Hail to the Chef

by Julie Hyzy

  My stomach squeezed. What now? There were so many things going on-the two recent deaths, the fake bomb, the real bomb, the cancelation of today’s event at the White House-that I couldn’t begin to guess what this lady wanted to talk with me about.

  I tried getting past her but she stepped in front of me. She spoke into a handheld microphone that appeared to be connected to a recorder on the hip of her fur coat. “Olivia Paras, you’re the White House executive chef…”

  Tell me something I don’t know.

  “What can you tell us about tomorrow’s dinner?”

  She shoved the microphone at me. I blanked. “Dinner?”

  “We understand that the First Lady is meeting with Nicholas Volkov.”

  As she said Volkov’s name, she widened her eyes and slowed her speech, giving the name additional weight.

  The microphone popped in front of me again. “I’m sorry. I’m going in now.” I pointed up toward my floor. “And I’m cold.”

  “But don’t you think the American public deserves to know if the First Lady is planning to meet with an accused murderer?”

  My jaw dropped. I started to say, “What?” then thought better of it. Although I wanted to ask a million questions, I said, “I have nothing to say.”

  The reporter’s shoulders drooped. “Ms. Paras, please,” she said, her voice quietly entreating. “My name is Kirsten Zarzycki. I’m with Channel Seven News. May I call you Livvie?”

  Livvie? My reaction must have shown, because she started to apologize. “Channel Seven?” I said, my eyes raking the Honda behind her. “I-”

  “You’ve never seen me. I’m new,” she said. “But I’ve been looking into all this for a while now and I think I’m onto something.” She lifted one shoulder. “I can’t get clearance to talk to any of the big shots involved, but I thought that maybe, since you’re planning the dinner, you might have some insight into what’s going on there.”

  I rubbed my forehead and stared at this girl. Kirsten Zarzycki was younger than I was, by at least five years, and taller than me by at least five inches. Blonde, eager, and looking as though the high-rise pumps she wore were squeezing her feet, she pleaded, with both her eyes and her words.

  “Listen, I’m trying to make a name for myself here,” she said. “You’ve got to be able to share something with me.” Now both shoulders shrugged and I wondered how many innocent foxes gave their lives for her protection against the night’s chill.

  “I don’t have anything, and even if I did…” My mind raced. Volkov accused of murder? Could he have been the one who-

  “That’s it,” she said, the excitement in her voice pushing it up an octave. “I see it in your face. You do know something. I know you do. You just might not realize how much you know. Come on,” she said, blinking rapidly. “You’re where you want to be in this world. Can’t you give a hand up?”

  Plying me with almost the same argument Bindy had, she blinked again. I wondered if this tactic worked to better effect on men. I hoped not.

  “Sorry,” I said, starting for my front door. My woolen coat was no match for the cold air, although little Miss High Heels seemed toasty in her fur.

  “What about Zendy Industries?” she asked, desperation shooting her voice even higher. “I hear that Mrs. Campbell refuses to sell out. But does she realize how much Volkov’s involvement will hurt her investment?”

  “Mrs. Campbell’s investments are none of my business.” I smiled. “Nor are they yours.”

  She called after me. “Don’t you think this makes Mrs. Campbell a target now?”

  I turned to face her. Anticipation sparked Kirsten’s eyes.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “I’ve been doing some research into Zendy,” she said. “I’m trying hard to make this into a story. But nobody seems to care.”

  I shivered and wanted her to get on with it. “What did you mean when you said that the First Lady was a target?”

  “It all revolves around Zendy.” She bit the insides of her cheeks and I could tell she was weighing how much to share. “Volkov needs the money from the sale of the company, right?”

  I shrugged.

  “It’s in the news. No secret there. His legal troubles are no secret either. The other thing that’s only slightly more confidential is that the company can’t be sold unless all four of the heirs vote unanimously to sell it.”

  I knew that much. This girl wasn’t going to make it big in the media unless she could come up with something hotter than that.

  “Who did Nick Volkov supposedly kill?” I asked.

  “You don’t know?”

  I saw my capital dropping fast in her estimation. I shook my head.

  “Mrs. Campbell’s father.”

  That took me aback.

  She frowned. “You really don’t have any information, do you?”

  “And you think Mrs. Campbell is a target because…”

  “With her father dead, she’s the only person standing in the way of the sale of Zendy Industries,” Kirsten said with exasperation. “I’m connecting the dots here. I think when Volkov killed Mrs. Campbell’s father, he assumed she’d be ready to just sign everything away.”

  I decided not to remind her that in America people are innocent till proven guilty. That wouldn’t have stopped this girl’s cascade of information. By the way her breaths spun out into the night in short, agitated spurts, I could tell she was so tightly wound up with this story that the truth wouldn’t stop her now. “But if you’re right,” I said, “and Volkov is arrested, then the danger’s gone, isn’t it?”

  “Maybe,” she said. “But I have to convince someone he’s guilty.”

  “What else do you know?” I asked.

  She twisted her mouth. “You’re getting more out of me than I’m getting out of you.”

  “Maybe that’s because there’s no story here.” I started for my front door again, not acknowledging any of the questions she shouted to my back. I waved without turning, and called, “Good night!”

  CHAPTER 19

  “WHAT’S GOING ON OUT THERE, OLLIE?” JAMES asked when I made it through the building’s front doors. Tonight Stanley was with him. The two of them wore nearly identical looks of concern.

  I waved away James’s inquiry. “Just more of the same. Everyone wants secrets spilled, but why they think I have them is beyond me.”

  Stanley had been resting his hip against the desk. Now he shifted his weight. “You ask anybody about those neutrals?” he asked.

  James perked up immediately. “What are you talking about?”

  Again I tried to dismiss his concerns. “Just a theory we discussed. About the… you know… electrocution.” I addressed Stanley. “I asked three people already. The acting chief electrician and two of his assistants. None of them is interested in what I have to say.”

  Stanley fisted the desk, making James jump. “Damn it, they should. The more I think about it, the more I believe that’s what got your friend. And if I’m right, it could still cause trouble. You got to get somebody to listen before another person gets fried.”

  His words shook me more than I cared to admit. What if something else did happen… if Curly, Vince, or Manny were electrocuted and I could have prevented it? How would I feel then?

  I knew the answer. I couldn’t live with myself. Despite the fact that I’d done my best to warn them, I realized I needed to push harder. And pushing was something I was good at.

  “I’ll tell you what,” I said. “The guys I talked to think I’m just butting my nose in where it doesn’t belong. I’ll be sure to let the fellow in charge know that I talked with you.” I smiled at Stanley. “I’ll let him know that a real electrician is behind my questions.”

  Mollified, Stanley eased back to leaning. “I don’t need no credit, y’understand, but if you think it’ll make them listen, you do that, Ollie.”

  IN MY APARTMENT, AND COMFORTABLY READY to relax, I turned on the television, hoping for some men
tion of Volkov, especially after Kirsten Zarzycki’s claims. My first choice was, naturally, her station, WJLA. Nothing. Nothing at all. I switched to CNN, then switched away again when no mention of Volkov, nor of Mrs. Campbell, hit the airwaves. If indeed this Kirsten was right, then news of this nature would have been splattered everywhere. Hers was an explosive allegation, and definitely too hot to let simmer.

  After a half hour of channel surfing, I realized the rookie reporter had apparently gotten her signals crossed somewhere along the line. I tried searching the Internet, but found nothing there either.

  As I got myself together for the next day and prioritized my tasks, I removed my splint and flexed my fingers. Felt good to have the freedom of movement. Better yet, I’d be able to really dive into food tasks in the kitchen tomorrow. I sorely missed the hands-on work I was used to.

  Tomorrow was Monday, the last day the White House would be closed to the public before the big holiday unveiling on Tuesday. I set my alarm for a little earlier than usual, snuggled under my covers, and wished I could talk to Tom.

  MOST MORNINGS, I WOKE TO MUSIC, BUT THE fifteen-minute lead time I’d built in the night before set my wake-up to smack in the middle of a news report. A voice like dark chocolate roused me from deep slumber. I missed the first few words, but twisted my head toward the voice when I heard him intone: “It is not known whether Ms. Zarzycki knew her attacker. Police are canvassing the area, looking for clues to this shocking murder. They have no suspects in custody but are asking witnesses in the area to step forward if they have any information to help find her killer.” The announcer continued with a hotline number to call.

  I shook my head. This couldn’t be right. I must have misunderstood the name.

  Staring at my clock radio, I waited for the story to repeat. But all I got was weather and traffic.

  Heading into the living room, I tried to convince myself that this was all a dream. That all the events from recent days were conspiring to play with my mind. But my bedroom floor was cold to my bare feet. The apartment was chilly, and I could see the dawn of a new day outside my balcony window. Dreams were not usually so rich with such sensory stimuli. As my TV came alive I searched the room, hoping for some out-of-place vision, some signal that this was not real.

  Instead, the two on-air personalities at WJLA were speaking disconsolately into the camera. One male, one female. I didn’t know these commentators well enough to know their names, but the elegant black woman spoke for both. “Our hopes and prayers go out to Kirsten’s family tonight. Although she’d just joined us here at WJLA, she was part of our family, and she will be missed.” The woman’s lips tight, she glanced to her co-anchor.

  He took the cue. “Anyone with any information should call the number you see on your screen.”

  I dropped back into my sofa, curling my knees up, wrapping my arms around them. I continued to stare at the TV, even after they shifted away and cut to commercial. What the hell was going on?

  With a beseeching glance at my clock, I willed the hours to speed by so that I could talk with Tom. But he wouldn’t be here till Wednesday. Two long days away.

  I changed the channel repeatedly until I caught the story again elsewhere. I got a few more details each time. I kept trying, looking for more, but soon I realized I had as much as I could get. There just wasn’t much information out there. Not yet.

  Dropping my knees, I held my head in my hands and tried to make sense of it all.

  Kirsten was dead. Attacked at home, in her apartment, she’d been shot in the head. This could be a random act of violence, I told myself. But I didn’t believe that for a minute. She’d talked about Nick Volkov being responsible for Mrs. Campbell’s father’s death. Kirsten was dead, and yet the information she claimed to have was nowhere to be found on the news.

  Murder has a way of adding deadly credence to unproven conspiracies. Could Kirsten have been onto something after all?

  LATER THAT AFTERNOON, RAFE JOSTLED MY shoulder. “What’s wrong, Ollie?” he asked. “You’re usually in your element when your hands are deep in dough.”

  Cyan didn’t wait for me to answer. “Maybe you forgot what it was like to do the real work around here,” she said, winking.

  “That’s it. You found me out.” I forced a grin. As much as I wanted to be able to join in their cheer, I couldn’t shake the news report on Kirsten’s murder.

  Rafe had been working with Agda a lot over the past week and now she joined in the good-natured teasing. While she divvied up parsley, she eyed the ball of dough before me. “I do that with eyes closed,” she said, blinking hard. I expect she’d meant to wink at me. “And I do in half of the time.”

  “You’re right,” I said, soberly, then smiled to take the despondency out of my words. Agda had proven herself to be a huge asset to our kitchen. In recent days, with all our setbacks, and with me being sidelined with the splint, she’d more than taken up the slack. And she’d started to join in on conversation as well. She’d even impressed Bucky. Now that he was coming around, I knew the girl was starting to be considered part of the team. It did my heart good to see how well everyone was working together. And I needed that boost right now.

  I eyed the forlorn ball of dough before me. I should have had these icebox rolls done fifteen minutes ago. I was falling behind. Too much weight on my brain seemed to cause a drag on everything else. Twice today I’d tried calling the Kirsten hotline number to let them know I’d talked with her last night, but I’d gotten a busy signal each time. Maybe that was for the best. I slammed the dough onto the countertop and kneaded it hard. I’d talk with our Secret Service personnel, or with Gav. They’d know what to do.

  “How soon before the guests arrive?” I asked.

  Bucky shot me a weird look.

  “What?” I asked.

  “That’s the third time you’ve asked.”

  Was it? Geez, I really needed to get my head back in the game. “Well, you know how fast things change around here,” I said to soothe my own ruffles. “And so far, we’re still serving just four people tonight, right?”

  “Last I heard, no change.”

  Agda perked up. “Change. Yes.”

  “A change in the guest list?” My heart raced. I’d been playing one of those if/then games with myself all day: If Volkov shows up tonight, then he’s not guilty of killing Mrs. Campbell’s father, and also not involved in Kirsten Zarzycki’s murder. I could breathe easier if that were the case. But if we found out he wasn’t coming… it could mean… “What is it?” I asked. “What’s the change?”

  Cyan put a hand on my arm. “Ollie, what’s wrong? You’re the one who just said we’re always dealing with changes here. What are you worried about? You’re pale again.”

  Waving a floured hand, I worked up a cheery demeanor. “Nothing, nothing at all,” I said, keeping my voice light. I turned to Agda again. “What change did you hear about?”

  Her hands came up to either side of her head, fingers spread, and she shook them-excited, it seemed, to be able to contribute her piece of knowledge. She spoke slowly but clearly. “Not dinner in residence. Now serving in Family Dining Room.”

  That was a change. We’d been instructed to send everything upstairs, where the First Lady intended to meet privately with her colleagues. “Who told you?” I asked.

  Agda smiled and nodded. Then, belatedly understanding my question, her eyebrows lifted and she nodded again. “Paul.”

  I rubbed the back of my wrist against my forehead. “Why the change?” I asked, rhetorically. “I didn’t think the First Lady wanted to have anyone see the first floor until the official opening ceremony tomorrow.”

  Cyan shrugged. “No idea. But with all she’s been through lately, maybe she just wants to keep her private rooms private again.”

  “You’re probably right,” I said. Addressing Agda, I asked her if there were any other changes.

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “What are you expecting, Ollie?”
Cyan asked again.

  “Just wondering if the guests are still the same.”

  “Why wouldn’t they be?”

  Now I shrugged. “Just a hunch.”

  Rafe had been right about one thing: Keeping my hands busy in the kitchen had been the perfect panacea for my uneasy mind. We were serving chicken-fried beef tenderloin tonight. Topped with more of the white onion gravy we’d made earlier and served with my late-to-the-party icebox rolls, we rounded out dinner with a basic salad, some in-season vegetables, and homemade peppermint ice cream for dessert. About an hour before dinner was to be prepared, I had my first chance to steal out of the kitchen and find Gav.

  I’d seen him earlier when I passed the China Room. Now that the gingerbread house was complete, Marcel had given up squatter’s rights and Gav had been using it as a lecture hall. When I walked past, he’d been in the midst of talking to some of the staff, so I hadn’t interrupted. But I definitely needed a few minutes of his time.

  He was still there.

  “Got a minute?” I asked.

  They’d brought a folding table into the room, and he sat at it, staring down, elbow propped, holding his head. The rest of the room was empty.

  When he looked up, he didn’t seem very happy to see me. “What is it?”

  I’d intended to ask his opinion of the Kirsten Zarzycki situation, but I faltered. “Is something wrong?”

  When people’s eyes crinkle, it’s usually because they’re smiling. In this case, Gavin looked as though he’d suffered a quick pain. He took a long moment to speak. “Why did you give a copy of Sean’s letter to the First Lady?”

  I started to answer, but he cut me off.

  “She’s involved a lot of… others.” He shook his head, and it looked as though his phantom pain intensified.

  “We were talking,” I said. “She and I…” I stopped myself from the apology that nearly tumbled off my tongue. “Why shouldn’t I tell her? The situation involves a family member.”

  I watched Gavin force himself to be patient. He came close to losing the battle.