by Josie Brown
I recognized their supposed love nest the moment I saw the photo. It’s on Riverside Boulevard, It belongs to Global World Industries, an international conglomerate that is part of the first family’s supposedly frozen assets. Lee and I would rendezvous there when the need to swap intel on his treasonous Director of Intelligence—Carl—was mutually beneficial. Thank goodness our innocent liaisons were a thing of the past by the time some enterprising paparazzo figured out that the office building next door was a great place for a gotcha moment.
Because her paramour’s head was buried somewhere below her waist, his face was never identified.
Although Babette’s back was toward the camera, having a Samsung NX1 with an ISO setting of 3200 made it easy for the pap to capture an unmistakable identifier: an odd-shaped birthmark on Babette’s right butt cheek.
“Yes, the first lady was in New York on the weekend in question,” the White House spokesperson sniffed. “But having no personal knowledge of the identifying feature, I can neither confirm nor deny if the photo is, in fact, her.”
Other than her alleged lover, Lee may be the only one who has personal knowledge of the mark. But, he refuses to talk about the incident in public.
In private, they lead their lives like two ships passing in a frigid sea: acknowledging the other, but giving as wide a berth as possible.
When Dominic saw the photo, he held it sideways, like a centerfold, then declared, “Poppycock! Of course, it’s her!”
“As if you’d know,” I murmured.
“In fact, I do,” he stated grandly. “Since the moment she became a prime suspect, I’ve made it my business to memorize every ‘detail’ in her dossier.” He winked. “Including this photo, which I procured directly from the pap himself, along with others he snapped at the time.”
What he said didn’t surprise me in the least. Dominic is obsessive-compulsive. I can just imagine the walls of some room in his Hilldale abode (the Tudor monstrosity he’s nicknamed “Chateau Fleming”) filled with such photos.
That is to say, nudes—albeit not all of Babette.
“None, I take it, with her lover’s face in view,” I chided him.
“Not surprisingly, the lucky sod wasn’t keen on coming up for air. Not that I blame him.” He pointed to the man, who was on his knees in front of Babette. “She got chill bumps before he acquiesced to moving her inside.” He pointed to the grainy dots on her skin. “Certainly a sadistic sod.”
I was more interested in the man’s right hand, which held firm to Babette’s left buttock. There was a crook in the index finger, and he was wearing a distinctive pinky ring. It was gold, and the center sported a black onyx stone adorned with the number “13” in gold filigree.
When I pointed it out to Jack, his whistle was long and low. “Bingo.”
“I meant the ring,” I said pointedly.
“Me too. I’ve seen one just like it before—on the pinky of a dead Quorum operative.” Jack smacked Dominic’s shoulder. “Mr. Fleming, it seems for once, your voyeurism has come in handy.” But Jack had to pry the photo from Dominic’s hand.
When I get Jack alone, I’ll be sure to remind him that her Quorum mystery man is yet another strike against her.
In the meantime, I change the subject. “Janie has official duties too?” This surprises me since previous first families did what they could to protect their children from the harsh and endless scrutiny of the public.
“We’re all in this together.” Despite her syrupy sweet tone, Babette sounds as if she’s mouthing some New Age mantra. “Every one of the Chiffrays must pull his or her weight. Besides, these ceremonial events are child’s play, and my time is better spent on more meaningful tasks—like international diplomacy.” She snaps her fingers at Frannie. “Speaking of which, the al-Sadah contingency arrives in a few days. It will include two children—girls, ages eight and ten, respectively. Janie’s downtime can be spent entertaining them.”
Jack’s eyes meet mine. I’m sure we’re thinking along the same lines: So another of our chief Quorum suspects, Salem, will be here for the summit as well.
This opens up new surveillance opportunities for Acme, perhaps giving us the evidence we need for the exposure and conviction of whichever Chiffray turns out to be his partner.
Babette pecks her daughter on the cheek. “Now, run along with Frannie to your little events. I’ll come up and kiss you goodnight before your bedtime.”
Janie’s sigh is filled with doubt. Something tells me Babette’s promises are as meaningless as her air kisses.
“Jack, why don’t you show our guests into the living room, while I set up coffee and tea for everyone.” At the same time, I’ll grab a couple of microdots from my pocketbook. The sooner Jack and I can plant one on Babette—or better yet, snatch her cell phone, hack the passcode, and embed the Trojan so that Emma can access her secure cloud—the sooner I can prove him wrong.
Or, to my dismay, right.
Babette’s eyes light up at the chance to preen in front of my guy without my hovering. She takes Jack’s proffered arm and follows him in. As they head off, she turns around to tell me, “Make mine a latte, with a half-teaspoon of raw coconut sugar.”
“Let me see what I can dig up.” I wonder if rat poison can pass as coconut sugar.
Man in Black follows me into the kitchen. Drat, I guess he’s making sure I don’t spike her mug with anything she didn’t request.
Why would I? If I’m right and she’s Quorum, I’d rather see her hang for treason.
Rin Tin Tin growls when he sees my visitor. On the other hand, Lassie comes up to him to trade licks for pats. They divert Man in Black just long enough for me to pull the scanner and a couple of microdots from my purse and slip them into my pocket. I’ll hand one off to Jack with his coffee. Odds are, he’ll have no problem touching Babette, whereas she recoils when I attempt a mere air kiss.
The first latte from my Nespresso VertuoLine goes to my shadow, as a peace offering. “For you. Enjoy.”
He looks surprised. “Why, thank you, Mrs. Stone.”
“Please, call me Donna.”
He shakes my hand. “Zeb Dunne.”
“So, FLOTUS, eh?” I murmur. “Must be one hell of an assignment.”
He shakes his head then looks skyward. “Ten months, twenty-two days, three hours, and”—he looks down at his watch—“forty-four minutes.”
That’s one way of deflecting the inevitable questions that must come his way. Okay, I’ll play along. “Really? You’ve only been on the job that long?”
He laughs as if I’ve said something witty, but he isn’t smiling. “That’s how long I have left before I can retire. There’s a cabin on Chickahominy Lake with my name on it.”
If I had to follow Babette around all day, I guess I’d be counting down the minutes too.
I knock his mug with mine. “Here’s to retirement.”
“You can say that again!” After a sip, he smacks his lips.
I grab my tray of lattes and head for the living room. If Babette is Quorum and he missed it, he’ll get his wish even earlier. A win-win for everyone.
Chapter 7
Sampling Wedding Cakes!
There is truly an art to choosing the cake for your wedding. So that it makes your guests oooh and aaah, do the following:
First, pick your baker carefully. For example, if he also makes porn cakes, the wrong delivery on the day of your blessed event may leave you with a rather embarrassing dildo as a cake topper.
Next, taste several cakes before you choose the one to serve on your wedding day. Hint: stay away from exotic flavors. How sad would it be to find out the hard way that your groom has a fatally allergic reaction to the peanut butter filling between that yummy double Dutch chocolate?
And finally, don’t get carried away with the cake’s shape or size. Yes, it would be unique for it to have tiers as tall as you, or perhaps even sculpted in the form of you and your betrothed. But, like most things in life, cakes are a
lways subject to the old adage, “Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong—”
Especially around guests who are soused. If some drunken cousin doesn’t trip headfirst into your sky-high tower of fondant and flour, a tipsy ex-boyfriend is sure to cop a feel of your pound cake lookalike’s buttercream breast.
“Some subtle ingredient pops the flavor in this sample.” Jack pauses between bites of a three-tiered naked wedding cake, adorned with strawberries and real roses. “Anise perhaps?”
“What a discerning palate you have,” Babette coos, then licks her lips.
Frankly, I’m surprised she’s not licking his, considering the dab of icing on the corner of his mouth.
By the way Jack’s been going at the cake, you’d think he had a tapeworm. Thus far, his favorite is a three-tiered cake with a different icing slathered between each layer: a lemon one with blackberry jam on the bottom, and green tea layer with white chocolate icing in the middle. The top layer is strawberry cake smeared with strawberry preserves, and the whole thing is covered in a purple hombre buttercream frosting.
Initially, I was determined to pace myself, so I started off by taking tiny bites. But by my fifth sampling of cake, I was queasy—not from the cake, but from the sugarcoated bullshit these two were shoveling at each other. All this gooey cooing and Jack’s yet to steal the cell, let alone plant the bug on her. It’s not for lack of trying. He’s cozied up to her in so many ways that if you didn’t know better you’d think they were playing Twister.
He’s admired her earrings (touched behind her ear) and her hairstyle (on the back of her neck). When his gushing compliment over her toned figure (hands on her waist) was met with a sigh bemoaning no time to get out to take a jog, he’s offered to take her out onto Lion’s Lair’s private nine-hole golf course to show her a few moves guaranteed to lower her handicap (small of back; shoulders; elbows).
“Oooh, Walton wouldn’t like that at all.” She fakes a pout.
Jack raises a brow. “Oh? And who would that be?”
“My personal trainer. I take him everywhere. It’s not easy staying a size minus two, but, I can at least make the attempt.” Her tongue darts naughtily between her lips. “Someone has to be America’s Royals. I guess Lee and I are elected.”
I bite my tongue before shouting, No, it was Lee who was elected—and only because Catherine stepped down for her murder rap. You’re just along for the ride.
“I’m sure this Walton guy is doing a great job.” Jack shrugs—a broad hint that he thinks otherwise. “Tell you what—pick a day and we’ll hit the links together. I’ll improve your swing in no time.”
“I’ll bet you will,” she simpers. “Okay, you’re on. Come over later this afternoon.” Suddenly, she remembers I’m here too. “Oh...you too, Donna. It’ll give Walton something to do, other than curl his biceps.” She titters at the thought. “Don’t worry, he’ll whip you into shape in no time.” Her voice lingers a second too long on the word whip. At the same time, her eyes linger too long on Jack before slipping her fork into her mouth and sucking on it.
Jack takes the hint and smiles.
I remind myself that he’s only doing his job, but that doesn’t stop me from binging on cake.
I look at it this way: each slice I put in my mouth makes it less likely that I’ll give in to the temptation to shove one into Babette’s face.
An hour later, I have a tummy ache. Ugh! There are still three more cakes to sample.
Why bother? The choice isn’t mine anyway. The way Babette has inserted herself into every decision, you’d think it was she who’s marrying Jack, not I.
All the while, Chantal has been taking copious notes, but she’s never once considered my protests, pleas, or sullen stares at her all too obvious slights. I am not at all pleased with my wedding colors (ice blue and gold), or my wedding invitations (monogrammed, and beveled in 24-karat gold leaf, on an ecru cotton stock). Add to this list the music to be played as I walk down the aisle (Canon in D by Pachelbel, plucked by a string quartet); or the guests’ party favors (blue leather passport cases with our names engraved in gold on one side and the presidential seal on the other).
And I’m certainly not pleased with the wedding’s theme. (“Vintage,” Babette insists. “We’ll decorate with iconography from the year you were born ...Which was…Egad! Really? You’re that much older than me? Well then, you must be older than Jack as well. No? Sure, if you say so…”)
I know for a fact that Babette and I are the exact same age, despite what she has on her official White House fact sheet.
“We should talk about Donna’s dress,” Chantal reminds Babette, as if I’m not sitting right beside her. “She claims to be a size four.”
In unison, their heads swivel in order to scrutinize me—
Just as, in a pique of frustration, I’ve crammed a piece of the groom’s cake into my mouth.
“Whot’s wong?” I ask, through chocolate ganache.
Chantal bites her lower lip. Ignoring my question, she turns to Babette instead. “Maybe the dress is a discussion we should table until tomorrow, after Walton can do a full assessment of her.”
I gulp down the last of the fondant icing. “I’ve got my own workout partner, thank you very much. It’s Jack, remember?”
“And we’ve got just a few days to stuff you into some wedding gown in the size you claim to be.”
Fuck off.
Just as I reach for another slice, Babette grabs my hands in hers. “Face it, Donna. You have a sugar obsession! But I’ll be damned if I’ll let you ruin the most important day in my—I mean, your life. No matter how many pounds you pack on between now and the wedding, Walton will be sure to get it off of you, one way or another.”
Miffed, I straighten up. “For God’s sake, how much weight do you think I can gain in just a few days?”
“If you keep eating like that, who’s to say?” Babette’s sympathetic look is aimed at Jack, not me.
“Honey, I think what Babette is trying to say is that the days leading up to the wedding are sure to be stressful, so perhaps we should try to, er, stay healthy.” He shoves my cake plate just beyond my reach.
I yank it back. “I wasn’t finished.”
Jack inches away. He can take a hint.
“Call Mario Testino,” Babette murmurs to Chantal. “I want him to shoot the wedding photos. Be sure to warn him that some photoshopping will be needed. Oh! And before the stylist sends over the gowns I chose for Donna’s consideration, make sure she knows what she’s dealing with. Just tell her zaftig.”
“Pray tell, what exactly does that mean?” I wipe the icing off my mouth with the back of my hand.
Jack’s eyes open wide. He doesn’t like the way I’m holding the cake knife.
“Just a little shorthand, darling,” Babette reassures me. “It’s a compliment! Think ‘Kardashian,’ only, well…flabbier.”
Before I can retort, Chantal taps one of her bronze-coated talons on her laptop in order to rally everyone’s attention. “Tomorrow—after your workout sessions, of course”—she winks knowingly at Babette—“we’ll go over the deets on the engagement party.”
Jack frowns. “An engagement party, on this short notice?”
“It’s a way of extending an olive branch to those who didn’t make the cut for the wedding ceremony,” Babette explains. “In fact, let’s set it for this weekend.”
“But…that’s only two days away,” I point out.
“Even better. Guarantees that half the guests won’t be able to make it.” She winks conspiratorially. “At your earliest convenience, please text Chantal with a list of your closest friends and relatives.”
Chantal chimes in, “Oh! And before we take off, I have some great news. Beyoncé has confirmed her attendance at the wedding, and she’s consented to sing during your first dance as a couple.”
“Wow!” I can’t believe my ears.
“I approved, ‘Put a Ring on It,’ since, a, it’s her signature song, and
b, you’re lucky to have her,” Chantal declares.
I shake my head. “I agree that, a, we’re lucky to have her. But, b, Jack and I have a song we consider ‘ours.’ It’s—”
I’m dismissed with a wave of her wrist. As I simmer and stew, she adds, “And also great news! We’ve locked in the Beverly Hills Hotel as our venue—”
Jack’s wince mirrors mine. Time to level with Babette: we don’t have the money to rent the coatroom there, let alone a whole ballroom. I stammer, “Oh…um, yes, well about that. You see—”
“In all honesty, the venue doesn’t make the Secret Service too happy,” Babette sighs heavily. “Something about ‘ingress’ and ‘egress’ and vetting of the staff—” Suddenly, Babette leans in, ready to bust. “Oh. My. Gawd! I know how to make my little toy soldiers happy—”
“That’s her little nickname for her Secret Service detail,” Chantal winks at Jack. “Isn’t that adorable?”
“Yeah, adorable,” Jack smirks.
The three men watching over us hang their heads in shame.
“As I was saying”—Babette’s glare pierces Chantal into a momentary silence—“I have a solution that should make everyone ecstatically happy. Why not have the wedding at Lion’s Lair?”
Where she can control the whole damn thing—
The damn thing that is supposed to be the happiest day of my life.
Like hell she will.
“No,” I growl. “Really, Babette, I can’t let you do that—”
“Sure you can! And I know Lee won’t mind at all. However, it must take place within a few days after the engagement party. After that, our calendars are packed to the hilt—you know, with really important things—Oh! That’s not to say that your little wedding isn’t important.” She winks broadly at Chantal.
Ouch! Jack just kicked me under the table. He’s tickled pink that we’ll be so close to our targets.
But of course he is. Having the wedding there will give us much-needed access to every room in the Chiffray household, which is Ryan’s wet dream come true.