony. He’d made sure we’d been seen, and now he was removing himself from the crowd.

  Making himself a better target.

  I started after him but didn’t make it three steps before I was intercepted—by William Keyes. He looked dapper in his tuxedo. Powerful, but harmless.

  Looks could be deceiving.

  “Ms. Kendrick,” he said. “Tess, wasn’t it?”

  You know my name. You’re the one who had the police bring Bodie in for questioning. You’re the reason they called Social Services about me.

  “Yes,” I told Keyes, meeting his gaze head-on. “It’s Tess.”

  I looked past him and tried to find Henry, but couldn’t.

  “I understand you’ve been spending some time in the company of my son.” Adam’s father had a disconcerting stare. His eyes were hazel, close in color to my own, but there was an uncanny awareness in them—like he knew what you’d had for breakfast that morning and how you would sleep that night.

  “Adam volunteered to teach me how to drive.” Even as I said the words, I sensed that there was something to this conversation that I was missing. It was like the two of us were playing chess, except I didn’t know the rules of the game.

  What do you want? I thought, on guard and on edge.

  Keyes gave a small shake of his head. “My son always did have a weakness for your sister.”

  The song wound down. The first couple finished with a flourish, the president dipping his wife. The crowd applauded, and then the Nolans melted back into the masses. I tried to track them, both of them, my attention temporarily distracted from Adam’s father.

  Where was Henry?

  “Would you favor an old man with a dance?” Keyes asked, beginning to lead me to the floor without waiting for a reply.

  I tried to resist, but he was polished and smooth, and that was when I realized—Henry’s plan had been to make noise. Come here. See who approached. For the first time, it occurred to me that if the reporter had gone back to his White House source, if someone had put two and two together and started looking for the person who’d tipped the reporter off about Justice Marquette’s death, they might not have ended up with the conclusion that it was Henry.