Hail to the Chef

by Julie Hyzy

  Another hard pain-squint. “When you first presented the information to me, I had a unique opportunity to make discreet inquiries. Now,” he said, bitterness creeping into his voice, “I have been shut out of the investigation by the agencies involved.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that. All I could think of was that if other agencies were investigating, then at least some good was coming of my bringing it to Mrs. Campbell’s attention. “Who’s handling it now?”

  His mouth set into a thin line. “What is it you needed from me?”

  I felt stupid bringing up the Kirsten Zarzycki issue after being scolded. “Forget it,” I said. “It’s nothing.”

  He rubbed his temples and spoke with clipped consonants. “You came in here intending to tell me something. What was it?”

  I really didn’t want to get into it, but I also didn’t want to bear the burden of this information myself. “Did you hear about that reporter who was murdered late last night?”

  “Shot in the head?”

  “That’s her,” I said, dejectedly. “She came to visit me yesterday evening.”

  “Here?”

  I shook my head, then gave him a quick rundown of our discussion.

  When I was finished talking, Gav’s anger had all but dissipated. “Where did she get the idea that Nick Volkov was responsible for Mrs. Campbell’s father’s death?”

  “She didn’t tell me.”

  He stared upward, toward the ceiling, before meeting my eyes again. “Mrs. Campbell’s father died in a car accident.”

  “I know.”

  He stood. “Who did you talk to about this?” he asked. “Besides me?”

  I shook my head. “No one.”

  “This time, keep it that way,” he said. Without another word, he bundled up his papers and left the room.

  CHAPTER 20

  IT WASN’T LONG BEFORE MRS. CAMPBELL’S dinner guests began to arrive. With a sad sense of déjà vu, we staged dinner in the Family Dining Room’s adjacent pantry, just as we had on Thanksgiving-when these same guests were present and we received the terrible news that Sean was dead. I couldn’t help but question Mrs. Campbell’s decision to choose this particular venue for tonight’s meal. In addition to the recent sadness associated with the room, it wouldn’t be very private. Staffers in adjacent rooms were working around the clock tonight to complete everything before tomorrow’s opening.

  Cyan and I intended to handle tonight’s dinner ourselves. With three guests-possibly only two if Volkov didn’t show-there was no need to clutter up the pantry with extra bodies.

  I warmed the onion gravy on the stove, about to ask Cyan a question, when I heard Treyton Blanchard’s voice in the next room. “Elaine, thank you for having us. A shame about Volkov, isn’t it?”

  Turning down the heat, I inched toward the wall, hoping to hear more. A shame? That hardly seemed an appropriate reaction to Volkov being responsible for her father’s death.

  “I hope Nick is all right,” Mrs. Campbell answered. “And I hope we hear more soon.”

  “Let’s hope we hear from him directly.”

  I pressed my fingers to my forehead. This conversation made no sense.

  Jackson came in, letting us know that dinner would be served a half hour later than we’d planned. When I asked why, he shook his head. He didn’t know, he just wanted to relay Mrs. Campbell’s request. I thanked him and kept listening in.

  Mrs. Campbell and Senator Blanchard moved into discussion about other things, family and such. I heard him murmur his repeated condolences about Sean, and Mrs. Campbell said something in return I couldn’t catch.

  “Hey, Nancy Drew,” Cyan whispered. “What’s so important in there?”

  I moved away from my eavesdropping perch. “They’re talking about Volkov.”

  “So?”

  “He’s still coming, right?”

  Cyan twisted her mouth. “What’s with you today? I think they’re all coming.” She glanced at her watch. “And no one is officially late, yet. But Helen Hendrickson hasn’t arrived either…”

  “Helen,” Mrs. Campbell exclaimed in the other room. “I’m so glad you could make it.”

  I lifted my eyebrows. “She’s here now.”

  Cyan and I arranged stuffed cherry tomatoes on one plate and set out another platter for the bacon-and-cornbread muffins while I waited for some word as to whether Volkov was coming or not. At the same time, I kept my ears open for any further mention of his name.

  The silly bet I’d played with myself now rose up to mock me. I tried reasoning with myself. Even if the man didn’t show up, it wasn’t as though I could take that fact to the nearest police station and claim that he was guilty. But as the minutes ticked by and Volkov became officially late, I became ever more convinced that Kirsten Zarzycki’s allegations had more going for them than just ravings of an eager-to-be-promoted reporter. The fact that she was dead sealed it for me. I wondered who else she may have talked to.

  Then a thought hit me so hard it made me stagger.

  “Ollie? What’s wrong?” Cyan asked.

  I held on to the edge of countertop, forcing my brain to slow down instead of making the terrible conclusions it preferred to leap into.

  If Kirsten indeed had access to information that incriminated Volkov-and she had been killed to maintain silence-then I had to worry about who else she might have talked to. Because whoever was responsible for her death might have known she talked to me.

  My fingers formed a vise around the counter edge.

  “Ollie?”

  “I’m okay,” I whispered to Cyan, though I was anything but. The horrible thought bounced around in my brain-what if Kirsten had mentioned me? What if whoever killed her was looking to tie up other loose ends?

  I’d had an assassin after me before-and although I’d survived, it had been close. Too close. The recent incident on the street took on new meaning. What if these were the same people who’d killed Kirsten? What if they’d planned to get me first? Would they stop now, or had I made myself an even bigger target by talking with the reporter?

  “I think you ought to sit down,” Cyan insisted.

  “No.” I wiped the back of my hand against my eyes. “I just had a moment there. I don’t know what’s wrong.”

  “Maybe you’re coming down with something.”

  “I’ll be okay.”

  Her look told me she didn’t believe me. I wouldn’t have believed me either.

  I made my way to a stool near the door to the Family Dining Room. “You know what? Maybe I’ll just sit for a minute.” I gathered some of the baby greens we intended to use for the salad, and four plates. “I’ll get the salad started here.”

  While Cyan worked at the far end of the room, she cast occasional glances my way. For my part, I listened for mention of Volkov, for mention of Mrs. Campbell’s father. Instead, the three old friends seemed intent on keeping the conversation light.

  “There he is,” Treyton Blanchard boomed.

  I nearly stood up to see, but didn’t need to. Within moments I heard the greetings indicating Nick Volkov had arrived-and in apparent high spirits.

  “He came?” I asked aloud.

  “Why shouldn’t he?” Cyan asked. “We set a place for him.”

  As much as I knew my little he’s-guilty-if-he-doesn’t-show reasoning meant nothing, I felt relief begin to seep into my consciousness. Last night, Kirsten had made it sound as though an arrest were imminent. Volkov showing up here today suggested that the late reporter’s musings could have been just that-musings. Solid logic was rapidly extinguishing the irrational fear that had gripped me. Perhaps Kirsten met her untimely end in a strictly coincidental fashion.

  That didn’t feel quite right to me, but the fact that Nick Volkov had shown up gave me enough release to let go and enjoy the rest of the dinner preparation.

  Jackson came into the pantry, all smiles. “We are ready to serve at any time.”

  “Any idea why the delay?” />
  “Mr. Volkov was apparently in a fender-bender on his way over. His driver is still at the scene, and Mr. Volkov needed to remain until the police arrived.”

  “Is he okay?”

  Jackson nodded and began mixing a drink using sweet vermouth, Tennessee whiskey, and bitters. “Both Mr. Volkov and the driver were uninjured.”

  “What about the other guy?”

  He shrugged. “Hit-and-run.”

  “Poor Volkov. Is he shaken up?”

  Jackson strained his mixture into a lowball glass and added a maraschino cherry. “First thing he asked for was a perfect Manhattan,” he said, holding up the concoction. “And told me to keep them coming.”

  “Yikes,” I said. “Think he’ll be in any mood to discuss business with that much in his system?”

  Jackson backed into the doorway, lifting his shoulders in silent response. He mouthed, “We’ll see.”

  Plating and serving dinner took my full concentration. The little snatches of conversation I caught between tasks weren’t much. It seemed as though, by tacit agreement, all four diners had agreed to table contentious discussion until after the meal.

  Before the empty dishes were brought back to the kitchen, Cyan and I began to prepare for dessert. She had her back to me, one hand on the coffeepot, when she turned to ask me a question.

  Instead of Cyan’s voice, however, Volkov’s rang out. “Why can’t you see reason, woman?”

  We both froze.

  Mrs. Campbell’s voice came next. “Nicholas-”

  “Goddamn this stupid arrangement. Where the hell did our fathers come up with this ridiculous idea?” Then, a whump, sounding a lot like a fist, slammed onto a tabletop.

  “How many did he have?” I asked Jackson in a whisper.

  He held up four fingers.

  Another one for our “Do not serve” list.

  Helen Hendrickson attempted to say something, but Senator Blanchard interrupted. “Nick, this isn’t helping. Elaine, you know as well as I do that if we don’t move forward now-quickly and decisively-we won’t be able to sell for another ten years.”

  Mrs. Campbell spoke up. “We have until December fifteenth.”

  “You think that’s a lot of time?” Volkov shouted.

  “I think it’s plenty of time to wait to discuss this.”

  Volkov kept at it. “That’s why this arrangement is such idiocy. You may very well have inherited your share of the company, but you have certainly not inherited any business sense.”

  A chair scraped. I imagined Mrs. Campbell standing up. “Excuse me?”

  Volkov’s words slurred. “We have a buyer interested, which means this is the time to strike. You may have all the time in the world to make up your mind on other matters, but for now, this is the most important item on my agenda. If you don’t agree to sell, then I can’t be responsible for my actions.” Another whump. Louder this time.

  I peeked around the corner. Secret Service agents had moved into the room, close enough to act, should the need arise. Mrs. Campbell, however, held them off with a raised hand. “I thought it would be a good idea to talk tonight,” she said. “I see I was wrong.”

  From my vantage point, I watched her make eye contact with each of her colleagues, one at a time. She spoke softly. “Despite the range of our ages, we practically grew up together. Have you forgotten? Our fathers were friends, close friends. As I believed we were.” She clasped her hands in front of her. “Time and distance and circumstances have caused the four of us to lose the closeness we once had, but I’d hoped we’d be able to reach an agreement.” She sighed.

  Helen Hendrickson remained seated, and Volkov, his energy spent, dropped back into his chair. Blanchard, standing to Mrs. Campbell’s left, leaned forward, fisted hands on the table. “We can still reach an agreement, Elaine.”

  She shook her head. “I no longer believe that.”

  “If you’d only listen to reason.”

  She held up a hand. Blanchard stopped talking. “Our fathers were wealthy men.” Again she stopped long enough to make eye contact with her guests. “They envisioned something bigger than themselves, something that would live on after they were no longer here. It was their dream to use their knowledge, their wealth, and their contacts for philanthropic purposes. And you all know what a great success they achieved.”

  Helen Hendrickson finally got her word in. “But that’s the thing, Elaine. Zendy Industries is bigger and more successful than our fathers ever imagined. It’s got holdings in every major market in the world. Just think about the good that can be done if we were to sell it.”

  Mrs. Campbell shook her head. “The good can only continue if Zendy remains under the charter upon which it was founded. Our fathers entrusted us to carry on their vision. If we sell now, what will we be doing to future generations?”

  Volkov growled, “My children are the future generation. Seems to me our parents would want us to ensure their security.”

  “My dad told me that Zendy Industries was the best investment he ever made,” she said softly. “He believed in its mission. And he made me promise never to sell.”

  The three others gasped.

  Mrs. Campbell licked her lips. “I invited you all here tonight to tell you once and for all that I will not sell. Not before December fifteenth. Not ever.”

  Volkov bolted upward, upsetting his chair. For a moment I thought one of the agents would grab him, but he strode away from the First Lady. “Idiocy!” He threw his hands upward, gesturing to the ceiling as he paced.

  “I had hoped to… wait,” Mrs. Campbell continued. “To discuss this more fully at a later point in time, when everything settled down. Sean’s death…” She bit her lip.

  Cyan nudged me. “Getting an earful?”

  I nodded.

  Blanchard flexed his jaw, in an obvious attempt to keep himself in check. “Did you discuss this decision with your own children?” he asked.

  “This is not their concern,” she said. “Not now. Someday when it becomes their decision, I hope they’ll see the wisdom of keeping Zendy Industries under family control.”

  Volkov, at the far end of the room, shouted, “Then buy us out. We can sell it and you can control it all.”

  Mrs. Campbell returned to her seat. “You know I don’t have the means to do that, Nick,” she said.

  I glanced up at Jackson and tilted my head toward the door, asking if he was ready to serve dessert. Maybe a little sweetness would bring these people around.

  While Jackson placed the peppermint ice cream at each diner’s place, Volkov returned to his seat, grumbling. He stopped Jackson. Holding up his lowball glass, he swirled it briefly before lifting it to his lips and draining the last few drops. “Get me another one of these, would you?”

  Jackson nodded wordlessly, but when he returned to the bar area of the pantry, I watched him prepare the drink differently.

  “Won’t he know the difference?” I asked when Jackson added a liberal dose of tonic water.

  “He’s lucky to know the difference between his hands and his feet at this point.”

  When Mrs. Campbell excused herself to take a phone call, the three others talked among themselves. I hoped for a tasty piece of information-for some discussion of the recently deceased Kirsten Zarzycki-but they spoke in hushed tones, and all I could make out was their intense disappointment at Mrs. Campbell’s decision.

  Helen heaved a great sigh. “I guess there’s nothing left for us to do.”

  I peeked around the corner long enough to see Treyton Blanchard pat her hand. “Let me talk with her one more time,” he said.

  “Fat lot of good it will do,” Volkov groused. He knocked his dessert plate away with a look of disgust and staggered to his feet. “There’s got to be another way around this. And I’m going to find it.”

  By the time Mrs. Campbell returned, he’d left. The Secret Service agents on hand were only too happy to guide the blitzed Mr. Volkov out of the White House. Helen made her a
pologies. “I can’t tell you how disappointed I am with your choice, Elaine,” she said. “We have a couple more weeks before a solid decision must be made. Just promise me you’ll think about it.”

  “Helen,” Mrs. Campbell said, warning in her voice.

  “I know how much Sean’s death has affected you. Perhaps it was wrong of us to push you so soon after he died. Just take your time. I believe you’ll see our point if you just give it a little time.”

  “It isn’t just Sean-”

  “Please,” Helen said. “Just promise me you’ll think on this again.”

  I could tell Mrs. Campbell was torn. Stick to her convictions, or give her old friend some comfort? “I won’t change my mind,” she finally said.

  Helen reacted as though given a great gift. “I know. I know. But as long as you give it more thought, I believe we have a chance to find agreement.”

  Helen said good-bye and was escorted out. Senator Blanchard remained. “A moment of your time, Elaine?”

  They returned to their seats. A moment later, Jackson refilled both coffee cups and stood just outside the dining room. I was cleaning some of our utensils, and listening hard above the clatter from Cyan’s dish washing.

  “Volkov is a loose cannon,” Blanchard said. “You need to be careful.”

  From what I could tell, Mrs. Campbell’s voice sounded weary. “If I didn’t believe I was following our fathers’ wishes, I wouldn’t be holding on so tight.”

  “You were the first child born to any of them and you’re like the big sister to us all. It’s only natural you feel a stronger bond to the company. You were there when Zendy was created.”

  She gave a light laugh. “Zendy was conceived when I was about five. Then Helen was born, then Nick, and then years later, you.” A long pause. “Can’t you see how wrong it is to give her up? Zendy Industries is like our sister. We can’t just sell her to the highest bidder.”

  “Some of us have plans, Elaine.”

  “Like a run for the presidency?”

  I couldn’t hear Blanchard’s answer, but I detected sarcasm in Mrs. Campbell’s tone when she said, “Isn’t that comforting?”

  Cyan turned off the water and dried her hands. Thank goodness. Now I could hear.